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114 files changed, 86825 insertions, 0 deletions

diff --git a/OLD/csci1913/Java/lab10_strap012.java b/OLD/csci1913/Java/lab10_strap012.java
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..06c0dfa
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/csci1913/Java/lab10_strap012.java
@@ -0,0 +1,148 @@
+class AssociationList<Key, Value> {
+    private class Node {
+        private Key key;
+        private Value value;
+        private Node next;
+        private Node(Key k, Value v, Node n) {
+            key=k; value=v; next=n;
+        }
+    }
+    private Node head;
+    public AssociationList() {
+        head = new Node(null, null, null);
+    }
+    public void delete(Key key) {
+        Node left = head;
+        Node right = head.next;
+        while (right!=null) {
+            if (isEqual(right.key, key)) {
+                left.next=right.next;
+                break;
+            } else {
+                left=right; right=right.next;
+            }
+        }
+
+    }
+    public Value get(Key key) {
+        Node where=head.next;
+        while (where!=null) {
+            if (isEqual(where.key,key)) {
+                return where.value;
+            } else {
+                where=where.next;
+            }
+        } //No matching key found
+        throw new IllegalArgumentException();
+    }
+    private boolean isEqual(Key leftKey, Key rightKey) {
+        if (leftKey == null || rightKey == null) {
+            return leftKey == rightKey;
+        } else {
+            return leftKey.equals(rightKey);
+        }
+    }
+    public boolean isIn(Key key) {
+        Node where = head.next;
+        while (where != null) {
+            if (isEqual(where.key, key)) {
+                return true;
+            } else {
+                where = where.next;
+            }
+        } // No matching key found
+        return false;
+    }
+    public void put(Key key, Value value) {
+        Node where=head.next;
+        boolean found=false;
+        while (where!=null){
+            if(isEqual(key, where.key)) {
+                where.value=value;
+                found=true;
+                break;
+            } else {
+                where=where.next;
+            }
+        } //End of while
+        if (!found) {
+            Node temp=head.next;
+            head.next= new Node(key, value, temp);
+        }
+    }
+}
+
+//
+//  Tests for CSci 1913 Lab 10
+//  James Moen
+//  08 Apr 19
+//
+//  The TRY-CATCH statements catch exceptions thrown by ASSOCIATION LIST's
+//  methods, so that the program can continue to run even if a method fails.
+//
+//  Each test has a comment that shows what it should print and how many points
+//  it is worth, for a total of 40 points.
+
+//  HOGWARTS. The Hogwarts dating service.
+
+class Hogwarts {
+
+    // MAIN. Make an instance of ASSOCIATION LIST and test it.
+
+    public static void main(String[] args) {
+        AssociationList<String, String> list = new AssociationList<String, String>();
+
+        System.out.println(list.isIn(null)); // false 2 points.
+
+        try {
+            System.out.println(list.get(null));
+        } catch (IllegalArgumentException ignore) {
+            System.out.println("No null"); // No null 2 points.
+        }
+
+        list.put(null, "Wormtail");
+        list.put("Ron", "Lavender");
+        list.put("Voldemort", null);
+        list.put("Dean", "Ginny");
+
+        System.out.println(list.isIn("Dean")); // true 2 points.
+        System.out.println(list.isIn("Ginny")); // false 2 points.
+        System.out.println(list.isIn("Ron")); // true 2 points.
+        System.out.println(list.isIn("Voldemort")); // true 2 points.
+        System.out.println(list.isIn(null)); // true 2 points.
+        System.out.println(list.isIn("Joanne")); // false 2 points.
+
+        System.out.println(list.get("Ron")); // Lavender 2 points.
+        System.out.println(list.get("Dean")); // Ginny 2 points.
+        System.out.println(list.get("Voldemort")); // null 2 points.
+        System.out.println(list.get(null)); // Wormtail 2 points.
+
+        try {
+            System.out.println(list.get("Joanne"));
+        } catch (IllegalArgumentException ignore) {
+            System.out.println("No Joanne"); // No Joanne 2 points.
+        }
+
+        list.delete(null);
+
+        System.out.println(list.isIn(null)); // false 2 points.
+
+        list.put(null, null);
+        list.put("Harry", "Ginny");
+        list.put("Ron", "Hermione");
+
+        System.out.println(list.isIn(null)); // true 2 points.
+        System.out.println(list.get(null)); // null 2 points.
+        System.out.println(list.get("Harry")); // Ginny 2 points.
+        System.out.println(list.get("Dean")); // Ginny 2 points.
+        System.out.println(list.get("Ron")); // Hermione 2 points.
+
+        list.delete("Dean");
+
+        try {
+            System.out.println(list.get("Dean"));
+        } catch (IllegalArgumentException ignore) {
+            System.out.println("No Dean"); // No Dean 2 points.
+        }
+    }
+}
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/OLD/csci1913/Java/lab11_strap012.java b/OLD/csci1913/Java/lab11_strap012.java
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..7eb146a
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/csci1913/Java/lab11_strap012.java
@@ -0,0 +1,115 @@
+class Deque<Base> {
+    private Node head;
+    private class Node {
+        private Base object;
+        private Node left;
+        private Node right;
+        private Node(Base o, Node l, Node r) {
+            object = o;
+            left = l; right = r;
+        }
+    }
+    public Deque() {
+        head = new Node(null, null, null);
+        head.left=head; head.right=head;
+    }
+    public void enqueueRear(Base object) {
+            Node tempL = head;
+            Node newNode = new Node(object, tempL.left, tempL);
+            tempL.left.right = newNode;
+            tempL.left = newNode;
+    }
+    public void enqueueFront(Base object) {
+            Node tempR = head;
+            Node newNode = new Node(object, tempR, tempR.right);
+            tempR.right.left = newNode;
+            tempR.right = newNode;
+    }
+    public Base dequeueRear() {
+        if (isEmpty()) {
+            throw new IllegalStateException();
+        } else {
+            Node temp = head.left;
+            temp.left.right = head;
+            head.left = temp.left;
+            return temp.object;
+        }
+    }
+    public Base dequeueFront() {
+        if (isEmpty()) {
+            throw new IllegalStateException();
+        } else {
+            Node temp = head.right;
+            temp.right.left = head;
+            head.right = temp.right;
+            return temp.object;
+        }
+    }
+    public Boolean isEmpty() {
+        return head.right==head && head.left==head;
+    }
+}
+
+// OBSERVATION DEQUE. Test the class DEQUE. 40 points total.
+class ObservationDeque{
+// MAIN. Test the DEQUE on various example arguments. 
+    public static void main(String [] args) { 
+        Deque<String> deque = new Deque<String>();
+        System.out.println(deque.isEmpty()); // true 2 points. 
+        try {
+            System.out.println(deque.dequeueFront()); 
+        } catch (IllegalStateException ignore) { 
+            System.out.println("No dequeueFront."); // No dequeueFront. 2 points. 
+        } 
+        try { System.out.println(deque.dequeueRear());
+        } catch (IllegalStateException ignore) { 
+            System.out.println("No dequeueRear."); // No dequeueRear. 2 points. 
+        }
+//Enqueueing to the rear and dequeueing from the rear makes the DEQUE act
+// like a stack. 
+        deque.enqueueRear("A");
+        deque.enqueueRear("B"); 
+        deque.enqueueRear("C");
+
+        System.out.println(deque.isEmpty()); // false 2 points.
+
+        System.out.println(deque.dequeueRear()); // C 2 points.
+        System.out.println(deque.dequeueRear()); // B 2 points.
+        System.out.println(deque.dequeueRear()); // A 2 points.
+        System.out.println(deque.isEmpty()); // true 2 points.
+// Enqueueing to the rear and dequeueing from the front makes the DEQUE act
+// like a queue.
+        deque.enqueueRear("A"); 
+        deque.enqueueRear("B"); 
+        deque.enqueueRear("C");
+
+        System.out.println(deque.dequeueFront()); // A 2 points.
+        System.out.println(deque.dequeueFront()); // B 2 points.
+        System.out.println(deque.dequeueFront()); // C 2 points.
+
+        System.out.println(deque.isEmpty()); // true 2 points.
+//Enqueueing to the front and dequeueing from the front makes the DEQUE act
+//like a stack. 
+        deque.enqueueFront("A"); 
+        deque.enqueueFront("B");
+        deque.enqueueFront("C"); 
+
+        System.out.println(deque.dequeueFront()); // C 2 points.
+        System.out.println(deque.dequeueFront()); // B 2 points.
+        System.out.println(deque.dequeueFront()); // A 2 points.
+
+        System.out.println(deque.isEmpty()); // true 2 points.
+
+// Enqueueing to the front and dequeueing from the rear makes the DEQUE act
+// like a queue.
+        deque.enqueueFront("A"); 
+        deque.enqueueFront("B"); 
+        deque.enqueueFront("C");
+
+        System.out.println(deque.dequeueRear()); // A 2 points.
+        System.out.println(deque.dequeueRear()); // B 2 points.
+        System.out.println(deque.dequeueRear()); // C 2 points.
+
+        System.out.println(deque.isEmpty()); // true 2 points. 
+    }
+}
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/OLD/csci1913/Java/lab12_strap012.java b/OLD/csci1913/Java/lab12_strap012.java
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..351cc1c
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/csci1913/Java/lab12_strap012.java
@@ -0,0 +1,103 @@
+class PriorityQueue<Base> { 
+    private class Node { 
+        private Base object; 
+        private int rank; 
+        private Node left; 
+        private Node right; 
+        private Node(Base object, int rank) { 
+            this.object = object; 
+            this.rank = rank; 
+            left = null; 
+            right = null; 
+        } 
+    }
+    private Node root;              // Root node of the BST.
+
+    public PriorityQueue() {
+        root = new Node(null, -1);  // root is the lone King of Kings
+      }
+    public boolean isEmpty() {
+        return root.right == root.left;
+    }
+
+    public Base dequeue() {
+        if (isEmpty())
+            throw new IllegalStateException();
+        Node top = root;
+        Node bottom = root.right;
+        while (bottom.left != null) {
+            top = bottom;
+            bottom = bottom.left;
+        }
+        if (top.object == null)     // Special case for top being the head node
+            top.right = bottom.right;    
+        else
+            top.left = bottom.right;
+        return bottom.object;
+    }
+
+    public void enqueue(Base object, int rank) {
+        if (rank < 0)               // No extra negative ranks allowed
+            throw new IllegalArgumentException();
+        boolean lessOrEqual = false;
+        Node top = root;
+        Node bottom = root.right;
+        while (bottom != null) {
+            top = bottom;
+            if (rank <= bottom.rank) {
+                bottom = bottom.left;
+                lessOrEqual = true;
+            } else {
+                bottom = bottom.right;
+                lessOrEqual = false;
+            }
+        }
+        if (lessOrEqual)
+            top.left = new Node(object, rank);
+        else 
+            top.right = new Node(object, rank);
+    }
+}
+//  SNOBBERY. How the aristocracy behaves in a queue. 20 points.
+
+class Snobbery {
+
+    // MAIN. Queue them up.
+
+    public static void main(String[] args) {
+        PriorityQueue<String> queue = new PriorityQueue<String>();
+
+        System.out.println(queue.isEmpty()); // true 2 points
+
+        try {
+            System.out.println(queue.dequeue());
+        } catch (IllegalStateException ignore) {
+            System.out.println("Blimey!"); // Blimey! 2 points
+        }
+
+        queue.enqueue("Lancelot", 5);
+        queue.enqueue("Fawlty", 7);
+        queue.enqueue("Elizabeth", 0);
+        queue.enqueue("Charles", 1);
+        queue.enqueue("Turing", 7);
+
+        try {
+            queue.enqueue("Zeus", -100);
+        } catch (IllegalArgumentException ignore) {
+            System.out.println("No gods!"); // No gods! 2 points
+        }
+
+        System.out.println(queue.isEmpty()); // false 2 points
+
+        System.out.println(queue.dequeue()); // Elizabeth 2 points
+        System.out.println(queue.dequeue()); // Charles 2 points
+        System.out.println(queue.dequeue()); // Lancelot 2 points
+        System.out.println(queue.dequeue()); // Turing 2 points
+        System.out.println(queue.dequeue()); // Fawlty 2 points
+
+        // It's OK if Fawlty comes out before Turing, but both must come out last.
+
+        System.out.println(queue.isEmpty()); // true 2 points.
+    }
+
+}
diff --git a/OLD/csci1913/Java/lab13_strap012.java b/OLD/csci1913/Java/lab13_strap012.java
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..8645a98
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/csci1913/Java/lab13_strap012.java
@@ -0,0 +1,31 @@
+class Test 
+{ 
+  private static final String [] reserved = 
+   { "and", 
+     "begin", 
+     "define", 
+     "do", 
+     "else", 
+     "end", 
+     "if", 
+     "not", 
+     "or", 
+     "return", 
+     "then", 
+     "while" }; 
+ 
+  private static int hash(String name) 
+  { 
+    return ((name.charAt(0) + name.charAt(name.length()-1)) * name.length()) % 255;
+  } 
+ 
+  public static void main(String [] args) 
+  { 
+    for (int index = 0; index < reserved.length ; index += 1) 
+    { 
+      System.out.print("h(\"" + reserved[index] + "\") = "); 
+      System.out.print(hash(reserved[index])); 
+      System.out.println(); 
+    } 
+  } 
+}
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/OLD/csci1913/Java/lab4_strap012.java b/OLD/csci1913/Java/lab4_strap012.java
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..de3f2f6
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/csci1913/Java/lab4_strap012.java
@@ -0,0 +1,101 @@
+//  DRIVER. The MAIN method has tests for your class ZILLION. Each test has a
+//  comment that shows what the test should print if your code is correct. It
+//  also has the number of points you will receive if the test is successful.
+//  These tests are worth a total of 25 points.
+
+class Zillion {
+  private int s;
+  private int[] number;
+  public Zillion(int size) {
+    number = new int[size];
+    s = size;
+  }
+  public void increment(){
+    int n = 0;
+    boolean isCorrect = false;
+    while (isCorrect==false) {
+      number[n]+=1;
+      if (number[n] >= 10) {
+        number[n]=0;
+        if (n<(s-1)) {
+          n+=1;
+        }
+        else {
+          isCorrect = true;
+        }
+      }
+      else {
+        isCorrect=true;
+      }
+    }
+
+  }
+  public String toString(){
+    String test = "";
+    for (int n=(s-1); n>=0; n-=1) {
+      test+=number[n];
+    }
+    return test;
+  }
+}
+
+class Driver
+{
+  public static void main(String[] args)
+  {
+    Zillion z = new Zillion(2);
+    System.out.println(z);  //  00  2 points
+
+    z.increment();
+    System.out.println(z);  //  01  2 points
+
+    z.increment();
+    System.out.println(z);  //  02  2 points
+
+    z.increment();
+    z.increment();
+    z.increment();
+    z.increment();
+    z.increment();
+    z.increment();
+    z.increment();
+    z.increment();
+
+    System.out.println(z);  //  10  2 points
+    z.increment();
+    System.out.println(z);  //  11  2 points
+
+    z = new Zillion(4);
+    System.out.println(z);  //  0000  2 points
+
+    for (int j = 1; j <= 999; j += 1)
+    {
+      z.increment();
+    }
+    System.out.println(z);  //  0999  2 points
+
+    z.increment();
+    System.out.println(z);  //  1000  2 points
+
+    for (int j = 1; j <= 999; j += 1)
+    {
+      z.increment();
+    }
+    System.out.println(z);  //  1999  2 points
+
+    z.increment();
+    System.out.println(z);  //  2000  2 points
+
+    for (int j = 1; j <= 7999; j += 1)
+    {
+      z.increment();
+    }
+    System.out.println(z);  //  9999  2 points
+
+    z.increment();
+    System.out.println(z);  //  0000  2 points
+
+    z.increment();
+    System.out.println(z);  //  0001  1 point
+  }
+}
diff --git a/OLD/csci1913/Java/lab5_strap012.java b/OLD/csci1913/Java/lab5_strap012.java
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..45a101b
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/csci1913/Java/lab5_strap012.java
@@ -0,0 +1,90 @@
+//
+//  SIEVE. The Sieve of Eratosthenes.
+//
+//    James B. Moen
+//    08 Oct 19
+//
+//  Test the SIEVE class, for 30 points total.
+//
+
+//
+//  Put your code for the class SIEVE here!!!
+//
+class Sieve {
+    private boolean[] numbers;
+    private int realMax;
+  public Sieve(int max){
+    if (max<2) 
+      throw new IllegalArgumentException();
+    numbers = new boolean[max];
+    realMax = (max - 1);
+    for (int i=2; i<max; i+=1) { numbers[i]=true; }
+  }
+  public void findPrimes() {
+    for (int i=2; i<=realMax; i+=1) {
+      //Only look for composite numbers if the number is prime
+      if (numbers[i]) {
+        for (int j=(i*2); j<=realMax; j+=i) {
+          numbers[j]=false;
+        }
+      }
+    //  System.out.println(i);
+    }
+  }
+  public String toString(){
+    String str = "";
+    for (int n = 0; n <= realMax; n += 1) {
+      if (numbers[n]) {
+        str += n; str += " ";
+      }
+    }
+    return str;
+  }
+}
+//  TOSS THE KNEES. Run SIEVE on some examples.
+
+class TossTheKnees
+{
+
+//  MAIN. Find some primes.
+
+  public static void main(String [] args)
+  {
+    Sieve sieve = null;  //  We must initialize SIEVE or Java will cry.
+
+//  5 points. This must print "Sieve size must be at least 2." but without the
+//  quotes.
+
+    try
+    {
+      sieve = new Sieve(0);
+    }
+    catch (IllegalArgumentException oops)
+    {
+      System.out.println("Sieve size must be at least 2.");
+    }
+
+//  5 points. This must print nothing.
+
+    try
+    {
+      sieve = new Sieve(100);
+    }
+    catch (IllegalArgumentException oops)
+    {
+      System.out.println("Sieve size must be at least 2.");
+    }
+
+//  10 points. This must print integers from 2 to 99, separated by blanks.
+
+    System.out.println(sieve);
+
+//  10 points. This must print the prime numbers between 2 and 99, separated by
+//  blanks. They are:
+//
+//  2 3 5 7 11 13 17 19 23 29 31 37 41 43 47 53 59 61 67 71 73 79 83 89 97
+
+    sieve.findPrimes();
+    System.out.println(sieve);
+  }
+}
diff --git a/OLD/csci1913/Java/lab6_strap012.java b/OLD/csci1913/Java/lab6_strap012.java
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..df8d3d3
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/csci1913/Java/lab6_strap012.java
@@ -0,0 +1,64 @@
+class Polygon {
+    private int[] sideLengths;
+
+    public Polygon(int sides, int... lengths) {
+        int index = 0;
+        sideLengths = new int[sides];
+        for (int length : lengths) {
+            sideLengths[index] = length;
+            index += 1;
+        }
+    }
+
+    public int side(int number) {
+        return sideLengths[number];
+    }
+
+    public int perimeter() {
+        int total = 0;
+        for (int index = 0; index < sideLengths.length; index += 1) {
+            total += side(index);
+        }
+        return total;
+    }
+}
+
+class Rectangle extends Polygon {
+    public Rectangle(int l, int w) {
+        super(4, l, w, l, w);
+    }
+    public int area() {
+        return this.side(0)*this.side(1);
+    }
+}
+
+class Square extends Rectangle {
+    public Square(int l) {
+        super(l, l);
+    }
+    // public int area() {
+    //     return this.side(0)*this.side(1);
+    // }
+}
+
+class Shapes {
+    public static void main(String[] args) {
+        Rectangle wreck = new Rectangle(3, 5);
+
+        System.out.println(wreck.side(0)); // 3 1 point.
+        System.out.println(wreck.side(1)); // 5 1 point.
+        System.out.println(wreck.side(2)); // 3 1 point.
+        System.out.println(wreck.side(3)); // 5 1 point.
+        System.out.println(wreck.area()); // 15 1 point.
+        System.out.println(wreck.perimeter()); // 16 1 point.
+
+        Square nerd = new Square(7);
+
+        System.out.println(nerd.side(0)); // 7 1 point.
+        System.out.println(nerd.side(1)); // 7 1 point.
+        System.out.println(nerd.side(2)); // 7 1 point.
+        System.out.println(nerd.side(3)); // 7 1 point.
+        System.out.println(nerd.area()); // 49 1 point.
+        System.out.println(nerd.perimeter()); // 28 1 point.
+    }
+}
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/OLD/csci1913/Java/lab7_strap012.java b/OLD/csci1913/Java/lab7_strap012.java
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..cfb89ed
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/csci1913/Java/lab7_strap012.java
@@ -0,0 +1,62 @@
+class BinaryVsLinear
+{
+
+  private static int linearSearch(int key, int[] keys)
+  {
+    int searchCount = 0;
+    for (int i=0; i<keys.length; i+=1) {
+      searchCount += 1;
+      if (keys[i]==key) {
+        return searchCount;
+      }
+    } return -1;
+  }
+  
+
+  private static int binarySearch(int key, int[] keys)
+  {
+    int left=0; int right=(keys.length-1); int mid=0;
+    int searchCount=0;
+    while (true) {
+      if (left>right) {
+        mid=-1;
+        break;
+      } else {
+        mid=(left+right)/2;
+        searchCount += 2;
+        if (key<keys[mid]) {
+          right=mid-1;
+        }
+        else if (key>keys[mid]) {
+          left=mid+1;
+        } else {
+          break;
+        }
+      }
+    } return searchCount;
+  }
+
+  public static void main(String[] args)
+  {
+    for (int length = 1; length <= 30; length += 1)
+    {
+      int[] array = new int[length];
+      for (int index = 0; index < length; index += 1)
+      {
+        array[index] = index;
+      }
+
+      double linearTotal = 0.0;
+      double binaryTotal = 0.0;
+      for (int element = 0; element < length; element += 1)
+      {
+        linearTotal += linearSearch(element, array);
+        binaryTotal += binarySearch(element, array);
+      }
+
+      double linearAverage = linearTotal / length;
+      double binaryAverage = binaryTotal / length;
+      System.out.println(length + " " + linearAverage + " " + binaryAverage);
+    }
+  }
+}
diff --git a/OLD/csci1913/Java/lab8_strap012.java b/OLD/csci1913/Java/lab8_strap012.java
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..5335f79
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/csci1913/Java/lab8_strap012.java
@@ -0,0 +1,166 @@
+class RunnyStack<Base> {
+    private int numRuns;
+    private int numDepth;
+    private Run top;
+    //Constructors
+    private class Run {
+        private Base base;
+        private int l;
+        private Run next;
+        private Run(Base base, Run next) {
+            this.base=base;
+            this.l=l+1;
+            this.next=next;
+        }
+    }
+    public RunnyStack() {
+        top=null;
+    }
+    //Methods
+    private boolean isEqual(Run b1, Base b2){
+        if (b1 == null || b2 == null) {
+            return b1 == b2;
+        } else {
+            return b1.base.equals(b2);
+        }
+    }
+    public boolean isEmpty() {
+        return top==null;
+    }
+    public int depth() {
+        return numDepth;
+    }
+    public Base peek() {
+        if (isEmpty()) {
+            throw new IllegalStateException();
+        } else {
+            return top.base;
+        }
+    }
+    public void pop() {
+        if (isEmpty()) {
+            throw new IllegalStateException();
+        } else {
+            top.l--;
+            numDepth--;
+            if (top.l == 0) {
+                top=top.next;
+                numRuns--;
+            }
+        }
+    }
+    public void push(Base base) {
+        numDepth++;
+        if (isEqual(top, base)) {
+            top.l++;
+        } else {
+            numRuns++;
+            top=new Run(base, top);
+        }
+    }
+    public int runs() {
+        return numRuns;
+    }
+   
+}
+
+//
+//  Tests for CSci 1913 Lab 8
+//  James Moen
+//  20 Mar 17
+//
+//  The TRY-CATCH statements catch exceptions thrown by RUNNY STACK's methods,
+//  so that the program can continue to run even if a method fails. We still
+//  haven't talked about TRY-CATCH'es in the lectures yet.
+//
+//  Most tests have comments that show what they should print, and how many
+//  points they are worth, for a total of 40 points.
+//
+//  Camembert is a soft French cheese. It may be runny. It can be stacked.
+//
+
+class Camembert {
+    public static void main(String[] args) {
+        RunnyStack<String> s = new RunnyStack<String>();
+
+        System.out.println(s.isEmpty()); // true 1 point
+        System.out.println(s.depth()); // 0 1 point
+        System.out.println(s.runs()); // 0 1 point
+
+        try {
+            s.pop();
+        } catch (IllegalStateException ignore) {
+            System.out.println("No pop"); // No pop 1 point
+        }
+
+        try {
+            System.out.println(s.peek());
+        } catch (IllegalStateException ignore) {
+            System.out.println("No peek"); // No peek 1 point
+        }
+
+        s.push("A");
+        System.out.println(s.peek()); // A 1 point
+        System.out.println(s.depth()); // 1 1 point
+        System.out.println(s.runs()); // 1 1 point
+
+        System.out.println(s.isEmpty()); // false 1 point
+
+        s.push("B");
+        System.out.println(s.peek()); // B 1 point
+        System.out.println(s.depth()); // 2 1 point
+        System.out.println(s.runs()); // 2 1 point
+
+        s.push("B");
+        System.out.println(s.peek()); // B 1 point
+        System.out.println(s.depth()); // 3 1 point
+        System.out.println(s.runs()); // 2 1 point
+
+        s.push("B");
+        System.out.println(s.peek()); // B 1 point
+        System.out.println(s.depth()); // 4 1 point
+        System.out.println(s.runs()); // 2 1 point
+
+        s.push("C");
+        System.out.println(s.peek()); // C 1 point
+        System.out.println(s.depth()); // 5 1 point
+        System.out.println(s.runs()); // 3 1 point
+
+        s.push("C");
+        System.out.println(s.peek()); // C 1 point
+        System.out.println(s.depth()); // 6 1 point
+        System.out.println(s.runs()); // 3 1 point
+
+        s.pop();
+        System.out.println(s.peek()); // C 1 point
+        System.out.println(s.depth()); // 5 1 point
+        System.out.println(s.runs()); // 3 1 point
+
+        s.pop();
+        System.out.println(s.peek()); // B 1 point
+        System.out.println(s.depth()); // 4 1 point
+        System.out.println(s.runs()); // 2 1 point
+
+        s.pop();
+        System.out.println(s.peek()); // B 1 point
+        System.out.println(s.depth()); // 3 1 point
+        System.out.println(s.runs()); // 2 1 point
+
+        s.pop();
+        s.pop();
+        System.out.println(s.peek()); // A 1 point
+        System.out.println(s.depth()); // 1 1 point
+        System.out.println(s.runs()); // 1 1 point
+
+        s.pop();
+        System.out.println(s.isEmpty()); // true 1 point
+        System.out.println(s.depth()); // 0 1 point
+        System.out.println(s.runs()); // 0 1 point
+
+        try {
+            System.out.println(s.peek());
+        } catch (IllegalStateException ignore) {
+            System.out.println("No peek"); // No peek 1 point
+        }
+    }
+}
diff --git a/OLD/csci1913/Java/lab9_strap012.java b/OLD/csci1913/Java/lab9_strap012.java
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..8dd0032
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/csci1913/Java/lab9_strap012.java
@@ -0,0 +1,139 @@
+import java.util.Iterator;
+
+//  ARRAY QUEUE. A fixed length queue implemented as a circular array.
+
+class ArrayQueue<Base> {
+    private int front; // Index of front object in BASES.
+    private int rear; // Index of rear object in BASES.
+    private Base[] bases; // The BASEs in the queue.
+
+    // Constructor. Make a new empty queue that can hold SIZE - 1 elements.
+
+    public ArrayQueue(int size) {
+        if (size >= 1) {
+            front = 0;
+            rear = 0;
+            bases = (Base[]) new Object[size];
+        } else {
+            throw new IllegalArgumentException("Size must be at least 1.");
+        }
+    }
+
+    // DEQUEUE. Remove a BASE from the front of the queue and return it.
+
+    public Base dequeue() {
+        if (isEmpty()) {
+            throw new IllegalStateException("Queue is empty.");
+        } else {
+            front = (front + 1) % bases.length;
+            Base temp = bases[front];
+            bases[front] = null;
+            return temp;
+        }
+    }
+
+    // ENQUEUE. Add BASE to the rear of the queue.
+
+    public void enqueue(Base base) {
+        int nextRear = (rear + 1) % bases.length;
+        if (front == nextRear) {
+            throw new IllegalStateException("Queue is full.");
+        } else {
+            rear = nextRear;
+            bases[rear] = base;
+        }
+    }
+
+    // IS EMPTY. Test if the queue is empty.
+
+    public boolean isEmpty() {
+        return front == rear;
+    }
+
+    // IS FULL. Test if the queue can hold no more elements.
+
+    public boolean isFull() {
+        return front == (rear + 1) % bases.length;
+    }
+
+    private class ArrayQueueIterator implements Iterator<Base> {
+        private int where;
+        private ArrayQueueIterator() {
+            where = (front + 1) % bases.length;
+        }
+        public boolean hasNext() {
+            return where != (rear + 1 ) % bases.length;
+        }
+        public Base next() {
+            if (hasNext()){
+                Base temp = bases[where];
+                where = (where + 1) % bases.length;
+                return temp;
+            } else {
+                throw new IllegalStateException("Queue is at its end.");
+            }
+        }
+        public void remove() {
+            //Do nothing
+        }
+    }
+    public Iterator<Base> iterator() {
+        return new ArrayQueueIterator();
+    }
+}
+
+
+// QUEUETERATOR. Test ARRAY QUEUE's iterator. It's worth 20 points.
+
+class Queueterator {
+
+    // MAIN. Start execution here.
+
+    public static void main(String[] args) {
+
+        // Make an ARRAY QUEUE and enqueue some STRINGs. It can hold at most three.
+
+        ArrayQueue<String> queue = new ArrayQueue<String>(4);
+
+        queue.enqueue("A");
+        queue.enqueue("B");
+        queue.enqueue("C");
+
+        // Make a FIRST iterator for QUEUE and use it to visit QUEUE's elements.
+
+        Iterator<String> first = queue.iterator();
+        while (first.hasNext()) {
+            System.out.println(first.next()); // A B C one per line 5 pts.
+        }
+
+        // Make sure FIRST hasn't changed QUEUE.
+
+        System.out.println(queue.isEmpty()); // false 1 pt.
+        System.out.println(queue.dequeue()); // A 1 pt.
+        System.out.println(queue.dequeue()); // B 1 pt.
+        System.out.println(queue.dequeue()); // C 1 pt.
+        System.out.println(queue.isEmpty()); // true 1 pt.
+
+        // Let's enqueue more three more things to QUEUE.
+
+        queue.enqueue("X");
+        queue.enqueue("Y");
+        queue.enqueue("Z");
+
+        // Now make a SECOND iterator for QUEUE. The FIRST one does not work any more,
+        // because QUEUE has changed. Use SECOND to visit QUEUE's new elements.
+
+        Iterator<String> second = queue.iterator();
+        while (second.hasNext()) {
+            System.out.println(second.next()); // X Y Z one per line 5 pts.
+        }
+
+        // The new iterator hasn't changed QUEUE either.
+
+        System.out.println(queue.isEmpty()); // false 1 pt.
+        System.out.println(queue.dequeue()); // X 1 pt.
+        System.out.println(queue.dequeue()); // Y 1 pt.
+        System.out.println(queue.dequeue()); // Z 1 pt.
+        System.out.println(queue.isEmpty()); // true 1 pt.
+    }
+}
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/OLD/csci1913/Java/project2_strap012.java b/OLD/csci1913/Java/project2_strap012.java
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..3cbfa80
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/csci1913/Java/project2_strap012.java
@@ -0,0 +1,148 @@
+//  SORT. Sort a linear singly-linked list of INTs.
+
+class Sort {
+
+    // NODE. A node in a linear singly linked list of INTs.
+
+    private static class Node {
+        private int number; // The INT in the node, duh.
+        private Node next; // The NODE that follows this one, or NULL.
+
+        // Constructor. Initialize a new NODE with NUMBER and NEXT.
+
+        private Node(int number, Node next) {
+            this.number = number;
+            this.next = next;
+        }
+    }
+
+    // MAKE NODES. Return a list of NODEs that contains INTs from NUMBERS in order
+    // of their appearance.
+
+    private static Node makeNodes(int... numbers) {
+        if (numbers.length > 0) {
+            Node first = new Node(numbers[0], null);
+            Node last = first;
+            for (int index = 1; index < numbers.length; index += 1) {
+                last.next = new Node(numbers[index], null);
+                last = last.next;
+            }
+            return first;
+        } else {
+            return null;
+        }
+    }
+
+    // WRITE NODES. Write the INTs from a list of NODEs in paired square brackets,
+    // separated by commas, with a newline at the end.
+
+    private static void writeNodes(Node nodes) {
+        System.out.print('[');
+        if (nodes != null) {
+            System.out.print(nodes.number);
+            nodes = nodes.next;
+            while (nodes != null) {
+                System.out.print(", ");
+                System.out.print(nodes.number);
+                nodes = nodes.next;
+            }
+        }
+        System.out.println(']');
+    }
+
+    // SORT NODES. Sort UNSORTED, a list of NODEs, into nondecreasing order of its
+    // NUMBER slots, without making new NODEs.
+
+    private static Node sortNodes(Node unsorted) {
+        Node left = null, right = null;
+        if (unsorted==null || unsorted.next==null) {
+        //unsorted is either empty or of length 1
+            return unsorted;
+        } 
+        //Halving phase
+        else {
+            int step = 1;
+            while (unsorted != null) {
+                Node next = unsorted.next;
+                if (step % 2 == 0) {    //Even case
+                    //Pops out first value and puts into Right
+                    unsorted.next = right;
+                    right = unsorted;
+                } else {                //Odd case
+                    // Pops out first value and puts into Left
+                    unsorted.next = left;
+                    left = unsorted; 
+                }
+                step++;
+                unsorted = next;
+            }
+        }
+        //Sorting (recursive) Phase
+        left = sortNodes(left);
+        right = sortNodes(right);
+
+        //Combining phase, variables needed for Q funs
+        Node end = null, temp = null, sorted = null;
+        //Special Initial Case
+        if (left.number < right.number) {
+            sorted = left; 
+            end = left;
+            temp = left.next;
+            left = temp;
+            end.next = null;
+        } else {
+            temp = right.next;
+            sorted = right;
+            end = right;
+            right = temp;
+            end.next = null;
+        }
+        //Loop for rearranging pointers. Easily the hardest part of the assignment
+        while (left != null && right != null) {
+            if (left.number < right.number) {
+                end.next = left;
+                end = left;
+                temp = left.next;
+                end.next = null;
+                left = temp;
+            } else { //Right is smaller or equal, put it at the end.
+                end.next = right;
+                end = right;
+                temp = right.next;
+                end.next = null;
+                right = temp;
+            }
+        } 
+
+        if (left == null) {
+            end.next=right;
+        } else if (right == null) {
+            end.next=left;
+        }
+        return sorted;
+    }
+
+    // MAIN. Run some examples. The comments show what must be printed.
+
+    public static void main(String[] args) {
+        writeNodes(sortNodes(makeNodes())); // []
+        writeNodes(sortNodes(makeNodes(1))); // [1]
+        writeNodes(sortNodes(makeNodes(1, 2))); // [1, 2]
+        writeNodes(sortNodes(makeNodes(2, 1))); // [1, 2]
+
+        writeNodes(sortNodes(makeNodes(1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9)));
+        // [1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9]
+
+        writeNodes(sortNodes(makeNodes(9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1)));
+        // [1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9]
+
+        writeNodes(sortNodes(makeNodes(3, 1, 4, 5, 9, 2, 6, 8, 7)));
+        // [1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9]
+
+        writeNodes(sortNodes(makeNodes(5,5,5,1,2,3,6,90,12,1,14)));
+        // [1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 5, 5, 6, 12, 14, 90]
+
+        writeNodes(sortNodes(makeNodes(1, 100, 6, 100, 1, 15, 10000, 12, 2, 0, -15)));
+        // [-15, 0, 1, 1, 2, 6, 12, 15, 100, 100, 10000]
+    }
+}
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/OLD/csci1913/Java/project3/Words.java b/OLD/csci1913/Java/project3/Words.java
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..0487267
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/csci1913/Java/project3/Words.java
@@ -0,0 +1,90 @@
+package project3;
+//
+//  WORDS. An iterator that reads lower case words from a text file.
+//
+//    James Moen
+//    19 Apr 17
+//
+
+import java.io.FileReader; //  Read Unicode chars from a file.
+import java.io.IOException; //  In case there's IO trouble.
+
+//  WORDS. Iterator. Read words, represented as STRINGs, from a text file. Each
+//  word is the longest possible contiguous series of alphabetic ASCII CHARs.
+
+class Words {
+    private int ch; // Last CHAR from READER, as an INT.
+    private FileReader reader; // Read CHARs from here.
+    private StringBuilder word; // Last word read from READER.
+
+    // Constructor. Initialize an instance of WORDS, so it reads words from a file
+    // whose pathname is PATH. Throw an exception if we can't open PATH.
+
+    public Words(String path) {
+        try {
+            reader = new FileReader(path);
+            ch = reader.read();
+        } catch (IOException ignore) {
+            throw new IllegalArgumentException("Cannot open '" + path + "'.");
+        }
+    }
+
+    // HAS NEXT. Try to read a WORD from READER, converting it to lower case as we
+    // go. Test if we were successful.
+
+    public boolean hasNext() {
+        word = new StringBuilder();
+        while (ch > 0 && !isAlphabetic((char) ch)) {
+            read();
+        }
+        while (ch > 0 && isAlphabetic((char) ch)) {
+            word.append(toLower((char) ch));
+            read();
+        }
+        return word.length() > 0;
+    }
+
+    // IS ALPHABETIC. Test if CH is an ASCII letter.
+
+    private boolean isAlphabetic(char ch) {
+        return 'a' <= ch && ch <= 'z' || 'A' <= ch && ch <= 'Z';
+    }
+
+    // NEXT. If HAS NEXT is true, then return a WORD read from READER as a STRING.
+    // Otherwise, return an undefined STRING.
+
+    public String next() {
+        return word.toString();
+    }
+
+    // READ. Read the next CHAR from READER. Set CH to the CHAR, represented as an
+    // INT. If there are no more CHARs to be read from READER, then set CH to -1.
+
+    private void read() {
+        try {
+            ch = reader.read();
+        } catch (IOException ignore) {
+            ch = -1;
+        }
+    }
+
+    // TO LOWER. Return the lower case ASCII letter which corresponds to the ASCII
+    // letter CH.
+
+    private char toLower(char ch) {
+        if ('a' <= ch && ch <= 'z') {
+            return ch;
+        } else {
+            return (char) (ch - 'A' + 'a');
+        }
+    }
+    // MAIN. For testing. Open a text file whose pathname is the 0th argument from
+    // the command line. Read words from the file, and print them one per line.
+
+    public static void main(String[] args) {
+        Words words = new Words(args[0]);
+        while (words.hasNext()) {
+            System.out.println("'" + words.next() + "'");
+        }
+    }
+}
diff --git a/OLD/csci1913/Java/project3/project3_strap012.java b/OLD/csci1913/Java/project3/project3_strap012.java
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..ff4ce3a
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/csci1913/Java/project3/project3_strap012.java
@@ -0,0 +1,118 @@
+//package used to bundle with Words class
+package project3;
+class AnagramTree {
+    private TreeNode head;
+    private class TreeNode {
+        private byte[] summary;
+        private WordNode words;
+        private TreeNode left, right;
+        private TreeNode(String word, byte[] summary) {
+            words = new WordNode(word, null);
+            this.summary = summary;
+            left = null; right = null;
+        }
+    }
+
+    private class WordNode {
+        private String word;
+        private WordNode next;
+        private WordNode(String word, WordNode next) {
+            this.word = word;
+            this.next = next;
+        }
+    }
+
+    public AnagramTree() {
+        head = new TreeNode(null, null);
+    }
+
+    public void add (String word) {
+        byte [] newSumm = new byte [26];
+        newSumm = stringToSummary(word);
+        TreeNode top = head, bottom = top.right;
+        boolean goLeft = false, addWord = false;
+        while (bottom != null) {
+            int comp = compareSummaries(bottom.summary, newSumm);
+            if (comp > 0) {        // left is greater than right, go left
+                top = bottom;
+                goLeft = true;
+                bottom = bottom.left;
+            } else if (comp < 0) { // right is greater, go right
+                top = bottom;
+                goLeft = false;
+                bottom = bottom.right;
+            } else {
+                WordNode badNode = bottom.words;
+                boolean wordExists = false;
+                while (badNode != null) {
+                //Traverse word list to find already added entries
+                    if (badNode.word.equals(word)) {
+                        wordExists = true;
+                        break;
+                    }    
+                    badNode = badNode.next; 
+                }
+                if (!wordExists)
+                    bottom.words = new WordNode(word, bottom.words);
+                addWord = true;
+                break;
+            }
+        }   
+        if (!addWord) {     //Word was not added, add it
+            if (goLeft)
+                top.left = new TreeNode(word, newSumm);
+            else
+                top.right = new TreeNode(word, newSumm);
+        }
+    } 
+
+    public void anagrams() {
+        findAnagrams(head.right);
+    }
+
+    private void findAnagrams(TreeNode subtree) {
+        if (subtree != null) {
+            if (subtree.words.next != null) {
+                System.out.println();
+                while (subtree.words != null) {
+                    System.out.print(subtree.words.word);
+                    System.out.print(" ");
+                    subtree.words = subtree.words.next;
+                }
+            }
+            findAnagrams(subtree.left);
+            findAnagrams(subtree.right);
+        }
+    }
+    
+    private int compareSummaries(byte[] left, byte[] right) {
+        for (int i = 0; i <= 25; i++) {
+            if (left[i] != right[i]) {
+                return left[i] - right[i];
+            }
+        }
+        //Summaries are identical here
+        return 0;
+    }
+
+    private byte[] stringToSummary(String word) {
+        byte[] temp = new byte[26];
+        for (byte i = 0; i < word.length(); i++) {
+            temp[word.charAt(i) - 'a'] += 1;
+        }
+        return temp;
+    }
+}
+
+class Anagrammer {
+    public static void main(String[] args) {
+        Words words = new Words(args[0]);
+        AnagramTree anagrams = new AnagramTree();
+        while (words.hasNext()) {
+            anagrams.add(words.next());
+        }
+        anagrams.anagrams();
+        //Print extra line for neatness
+        System.out.println();
+    }
+}
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/OLD/csci1913/Java/project3/warAndPeace.txt b/OLD/csci1913/Java/project3/warAndPeace.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..9ad28f9
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/csci1913/Java/project3/warAndPeace.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,66055 @@
+

+The Project Gutenberg EBook of War and Peace, by Leo Tolstoy

+

+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost

+no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use

+it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this

+eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

+

+

+Title: War and Peace

+

+Author: Leo Tolstoy

+

+Translators: Louise and Aylmer Maude

+

+Posting Date: January 10, 2009 [EBook #2600]

+

+Last Updated: December 17, 2016

+

+Language: English

+

+Character set encoding: UTF-8

+

+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WAR AND PEACE ***

+

+

+

+

+An Anonymous Volunteer, and David Widger

+

+

+

+

+

+

+WAR AND PEACE

+

+

+By Leo Tolstoy/Tolstoi

+

+

+

+

+

+    CONTENTS

+

+

+    BOOK ONE: 1805

+

+    CHAPTER I

+

+    CHAPTER II

+

+    CHAPTER III

+

+    CHAPTER IV

+

+    CHAPTER V

+

+    CHAPTER VI

+

+    CHAPTER VII

+

+    CHAPTER VIII

+

+    CHAPTER IX

+

+    CHAPTER X

+

+    CHAPTER XI

+

+    CHAPTER XII

+

+    CHAPTER XIII

+

+    CHAPTER XIV

+

+    CHAPTER XV

+

+    CHAPTER XVI

+

+    CHAPTER XVII

+

+    CHAPTER XVIII

+

+    CHAPTER XIX

+

+    CHAPTER XX

+

+    CHAPTER XXI

+

+    CHAPTER XXII

+

+    CHAPTER XXIII

+

+    CHAPTER XXIV

+

+    CHAPTER XXV

+

+    CHAPTER XXVI

+

+    CHAPTER XXVII

+

+    CHAPTER XXVIII

+

+

+    BOOK TWO: 1805

+

+    CHAPTER I

+

+    CHAPTER II

+

+    CHAPTER III

+

+    CHAPTER IV

+

+    CHAPTER V

+

+    CHAPTER VI

+

+    CHAPTER VII

+

+    CHAPTER VIII

+

+    CHAPTER IX

+

+    CHAPTER X

+

+    CHAPTER XI

+

+    CHAPTER XII

+

+    CHAPTER XIII

+

+    CHAPTER XIV

+

+    CHAPTER XV

+

+    CHAPTER XVI

+

+    CHAPTER XVII

+

+    CHAPTER XVIII

+

+    CHAPTER XIX

+

+    CHAPTER XX

+

+    CHAPTER XXI

+

+

+    BOOK THREE: 1805

+

+    CHAPTER I

+

+    CHAPTER II

+

+    CHAPTER III

+

+    CHAPTER IV

+

+    CHAPTER V

+

+    CHAPTER VI

+

+    CHAPTER VII

+

+    CHAPTER VIII

+

+    CHAPTER IX

+

+    CHAPTER X

+

+    CHAPTER XI

+

+    CHAPTER XII

+

+    CHAPTER XIII

+

+    CHAPTER XIV

+

+    CHAPTER XV

+

+    CHAPTER XVI

+

+    CHAPTER XVII

+

+    CHAPTER XVIII

+

+    CHAPTER XIX

+

+

+    BOOK FOUR: 1806

+

+    CHAPTER I

+

+    CHAPTER II

+

+    CHAPTER III

+

+    CHAPTER IV

+

+    CHAPTER V

+

+    CHAPTER VI

+

+    CHAPTER VII

+

+    CHAPTER VIII

+

+    CHAPTER IX

+

+    CHAPTER X

+

+    CHAPTER XI

+

+    CHAPTER XII

+

+    CHAPTER XIII

+

+    CHAPTER XIV

+

+    CHAPTER XV

+

+    CHAPTER XVI

+

+

+    BOOK FIVE: 1806 - 07

+

+    CHAPTER I

+

+    CHAPTER II

+

+    CHAPTER III

+

+    CHAPTER IV

+

+    CHAPTER V

+

+    CHAPTER VI

+

+    CHAPTER VII

+

+    CHAPTER VIII

+

+    CHAPTER IX

+

+    CHAPTER X

+

+    CHAPTER XI

+

+    CHAPTER XII

+

+    CHAPTER XIII

+

+    CHAPTER XIV

+

+    CHAPTER XV

+

+    CHAPTER XVI

+

+    CHAPTER XVII

+

+    CHAPTER XVIII

+

+    CHAPTER XIX

+

+    CHAPTER XX

+

+    CHAPTER XXI

+

+    CHAPTER XXII

+

+

+    BOOK SIX: 1808 - 10

+

+    CHAPTER I

+

+    CHAPTER II

+

+    CHAPTER III

+

+    CHAPTER IV

+

+    CHAPTER V

+

+    CHAPTER VI

+

+    CHAPTER VII

+

+    CHAPTER VIII

+

+    CHAPTER IX

+

+    CHAPTER X

+

+    CHAPTER XI

+

+    CHAPTER XII

+

+    CHAPTER XIII

+

+    CHAPTER XIV

+

+    CHAPTER XV

+

+    CHAPTER XVI

+

+    CHAPTER XVII

+

+    CHAPTER XVIII

+

+    CHAPTER XIX

+

+    CHAPTER XX

+

+    CHAPTER XXI

+

+    CHAPTER XXII

+

+    CHAPTER XXIII

+

+    CHAPTER XXIV

+

+    CHAPTER XXV

+

+    CHAPTER XXVI

+

+

+    BOOK SEVEN: 1810 - 11

+

+    CHAPTER I

+

+    CHAPTER II

+

+    CHAPTER III

+

+    CHAPTER IV

+

+    CHAPTER V

+

+    CHAPTER VI

+

+    CHAPTER VII

+

+    CHAPTER VIII

+

+    CHAPTER IX

+

+    CHAPTER X

+

+    CHAPTER XI

+

+    CHAPTER XII

+

+    CHAPTER XIII

+

+

+    BOOK EIGHT: 1811 - 12

+

+    CHAPTER I

+

+    CHAPTER II

+

+    CHAPTER III

+

+    CHAPTER IV

+

+    CHAPTER V

+

+    CHAPTER VI

+

+    CHAPTER VII

+

+    CHAPTER VIII

+

+    CHAPTER IX

+

+    CHAPTER X

+

+    CHAPTER XI

+

+    CHAPTER XII

+

+    CHAPTER XIII

+

+    CHAPTER XIV

+

+    CHAPTER XV

+

+    CHAPTER XVI

+

+    CHAPTER XVII

+

+    CHAPTER XVIII

+

+    CHAPTER XIX

+

+    CHAPTER XX

+

+    CHAPTER XXI

+

+    CHAPTER XXII

+

+

+    BOOK NINE: 1812

+

+    CHAPTER I

+

+    CHAPTER II

+

+    CHAPTER III

+

+    CHAPTER IV

+

+    CHAPTER V

+

+    CHAPTER VI

+

+    CHAPTER VII

+

+    CHAPTER VIII

+

+    CHAPTER IX

+

+    CHAPTER X

+

+    CHAPTER XI

+

+    CHAPTER XII

+

+    CHAPTER XIII

+

+    CHAPTER XIV

+

+    CHAPTER XV

+

+    CHAPTER XVI

+

+    CHAPTER XVII

+

+    CHAPTER XVIII

+

+    CHAPTER XIX

+

+    CHAPTER XX

+

+    CHAPTER XXI

+

+    CHAPTER XXII

+

+    CHAPTER XXIII

+

+

+    BOOK TEN: 1812

+

+    CHAPTER I

+

+    CHAPTER II

+

+    CHAPTER III

+

+    CHAPTER IV

+

+    CHAPTER V

+

+    CHAPTER VI

+

+    CHAPTER VII

+

+    CHAPTER VIII

+

+    CHAPTER IX

+

+    CHAPTER X

+

+    CHAPTER XI

+

+    CHAPTER XII

+

+    CHAPTER XIII

+

+    CHAPTER XIV

+

+    CHAPTER XV

+

+    CHAPTER XVI

+

+    CHAPTER XVII

+

+    CHAPTER XVIII

+

+    CHAPTER XIX

+

+    CHAPTER XX

+

+    CHAPTER XXI

+

+    CHAPTER XXII

+

+    CHAPTER XXIII

+

+    CHAPTER XXIV

+

+    CHAPTER XXV

+

+    CHAPTER XXVI

+

+    CHAPTER XXVII

+

+    CHAPTER XXVIII

+

+    CHAPTER XXIX

+

+    CHAPTER XXX

+

+    CHAPTER XXXI

+

+    CHAPTER XXXII

+

+    CHAPTER XXXIII

+

+    CHAPTER XXXIV

+

+    CHAPTER XXXV

+

+    CHAPTER XXXVI

+

+    CHAPTER XXXVII

+

+    CHAPTER XXXVIII

+

+    CHAPTER XXXIX

+

+

+    BOOK ELEVEN: 1812

+

+    CHAPTER I

+

+    CHAPTER II

+

+    CHAPTER III

+

+    CHAPTER IV

+

+    CHAPTER V

+

+    CHAPTER VI

+

+    CHAPTER VII

+

+    CHAPTER VIII

+

+    CHAPTER IX

+

+    CHAPTER X

+

+    CHAPTER XI

+

+    CHAPTER XII

+

+    CHAPTER XIII

+

+    CHAPTER XIV

+

+    CHAPTER XV

+

+    CHAPTER XVI

+

+    CHAPTER XVII

+

+    CHAPTER XVIII

+

+    CHAPTER XIX

+

+    CHAPTER XX

+

+    CHAPTER XXI

+

+    CHAPTER XXII

+

+    CHAPTER XXIII

+

+    CHAPTER XXIV

+

+    CHAPTER XXV

+

+    CHAPTER XXVI

+

+    CHAPTER XXVII

+

+    CHAPTER XXVIII

+

+    CHAPTER XXIX

+

+    CHAPTER XXX

+

+    CHAPTER XXXI

+

+    CHAPTER XXXII

+

+    CHAPTER XXXIII

+

+    CHAPTER XXXIV

+

+

+    BOOK TWELVE: 1812

+

+    CHAPTER I

+

+    CHAPTER II

+

+    CHAPTER III

+

+    CHAPTER IV

+

+    CHAPTER V

+

+    CHAPTER VI

+

+    CHAPTER VII

+

+    CHAPTER VIII

+

+    CHAPTER IX

+

+    CHAPTER X

+

+    CHAPTER XI

+

+    CHAPTER XII

+

+    CHAPTER XIII

+

+    CHAPTER XIV

+

+    CHAPTER XV

+

+    CHAPTER XVI

+

+

+    BOOK THIRTEEN: 1812

+

+    CHAPTER I

+

+    CHAPTER II

+

+    CHAPTER III

+

+    CHAPTER IV

+

+    CHAPTER V

+

+    CHAPTER VI

+

+    CHAPTER VII

+

+    CHAPTER VIII

+

+    CHAPTER IX

+

+    CHAPTER X

+

+    CHAPTER XI

+

+    CHAPTER XII

+

+    CHAPTER XIII

+

+    CHAPTER XIV

+

+    CHAPTER XV

+

+    CHAPTER XVI

+

+    CHAPTER XVII

+

+    CHAPTER XVIII

+

+    CHAPTER XIX

+

+

+    BOOK FOURTEEN: 1812

+

+    CHAPTER I

+

+    CHAPTER II

+

+    CHAPTER III

+

+    CHAPTER IV

+

+    CHAPTER V

+

+    CHAPTER VI

+

+    CHAPTER VII

+

+    CHAPTER VIII

+

+    CHAPTER IX

+

+    CHAPTER X

+

+    CHAPTER XI

+

+    CHAPTER XII

+

+    CHAPTER XIII

+

+    CHAPTER XIV

+

+    CHAPTER XV

+

+    CHAPTER XVI

+

+    CHAPTER XVII

+

+    CHAPTER XVIII

+

+    CHAPTER XIX

+

+

+    BOOK FIFTEEN: 1812 - 13

+

+    CHAPTER I

+

+    CHAPTER II

+

+    CHAPTER III

+

+    CHAPTER IV

+

+    CHAPTER V

+

+    CHAPTER VI

+

+    CHAPTER VII

+

+    CHAPTER VIII

+

+    CHAPTER IX

+

+    CHAPTER X

+

+    CHAPTER XI

+

+    CHAPTER XII

+

+    CHAPTER XIII

+

+    CHAPTER XIV

+

+    CHAPTER XV

+

+    CHAPTER XVI

+

+    CHAPTER XVII

+

+    CHAPTER XVIII

+

+    CHAPTER XIX

+

+    CHAPTER XX

+

+

+    FIRST EPILOGUE: 1813 - 20

+

+    CHAPTER I

+

+    CHAPTER II

+

+    CHAPTER III

+

+    CHAPTER IV

+

+    CHAPTER V

+

+    CHAPTER VI

+

+    CHAPTER VII

+

+    CHAPTER VIII

+

+    CHAPTER IX

+

+    CHAPTER X

+

+    CHAPTER XI

+

+    CHAPTER XII

+

+    CHAPTER XIII

+

+    CHAPTER XIV

+

+    CHAPTER XV

+

+    CHAPTER XVI

+

+

+    SECOND EPILOGUE

+

+    CHAPTER I

+

+    CHAPTER II

+

+    CHAPTER III

+

+    CHAPTER IV

+

+    CHAPTER V

+

+    CHAPTER VI

+

+    CHAPTER VII

+

+    CHAPTER VIII

+

+    CHAPTER IX

+

+    CHAPTER X

+

+    CHAPTER XI

+

+    CHAPTER XII

+

+

+

+

+

+

+

+

+

+

+BOOK ONE: 1805

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER I

+

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

+Buonapartes. But I warn you, if you don’t tell me that this means war,

+if you still try to defend the infamies and horrors perpetrated by that

+Antichrist—I really believe he is Antichrist—I will have nothing

+more to do with you and you are no longer my friend, no longer my

+‘faithful slave,’ as you call yourself! But how do you do? I see I

+have frightened you—sit down and tell me all the news.”

+

+It was in July, 1805, and the speaker was the well-known Anna Pávlovna

+Schérer, maid of honor and favorite of the Empress Márya Fëdorovna.

+With these words she greeted Prince Vasíli Kurágin, a man of high

+rank and importance, who was the first to arrive at her reception. Anna

+Pávlovna had had a cough for some days. She was, as she said, suffering

+from la grippe; grippe being then a new word in St. Petersburg, used

+only by the elite.

+

+All her invitations without exception, written in French, and delivered

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

+

+“If you have nothing better to do, Count (or Prince), and if the

+prospect of spending an evening with a poor invalid is not too terrible,

+I shall be very charmed to see you tonight between 7 and 10—Annette

+Schérer.”

+

+“Heavens! what a virulent attack!” replied the prince, not in the

+least disconcerted by this reception. He had just entered, wearing an

+embroidered court uniform, knee breeches, and shoes, and had stars on

+his breast and a serene expression on his flat face. He spoke in that

+refined French in which our grandfathers not only spoke but thought, and

+with the gentle, patronizing intonation natural to a man of importance

+who had grown old in society and at court. He went up to Anna Pávlovna,

+kissed her hand, presenting to her his bald, scented, and shining head,

+and complacently seated himself on the sofa.

+

+“First of all, dear friend, tell me how you are. Set your friend’s

+mind at rest,” said he without altering his tone, beneath the

+politeness and affected sympathy of which indifference and even irony

+could be discerned.

+

+“Can one be well while suffering morally? Can one be calm in times

+like these if one has any feeling?” said Anna Pávlovna. “You are

+staying the whole evening, I hope?”

+

+“And the fete at the English ambassador’s? Today is Wednesday. I

+must put in an appearance there,” said the prince. “My daughter is

+coming for me to take me there.”

+

+“I thought today’s fete had been canceled. I confess all these

+festivities and fireworks are becoming wearisome.”

+

+“If they had known that you wished it, the entertainment would have

+been put off,” said the prince, who, like a wound-up clock, by force

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

+

+“Don’t tease! Well, and what has been decided about Novosíltsev’s

+dispatch? You know everything.”

+

+“What can one say about it?” replied the prince in a cold, listless

+tone. “What has been decided? They have decided that Buonaparte has

+burnt his boats, and I believe that we are ready to burn ours.”

+

+Prince Vasíli always spoke languidly, like an actor repeating a stale

+part. Anna Pávlovna Schérer on the contrary, despite her forty years,

+overflowed with animation and impulsiveness. To be an enthusiast had

+become her social vocation and, sometimes even when she did not

+feel like it, she became enthusiastic in order not to disappoint the

+expectations of those who knew her. The subdued smile which, though it

+did not suit her faded features, always played round her lips expressed,

+as in a spoiled child, a continual consciousness of her charming defect,

+which she neither wished, nor could, nor considered it necessary, to

+correct.

+

+In the midst of a conversation on political matters Anna Pávlovna burst

+out:

+

+“Oh, don’t speak to me of Austria. Perhaps I don’t understand

+things, but Austria never has wished, and does not wish, for war. She

+is betraying us! Russia alone must save Europe. Our gracious sovereign

+recognizes his high vocation and will be true to it. That is the one

+thing I have faith in! Our good and wonderful sovereign has to perform

+the noblest role on earth, and he is so virtuous and noble that God will

+not forsake him. He will fulfill his vocation and crush the hydra of

+revolution, which has become more terrible than ever in the person of

+this murderer and villain! We alone must avenge the blood of the just

+one.... Whom, I ask you, can we rely on?... England with her commercial

+spirit will not and cannot understand the Emperor Alexander’s

+loftiness of soul. She has refused to evacuate Malta. She wanted to

+find, and still seeks, some secret motive in our actions. What answer

+did Novosíltsev get? None. The English have not understood and cannot

+understand the self-abnegation of our Emperor who wants nothing for

+himself, but only desires the good of mankind. And what have they

+promised? Nothing! And what little they have promised they will not

+perform! Prussia has always declared that Buonaparte is invincible, and

+that all Europe is powerless before him.... And I don’t believe a

+word that Hardenburg says, or Haugwitz either. This famous Prussian

+neutrality is just a trap. I have faith only in God and the lofty

+destiny of our adored monarch. He will save Europe!”

+

+She suddenly paused, smiling at her own impetuosity.

+

+“I think,” said the prince with a smile, “that if you had been

+sent instead of our dear Wintzingerode you would have captured the King

+of Prussia’s consent by assault. You are so eloquent. Will you give me

+a cup of tea?”

+

+“In a moment. À propos,” she added, becoming calm again, “I am

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

+is connected with the Montmorencys through the Rohans, one of the best

+French families. He is one of the genuine émigrés, the good ones. And

+also the Abbé Morio. Do you know that profound thinker? He has been

+received by the Emperor. Had you heard?”

+

+“I shall be delighted to meet them,” said the prince. “But

+tell me,” he added with studied carelessness as if it had only just

+occurred to him, though the question he was about to ask was the chief

+motive of his visit, “is it true that the Dowager Empress wants

+Baron Funke to be appointed first secretary at Vienna? The baron by all

+accounts is a poor creature.”

+

+Prince Vasíli wished to obtain this post for his son, but others were

+trying through the Dowager Empress Márya Fëdorovna to secure it for

+the baron.

+

+Anna Pávlovna almost closed her eyes to indicate that neither she nor

+anyone else had a right to criticize what the Empress desired or was

+pleased with.

+

+“Baron Funke has been recommended to the Dowager Empress by her

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

+

+As she named the Empress, Anna Pávlovna’s face suddenly assumed an

+expression of profound and sincere devotion and respect mingled with

+sadness, and this occurred every time she mentioned her illustrious

+patroness. She added that Her Majesty had deigned to show Baron Funke

+beaucoup d’estime, and again her face clouded over with sadness.

+

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

+courtierlike quickness and tact habitual to her, Anna Pávlovna

+wished both to rebuke him (for daring to speak as he had done of a man

+recommended to the Empress) and at the same time to console him, so she

+said:

+

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

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

+beautiful.”

+

+The prince bowed to signify his respect and gratitude.

+

+“I often think,” she continued after a short pause, drawing nearer

+to the prince and smiling amiably at him as if to show that political

+and social topics were ended and the time had come for intimate

+conversation—“I often think how unfairly sometimes the joys of life

+are distributed. Why has fate given you two such splendid children?

+I don’t speak of Anatole, your youngest. I don’t like him,” she

+added in a tone admitting of no rejoinder and raising her eyebrows.

+“Two such charming children. And really you appreciate them less than

+anyone, and so you don’t deserve to have them.”

+

+And she smiled her ecstatic smile.

+

+“I can’t help it,” said the prince. “Lavater would have said I

+lack the bump of paternity.”

+

+“Don’t joke; I mean to have a serious talk with you. Do you know

+I am dissatisfied with your younger son? Between ourselves” (and her

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

+Majesty’s and you were pitied....”

+

+The prince answered nothing, but she looked at him significantly,

+awaiting a reply. He frowned.

+

+“What would you have me do?” he said at last. “You know I did all

+a father could for their education, and they have both turned out fools.

+Hippolyte is at least a quiet fool, but Anatole is an active one. That

+is the only difference between them.” He said this smiling in a way

+more natural and animated than usual, so that the wrinkles round

+his mouth very clearly revealed something unexpectedly coarse and

+unpleasant.

+

+“And why are children born to such men as you? If you were not a

+father there would be nothing I could reproach you with,” said Anna

+Pávlovna, looking up pensively.

+

+“I am your faithful slave and to you alone I can confess that my

+children are the bane of my life. It is the cross I have to bear. That

+is how I explain it to myself. It can’t be helped!”

+

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

+gesture. Anna Pávlovna meditated.

+

+“Have you never thought of marrying your prodigal son Anatole?” she

+asked. “They say old maids have a mania for matchmaking, and though I

+don’t feel that weakness in myself as yet, I know a little person who

+is very unhappy with her father. She is a relation of yours, Princess

+Mary Bolkónskaya.”

+

+Prince Vasíli did not reply, though, with the quickness of memory and

+perception befitting a man of the world, he indicated by a movement of

+the head that he was considering this information.

+

+“Do you know,” he said at last, evidently unable to check the sad

+current of his thoughts, “that Anatole is costing me forty thousand

+rubles a year? And,” he went on after a pause, “what will it be in

+five years, if he goes on like this?” Presently he added: “That’s

+what we fathers have to put up with.... Is this princess of yours

+rich?”

+

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

+the well-known Prince Bolkónski who had to retire from the army under

+the late Emperor, and was nicknamed ‘the King of Prussia.’ He is

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

+She has a brother; I think you know him, he married Lise Meinen lately.

+He is an aide-de-camp of Kutúzov’s and will be here tonight.”

+

+“Listen, dear Annette,” said the prince, suddenly taking Anna

+Pávlovna’s hand and for some reason drawing it downwards. “Arrange

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

+with an f, as a village elder of mine writes in his reports. She is rich

+and of good family and that’s all I want.”

+

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

+maid of honor’s hand to his lips, kissed it, and swung it to and fro

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

+

+“Attendez,” said Anna Pávlovna, reflecting, “I’ll speak to

+Lise, young Bolkónski’s wife, this very evening, and perhaps the

+thing can be arranged. It shall be on your family’s behalf that I’ll

+start my apprenticeship as old maid.”

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER II

+

+Anna Pávlovna’s drawing room was gradually filling. The highest

+Petersburg society was assembled there: people differing widely in age

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

+Prince Vasíli’s daughter, the beautiful Hélène, came to take her

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

+her badge as maid of honor. The youthful little Princess Bolkónskaya,

+known as la femme la plus séduisante de Pétersbourg, * was also there.

+She had been married during the previous winter, and being pregnant did

+not go to any large gatherings, but only to small receptions. Prince

+Vasíli’s son, Hippolyte, had come with Mortemart, whom he introduced.

+The Abbé Morio and many others had also come.

+

+     * The most fascinating woman in Petersburg.

+

+To each new arrival Anna Pávlovna said, “You have not yet seen my

+aunt,” or “You do not know my aunt?” and very gravely conducted

+him or her to a little old lady, wearing large bows of ribbon in her

+cap, who had come sailing in from another room as soon as the guests

+began to arrive; and slowly turning her eyes from the visitor to her

+aunt, Anna Pávlovna mentioned each one’s name and then left them.

+

+Each visitor performed the ceremony of greeting this old aunt whom not

+one of them knew, not one of them wanted to know, and not one of them

+cared about; Anna Pávlovna observed these greetings with mournful and

+solemn interest and silent approval. The aunt spoke to each of them in

+the same words, about their health and her own, and the health of Her

+Majesty, “who, thank God, was better today.” And each visitor,

+though politeness prevented his showing impatience, left the old woman

+with a sense of relief at having performed a vexatious duty and did not

+return to her the whole evening.

+

+The young Princess Bolkónskaya had brought some work in a

+gold-embroidered velvet bag. Her pretty little upper lip, on which a

+delicate dark down was just perceptible, was too short for her teeth,

+but it lifted all the more sweetly, and was especially charming when she

+occasionally drew it down to meet the lower lip. As is always the case

+with a thoroughly attractive woman, her defect—the shortness of her

+upper lip and her half-open mouth—seemed to be her own special and

+peculiar form of beauty. Everyone brightened at the sight of this pretty

+young woman, so soon to become a mother, so full of life and health, and

+carrying her burden so lightly. Old men and dull dispirited young ones

+who looked at her, after being in her company and talking to her a

+little while, felt as if they too were becoming, like her, full of life

+and health. All who talked to her, and at each word saw her bright smile

+and the constant gleam of her white teeth, thought that they were in a

+specially amiable mood that day.

+

+The little princess went round the table with quick, short, swaying

+steps, her workbag on her arm, and gaily spreading out her dress sat

+down on a sofa near the silver samovar, as if all she was doing was a

+pleasure to herself and to all around her. “I have brought my work,”

+said she in French, displaying her bag and addressing all present.

+“Mind, Annette, I hope you have not played a wicked trick on me,”

+she added, turning to her hostess. “You wrote that it was to be quite

+a small reception, and just see how badly I am dressed.” And she

+spread out her arms to show her short-waisted, lace-trimmed, dainty gray

+dress, girdled with a broad ribbon just below the breast.

+

+“Soyez tranquille, Lise, you will always be prettier than anyone

+else,” replied Anna Pávlovna.

+

+“You know,” said the princess in the same tone of voice and still in

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

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

+added, addressing Prince Vasíli, and without waiting for an answer she

+turned to speak to his daughter, the beautiful Hélène.

+

+“What a delightful woman this little princess is!” said Prince

+Vasíli to Anna Pávlovna.

+

+One of the next arrivals was a stout, heavily built young man with

+close-cropped hair, spectacles, the light-colored breeches fashionable

+at that time, a very high ruffle, and a brown dress coat. This stout

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

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

+had not yet entered either the military or civil service, as he had only

+just returned from abroad where he had been educated, and this was his

+first appearance in society. Anna Pávlovna greeted him with the nod she

+accorded to the lowest hierarchy in her drawing room. But in spite of

+this lowest-grade greeting, a look of anxiety and fear, as at the sight

+of something too large and unsuited to the place, came over her face

+when she saw Pierre enter. Though he was certainly rather bigger than

+the other men in the room, her anxiety could only have reference to

+the clever though shy, but observant and natural, expression which

+distinguished him from everyone else in that drawing room.

+

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

+invalid,” said Anna Pávlovna, exchanging an alarmed glance with her

+aunt as she conducted him to her.

+

+Pierre murmured something unintelligible, and continued to look round as

+if in search of something. On his way to the aunt he bowed to the little

+princess with a pleased smile, as to an intimate acquaintance.

+

+Anna Pávlovna’s alarm was justified, for Pierre turned away from the

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

+Anna Pávlovna in dismay detained him with the words: “Do you know the

+Abbé Morio? He is a most interesting man.”

+

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

+interesting but hardly feasible.”

+

+“You think so?” rejoined Anna Pávlovna in order to say something

+and get away to attend to her duties as hostess. But Pierre now

+committed a reverse act of impoliteness. First he had left a lady before

+she had finished speaking to him, and now he continued to speak to

+another who wished to get away. With his head bent, and his big feet

+spread apart, he began explaining his reasons for thinking the abbé’s

+plan chimerical.

+

+“We will talk of it later,” said Anna Pávlovna with a smile.

+

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

+resumed her duties as hostess and continued to listen and watch, ready

+to help at any point where the conversation might happen to flag. As

+the foreman of a spinning mill, when he has set the hands to work, goes

+round and notices here a spindle that has stopped or there one that

+creaks or makes more noise than it should, and hastens to check the

+machine or set it in proper motion, so Anna Pávlovna moved about her

+drawing room, approaching now a silent, now a too-noisy group, and by a

+word or slight rearrangement kept the conversational machine in steady,

+proper, and regular motion. But amid these cares her anxiety about

+Pierre was evident. She kept an anxious watch on him when he approached

+the group round Mortemart to listen to what was being said there, and

+again when he passed to another group whose center was the abbé.

+

+Pierre had been educated abroad, and this reception at Anna

+Pávlovna’s was the first he had attended in Russia. He knew that all

+the intellectual lights of Petersburg were gathered there and, like a

+child in a toyshop, did not know which way to look, afraid of missing

+any clever conversation that was to be heard. Seeing the self-confident

+and refined expression on the faces of those present he was always

+expecting to hear something very profound. At last he came up to Morio.

+Here the conversation seemed interesting and he stood waiting for an

+opportunity to express his own views, as young people are fond of doing.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER III

+

+Anna Pávlovna’s reception was in full swing. The spindles hummed

+steadily and ceaselessly on all sides. With the exception of the aunt,

+beside whom sat only one elderly lady, who with her thin careworn face

+was rather out of place in this brilliant society, the whole company had

+settled into three groups. One, chiefly masculine, had formed round

+the abbé. Another, of young people, was grouped round the beautiful

+Princess Hélène, Prince Vasíli’s daughter, and the little Princess

+Bolkónskaya, very pretty and rosy, though rather too plump for her age.

+The third group was gathered round Mortemart and Anna Pávlovna.

+

+The vicomte was a nice-looking young man with soft features and polished

+manners, who evidently considered himself a celebrity but out of

+politeness modestly placed himself at the disposal of the circle in

+which he found himself. Anna Pávlovna was obviously serving him up as

+a treat to her guests. As a clever maître d’hôtel serves up as a

+specially choice delicacy a piece of meat that no one who had seen it in

+the kitchen would have cared to eat, so Anna Pávlovna served up to

+her guests, first the vicomte and then the abbé, as peculiarly choice

+morsels. The group about Mortemart immediately began discussing the

+murder of the Duc d’Enghien. The vicomte said that the Duc d’Enghien

+had perished by his own magnanimity, and that there were particular

+reasons for Buonaparte’s hatred of him.

+

+“Ah, yes! Do tell us all about it, Vicomte,” said Anna Pávlovna,

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

+sound of that sentence: “Contez nous çela, Vicomte.”

+

+The vicomte bowed and smiled courteously in token of his willingness to

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

+listen to his tale.

+

+“The vicomte knew the duc personally,” whispered Anna Pávlovna to

+one of the guests. “The vicomte is a wonderful raconteur,” said she

+to another. “How evidently he belongs to the best society,” said she

+to a third; and the vicomte was served up to the company in the choicest

+and most advantageous style, like a well-garnished joint of roast beef

+on a hot dish.

+

+The vicomte wished to begin his story and gave a subtle smile.

+

+“Come over here, Hélène, dear,” said Anna Pávlovna to the

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

+another group.

+

+The princess smiled. She rose with the same unchanging smile with which

+she had first entered the room—the smile of a perfectly beautiful

+woman. With a slight rustle of her white dress trimmed with moss

+and ivy, with a gleam of white shoulders, glossy hair, and sparkling

+diamonds, she passed between the men who made way for her, not looking

+at any of them but smiling on all, as if graciously allowing each the

+privilege of admiring her beautiful figure and shapely shoulders,

+back, and bosom—which in the fashion of those days were very much

+exposed—and she seemed to bring the glamour of a ballroom with her as

+she moved toward Anna Pávlovna. Hélène was so lovely that not only

+did she not show any trace of coquetry, but on the contrary she even

+appeared shy of her unquestionable and all too victorious beauty. She

+seemed to wish, but to be unable, to diminish its effect.

+

+“How lovely!” said everyone who saw her; and the vicomte lifted his

+shoulders and dropped his eyes as if startled by something extraordinary

+when she took her seat opposite and beamed upon him also with her

+unchanging smile.

+

+“Madame, I doubt my ability before such an audience,” said he,

+smilingly inclining his head.

+

+The princess rested her bare round arm on a little table and considered

+a reply unnecessary. She smilingly waited. All the time the story was

+being told she sat upright, glancing now at her beautiful round arm,

+altered in shape by its pressure on the table, now at her still more

+beautiful bosom, on which she readjusted a diamond necklace. From time

+to time she smoothed the folds of her dress, and whenever the story

+produced an effect she glanced at Anna Pávlovna, at once adopted just

+the expression she saw on the maid of honor’s face, and again relapsed

+into her radiant smile.

+

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

+

+“Wait a moment, I’ll get my work.... Now then, what are you

+thinking of?” she went on, turning to Prince Hippolyte. “Fetch me my

+workbag.”

+

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

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

+seat.

+

+“Now I am all right,” she said, and asking the vicomte to begin, she

+took up her work.

+

+Prince Hippolyte, having brought the workbag, joined the circle and

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

+

+Le charmant Hippolyte was surprising by his extraordinary resemblance

+to his beautiful sister, but yet more by the fact that in spite of

+this resemblance he was exceedingly ugly. His features were like his

+sister’s, but while in her case everything was lit up by a joyous,

+self-satisfied, youthful, and constant smile of animation, and by the

+wonderful classic beauty of her figure, his face on the contrary

+was dulled by imbecility and a constant expression of sullen

+self-confidence, while his body was thin and weak. His eyes, nose, and

+mouth all seemed puckered into a vacant, wearied grimace, and his arms

+and legs always fell into unnatural positions.

+

+“It’s not going to be a ghost story?” said he, sitting down beside

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

+instrument he could not begin to speak.

+

+“Why no, my dear fellow,” said the astonished narrator, shrugging

+his shoulders.

+

+“Because I hate ghost stories,” said Prince Hippolyte in a tone

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

+had uttered them.

+

+He spoke with such self-confidence that his hearers could not be sure

+whether what he said was very witty or very stupid. He was dressed in

+a dark-green dress coat, knee breeches of the color of cuisse de nymphe

+effrayée, as he called it, shoes, and silk stockings.

+

+The vicomte told his tale very neatly. It was an anecdote, then current,

+to the effect that the Duc d’Enghien had gone secretly to Paris to

+visit Mademoiselle George; that at her house he came upon Bonaparte,

+who also enjoyed the famous actress’ favors, and that in his presence

+Napoleon happened to fall into one of the fainting fits to which he was

+subject, and was thus at the duc’s mercy. The latter spared him, and

+this magnanimity Bonaparte subsequently repaid by death.

+

+The story was very pretty and interesting, especially at the point

+where the rivals suddenly recognized one another; and the ladies looked

+agitated.

+

+“Charming!” said Anna Pávlovna with an inquiring glance at the

+little princess.

+

+“Charming!” whispered the little princess, sticking the needle into

+her work as if to testify that the interest and fascination of the story

+prevented her from going on with it.

+

+The vicomte appreciated this silent praise and smiling gratefully

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

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

+talking too loudly and vehemently with the abbé, so she hurried to the

+rescue. Pierre had managed to start a conversation with the abbé about

+the balance of power, and the latter, evidently interested by the young

+man’s simple-minded eagerness, was explaining his pet theory. Both

+were talking and listening too eagerly and too naturally, which was why

+Anna Pávlovna disapproved.

+

+“The means are ... the balance of power in Europe and the rights of

+the people,” the abbé was saying. “It is only necessary for one

+powerful nation like Russia—barbaric as she is said to be—to place

+herself disinterestedly at the head of an alliance having for its object

+the maintenance of the balance of power of Europe, and it would save the

+world!”

+

+“But how are you to get that balance?” Pierre was beginning.

+

+At that moment Anna Pávlovna came up and, looking severely at Pierre,

+asked the Italian how he stood Russian climate. The Italian’s

+face instantly changed and assumed an offensively affected, sugary

+expression, evidently habitual to him when conversing with women.

+

+“I am so enchanted by the brilliancy of the wit and culture of the

+society, more especially of the feminine society, in which I have had

+the honor of being received, that I have not yet had time to think of

+the climate,” said he.

+

+Not letting the abbé and Pierre escape, Anna Pávlovna, the more

+conveniently to keep them under observation, brought them into the

+larger circle.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER IV

+

+Just then another visitor entered the drawing room: Prince Andrew

+Bolkónski, the little princess’ husband. He was a very handsome young

+man, of medium height, with firm, clearcut features. Everything about

+him, from his weary, bored expression to his quiet, measured step,

+offered a most striking contrast to his quiet, little wife. It was

+evident that he not only knew everyone in the drawing room, but had

+found them to be so tiresome that it wearied him to look at or listen to

+them. And among all these faces that he found so tedious, none seemed

+to bore him so much as that of his pretty wife. He turned away from

+her with a grimace that distorted his handsome face, kissed Anna

+Pávlovna’s hand, and screwing up his eyes scanned the whole company.

+

+“You are off to the war, Prince?” said Anna Pávlovna.

+

+“General Kutúzov,” said Bolkónski, speaking French and stressing

+the last syllable of the general’s name like a Frenchman, “has been

+pleased to take me as an aide-de-camp....”

+

+“And Lise, your wife?”

+

+“She will go to the country.”

+

+“Are you not ashamed to deprive us of your charming wife?”

+

+“André,” said his wife, addressing her husband in the same

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

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

+

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

+the moment Prince Andrew entered the room had watched him with glad,

+affectionate eyes, now came up and took his arm. Before he looked round

+Prince Andrew frowned again, expressing his annoyance with whoever was

+touching his arm, but when he saw Pierre’s beaming face he gave him an

+unexpectedly kind and pleasant smile.

+

+“There now!... So you, too, are in the great world?” said he to

+Pierre.

+

+“I knew you would be here,” replied Pierre. “I will come to supper

+with you. May I?” he added in a low voice so as not to disturb the

+vicomte who was continuing his story.

+

+“No, impossible!” said Prince Andrew, laughing and pressing

+Pierre’s hand to show that there was no need to ask the question. He

+wished to say something more, but at that moment Prince Vasíli and his

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

+

+“You must excuse me, dear Vicomte,” said Prince Vasíli to the

+Frenchman, holding him down by the sleeve in a friendly way to prevent

+his rising. “This unfortunate fete at the ambassador’s deprives me

+of a pleasure, and obliges me to interrupt you. I am very sorry to leave

+your enchanting party,” said he, turning to Anna Pávlovna.

+

+His daughter, Princess Hélène, passed between the chairs, lightly

+holding up the folds of her dress, and the smile shone still more

+radiantly on her beautiful face. Pierre gazed at her with rapturous,

+almost frightened, eyes as she passed him.

+

+“Very lovely,” said Prince Andrew.

+

+“Very,” said Pierre.

+

+In passing Prince Vasíli seized Pierre’s hand and said to Anna

+Pávlovna: “Educate this bear for me! He has been staying with me

+a whole month and this is the first time I have seen him in society.

+Nothing is so necessary for a young man as the society of clever

+women.”

+

+

+Anna Pávlovna smiled and promised to take Pierre in hand. She knew his

+father to be a connection of Prince Vasíli’s. The elderly lady who

+had been sitting with the old aunt rose hurriedly and overtook Prince

+Vasíli in the anteroom. All the affectation of interest she had assumed

+had left her kindly and tear-worn face and it now expressed only anxiety

+and fear.

+

+“How about my son Borís, Prince?” said she, hurrying after him into

+the anteroom. “I can’t remain any longer in Petersburg. Tell me what

+news I may take back to my poor boy.”

+

+Although Prince Vasíli listened reluctantly and not very politely

+to the elderly lady, even betraying some impatience, she gave him an

+ingratiating and appealing smile, and took his hand that he might not go

+away.

+

+“What would it cost you to say a word to the Emperor, and then he

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

+

+“Believe me, Princess, I am ready to do all I can,” answered Prince

+Vasíli, “but it is difficult for me to ask the Emperor. I should

+advise you to appeal to Rumyántsev through Prince Golítsyn. That would

+be the best way.”

+

+The elderly lady was a Princess Drubetskáya, belonging to one of the

+best families in Russia, but she was poor, and having long been out of

+society had lost her former influential connections. She had now come to

+Petersburg to procure an appointment in the Guards for her only son.

+It was, in fact, solely to meet Prince Vasíli that she had obtained an

+invitation to Anna Pávlovna’s reception and had sat listening to

+the vicomte’s story. Prince Vasíli’s words frightened her, an

+embittered look clouded her once handsome face, but only for a moment;

+then she smiled again and clutched Prince Vasíli’s arm more tightly.

+

+“Listen to me, Prince,” said she. “I have never yet asked you

+for anything and I never will again, nor have I ever reminded you of my

+father’s friendship for you; but now I entreat you for God’s sake to

+do this for my son—and I shall always regard you as a benefactor,”

+she added hurriedly. “No, don’t be angry, but promise! I have asked

+Golítsyn and he has refused. Be the kindhearted man you always were,”

+she said, trying to smile though tears were in her eyes.

+

+“Papa, we shall be late,” said Princess Hélène, turning her

+beautiful head and looking over her classically molded shoulder as she

+stood waiting by the door.

+

+Influence in society, however, is a capital which has to be economized

+if it is to last. Prince Vasíli knew this, and having once realized

+that if he asked on behalf of all who begged of him, he would soon be

+unable to ask for himself, he became chary of using his influence. But

+in Princess Drubetskáya’s case he felt, after her second appeal,

+something like qualms of conscience. She had reminded him of what was

+quite true; he had been indebted to her father for the first steps in

+his career. Moreover, he could see by her manners that she was one of

+those women—mostly mothers—who, having once made up their minds,

+will not rest until they have gained their end, and are prepared if

+necessary to go on insisting day after day and hour after hour, and even

+to make scenes. This last consideration moved him.

+

+“My dear Anna Mikháylovna,” said he with his usual familiarity and

+weariness of tone, “it is almost impossible for me to do what you

+ask; but to prove my devotion to you and how I respect your father’s

+memory, I will do the impossible—your son shall be transferred to the

+Guards. Here is my hand on it. Are you satisfied?”

+

+“My dear benefactor! This is what I expected from you—I knew your

+kindness!” He turned to go.

+

+“Wait—just a word! When he has been transferred to the Guards...”

+she faltered. “You are on good terms with Michael Ilariónovich

+Kutúzov ... recommend Borís to him as adjutant! Then I shall be at

+rest, and then...”

+

+Prince Vasíli smiled.

+

+“No, I won’t promise that. You don’t know how Kutúzov is pestered

+since his appointment as Commander in Chief. He told me himself that

+all the Moscow ladies have conspired to give him all their sons as

+adjutants.”

+

+“No, but do promise! I won’t let you go! My dear benefactor...”

+

+“Papa,” said his beautiful daughter in the same tone as before,

+“we shall be late.”

+

+“Well, au revoir! Good-by! You hear her?”

+

+“Then tomorrow you will speak to the Emperor?”

+

+“Certainly; but about Kutúzov, I don’t promise.”

+

+“Do promise, do promise, Vasíli!” cried Anna Mikháylovna as he

+went, with the smile of a coquettish girl, which at one time probably

+came naturally to her, but was now very ill-suited to her careworn face.

+

+Apparently she had forgotten her age and by force of habit employed

+all the old feminine arts. But as soon as the prince had gone her face

+resumed its former cold, artificial expression. She returned to the

+group where the vicomte was still talking, and again pretended to

+listen, while waiting till it would be time to leave. Her task was

+accomplished.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER V

+

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

+Milan?” asked Anna Pávlovna, “and of the comedy of the people of

+Genoa and Lucca laying their petitions before Monsieur Buonaparte, and

+Monsieur Buonaparte sitting on a throne and granting the petitions of

+the nations? Adorable! It is enough to make one’s head whirl! It is as

+if the whole world had gone crazy.”

+

+Prince Andrew looked Anna Pávlovna straight in the face with a

+sarcastic smile.

+

+“‘Dieu me la donne, gare à qui la touche!’’ * They say he was

+very fine when he said that,” he remarked, repeating the words in

+Italian: “‘Dio mi l’ha dato. Guai a chi la tocchi!’’

+

+     * God has given it to me, let him who touches it beware!

+

+“I hope this will prove the last drop that will make the glass run

+over,” Anna Pávlovna continued. “The sovereigns will not be able to

+endure this man who is a menace to everything.”

+

+“The sovereigns? I do not speak of Russia,” said the vicomte, polite

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

+XVII, for the Queen, or for Madame Elizabeth? Nothing!” and he became

+more animated. “And believe me, they are reaping the reward of their

+betrayal of the Bourbon cause. The sovereigns! Why, they are sending

+ambassadors to compliment the usurper.”

+

+And sighing disdainfully, he again changed his position.

+

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

+through his lorgnette, suddenly turned completely round toward the

+little princess, and having asked for a needle began tracing the Condé

+coat of arms on the table. He explained this to her with as much gravity

+as if she had asked him to do it.

+

+“Bâton de gueules, engrêlé de gueules d’azur—maison Condé,”

+said he.

+

+The princess listened, smiling.

+

+“If Buonaparte remains on the throne of France a year longer,” the

+vicomte continued, with the air of a man who, in a matter with which

+he is better acquainted than anyone else, does not listen to others but

+follows the current of his own thoughts, “things will have gone too

+far. By intrigues, violence, exile, and executions, French society—I

+mean good French society—will have been forever destroyed, and

+then....”

+

+He shrugged his shoulders and spread out his hands. Pierre wished to

+make a remark, for the conversation interested him, but Anna Pávlovna,

+who had him under observation, interrupted:

+

+“The Emperor Alexander,” said she, with the melancholy which

+always accompanied any reference of hers to the Imperial family, “has

+declared that he will leave it to the French people themselves to choose

+their own form of government; and I believe that once free from the

+usurper, the whole nation will certainly throw itself into the arms

+of its rightful king,” she concluded, trying to be amiable to the

+royalist emigrant.

+

+“That is doubtful,” said Prince Andrew. “Monsieur le Vicomte quite

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

+be difficult to return to the old regime.”

+

+“From what I have heard,” said Pierre, blushing and breaking into

+the conversation, “almost all the aristocracy has already gone over to

+Bonaparte’s side.”

+

+“It is the Buonapartists who say that,” replied the vicomte without

+looking at Pierre. “At the present time it is difficult to know the

+real state of French public opinion.”

+

+“Bonaparte has said so,” remarked Prince Andrew with a sarcastic

+smile.

+

+It was evident that he did not like the vicomte and was aiming his

+remarks at him, though without looking at him.

+

+“‘I showed them the path to glory, but they did not follow

+it,’” Prince Andrew continued after a short silence, again quoting

+Napoleon’s words. “‘I opened my antechambers and they crowded

+in.’ I do not know how far he was justified in saying so.”

+

+“Not in the least,” replied the vicomte. “After the murder of the

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

+people,” he went on, turning to Anna Pávlovna, “he ever was a hero,

+after the murder of the duc there was one martyr more in heaven and one

+hero less on earth.”

+

+Before Anna Pávlovna and the others had time to smile their

+appreciation of the vicomte’s epigram, Pierre again broke into the

+conversation, and though Anna Pávlovna felt sure he would say something

+inappropriate, she was unable to stop him.

+

+“The execution of the Duc d’Enghien,” declared Monsieur Pierre,

+“was a political necessity, and it seems to me that Napoleon

+showed greatness of soul by not fearing to take on himself the whole

+responsibility of that deed.”

+

+“Dieu! Mon Dieu!” muttered Anna Pávlovna in a terrified whisper.

+

+“What, Monsieur Pierre... Do you consider that assassination shows

+greatness of soul?” said the little princess, smiling and drawing her

+work nearer to her.

+

+“Oh! Oh!” exclaimed several voices.

+

+“Capital!” said Prince Hippolyte in English, and began slapping his

+knee with the palm of his hand.

+

+The vicomte merely shrugged his shoulders. Pierre looked solemnly at his

+audience over his spectacles and continued.

+

+“I say so,” he continued desperately, “because the Bourbons fled

+from the Revolution leaving the people to anarchy, and Napoleon alone

+understood the Revolution and quelled it, and so for the general good,

+he could not stop short for the sake of one man’s life.”

+

+“Won’t you come over to the other table?” suggested Anna

+Pávlovna.

+

+But Pierre continued his speech without heeding her.

+

+“No,” cried he, becoming more and more eager, “Napoleon is great

+because he rose superior to the Revolution, suppressed its abuses,

+preserved all that was good in it—equality of citizenship and freedom

+of speech and of the press—and only for that reason did he obtain

+power.”

+

+“Yes, if having obtained power, without availing himself of it to

+commit murder he had restored it to the rightful king, I should have

+called him a great man,” remarked the vicomte.

+

+“He could not do that. The people only gave him power that he might

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

+man. The Revolution was a grand thing!” continued Monsieur Pierre,

+betraying by this desperate and provocative proposition his extreme

+youth and his wish to express all that was in his mind.

+

+“What? Revolution and regicide a grand thing?... Well, after that...

+But won’t you come to this other table?” repeated Anna Pávlovna.

+

+“Rousseau’s Contrat Social,” said the vicomte with a tolerant

+smile.

+

+“I am not speaking of regicide, I am speaking about ideas.”

+

+“Yes: ideas of robbery, murder, and regicide,” again interjected an

+ironical voice.

+

+“Those were extremes, no doubt, but they are not what is most

+important. What is important are the rights of man, emancipation from

+prejudices, and equality of citizenship, and all these ideas Napoleon

+has retained in full force.”

+

+“Liberty and equality,” said the vicomte contemptuously, as if at

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

+were, “high-sounding words which have long been discredited. Who does

+not love liberty and equality? Even our Saviour preached liberty and

+equality. Have people since the Revolution become happier? On the

+contrary. We wanted liberty, but Buonaparte has destroyed it.”

+

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

+vicomte and from the vicomte to their hostess. In the first moment of

+Pierre’s outburst Anna Pávlovna, despite her social experience, was

+horror-struck. But when she saw that Pierre’s sacrilegious words

+had not exasperated the vicomte, and had convinced herself that it was

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

+a vigorous attack on the orator.

+

+“But, my dear Monsieur Pierre,” said she, “how do you explain the

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

+innocent and untried?”

+

+“I should like,” said the vicomte, “to ask how monsieur explains

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

+at all like the conduct of a great man!”

+

+“And the prisoners he killed in Africa? That was horrible!” said the

+little princess, shrugging her shoulders.

+

+“He’s a low fellow, say what you will,” remarked Prince Hippolyte.

+

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

+smile was unlike the half-smile of other people. When he smiled,

+his grave, even rather gloomy, look was instantaneously replaced by

+another—a childlike, kindly, even rather silly look, which seemed to

+ask forgiveness.

+

+The vicomte who was meeting him for the first time saw clearly that

+this young Jacobin was not so terrible as his words suggested. All were

+silent.

+

+“How do you expect him to answer you all at once?” said Prince

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

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

+So it seems to me.”

+

+“Yes, yes, of course!” Pierre chimed in, pleased at the arrival of

+this reinforcement.

+

+“One must admit,” continued Prince Andrew, “that Napoleon as a man

+was great on the bridge of Arcola, and in the hospital at Jaffa where he

+gave his hand to the plague-stricken; but ... but there are other acts

+which it is difficult to justify.”

+

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

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

+go.

+

+Suddenly Prince Hippolyte started up making signs to everyone to attend,

+and asking them all to be seated began:

+

+“I was told a charming Moscow story today and must treat you to it.

+Excuse me, Vicomte—I must tell it in Russian or the point will be

+lost....” And Prince Hippolyte began to tell his story in such Russian

+as a Frenchman would speak after spending about a year in Russia.

+Everyone waited, so emphatically and eagerly did he demand their

+attention to his story.

+

+“There is in Moscow a lady, une dame, and she is very stingy. She must

+have two footmen behind her carriage, and very big ones. That was her

+taste. And she had a lady’s maid, also big. She said....”

+

+Here Prince Hippolyte paused, evidently collecting his ideas with

+difficulty.

+

+“She said.... Oh yes! She said, ‘Girl,’ to the maid, ‘put on a

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

+calls.’”

+

+Here Prince Hippolyte spluttered and burst out laughing long before his

+audience, which produced an effect unfavorable to the narrator. Several

+persons, among them the elderly lady and Anna Pávlovna, did however

+smile.

+

+“She went. Suddenly there was a great wind. The girl lost her hat and

+her long hair came down....” Here he could contain himself no

+longer and went on, between gasps of laughter: “And the whole world

+knew....”

+

+And so the anecdote ended. Though it was unintelligible why he had told

+it, or why it had to be told in Russian, still Anna Pávlovna and the

+others appreciated Prince Hippolyte’s social tact in so agreeably

+ending Pierre’s unpleasant and unamiable outburst. After the anecdote

+the conversation broke up into insignificant small talk about the last

+and next balls, about theatricals, and who would meet whom, and when and

+where.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER VI

+

+Having thanked Anna Pávlovna for her charming soiree, the guests began

+to take their leave.

+

+Pierre was ungainly. Stout, about the average height, broad, with huge

+red hands; he did not know, as the saying is, how to enter a drawing

+room and still less how to leave one; that is, how to say something

+particularly agreeable before going away. Besides this he was

+absent-minded. When he rose to go, he took up instead of his own, the

+general’s three-cornered hat, and held it, pulling at the plume,

+till the general asked him to restore it. All his absent-mindedness and

+inability to enter a room and converse in it was, however, redeemed by

+his kindly, simple, and modest expression. Anna Pávlovna turned toward

+him and, with a Christian mildness that expressed forgiveness of his

+indiscretion, nodded and said: “I hope to see you again, but I also

+hope you will change your opinions, my dear Monsieur Pierre.”

+

+When she said this, he did not reply and only bowed, but again everybody

+saw his smile, which said nothing, unless perhaps, “Opinions are

+opinions, but you see what a capital, good-natured fellow I am.” And

+everyone, including Anna Pávlovna, felt this.

+

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

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

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

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

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

+

+“Go in, Annette, or you will catch cold,” said the little princess,

+taking leave of Anna Pávlovna. “It is settled,” she added in a low

+voice.

+

+Anna Pávlovna had already managed to speak to Lise about the match she

+contemplated between Anatole and the little princess’ sister-in-law.

+

+“I rely on you, my dear,” said Anna Pávlovna, also in a low tone.

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

+revoir! ”—and she left the hall.

+

+Prince Hippolyte approached the little princess and, bending his face

+close to her, began to whisper something.

+

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

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

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

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

+spoke smilingly and listened with a laugh.

+

+“I am very glad I did not go to the ambassador’s,” said Prince

+Hippolyte “—so dull—. It has been a delightful evening, has it

+not? Delightful!”

+

+“They say the ball will be very good,” replied the princess, drawing

+up her downy little lip. “All the pretty women in society will be

+there.”

+

+“Not all, for you will not be there; not all,” said Prince Hippolyte

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

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

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

+shawl had been adjusted he kept his arm around her for a long time, as

+though embracing her.

+

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

+husband. Prince Andrew’s eyes were closed, so weary and sleepy did he

+seem.

+

+“Are you ready?” he asked his wife, looking past her.

+

+Prince Hippolyte hurriedly put on his cloak, which in the latest fashion

+reached to his very heels, and, stumbling in it, ran out into the porch

+following the princess, whom a footman was helping into the carriage.

+

+“Princesse, au revoir,” cried he, stumbling with his tongue as well

+as with his feet.

+

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

+carriage, her husband was adjusting his saber; Prince Hippolyte, under

+pretense of helping, was in everyone’s way.

+

+“Allow me, sir,” said Prince Andrew in Russian in a cold,

+disagreeable tone to Prince Hippolyte who was blocking his path.

+

+“I am expecting you, Pierre,” said the same voice, but gently and

+affectionately.

+

+The postilion started, the carriage wheels rattled. Prince Hippolyte

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

+whom he had promised to take home.

+

+“Well, mon cher,” said the vicomte, having seated himself beside

+Hippolyte in the carriage, “your little princess is very nice, very

+nice indeed, quite French,” and he kissed the tips of his fingers.

+Hippolyte burst out laughing.

+

+“Do you know, you are a terrible chap for all your innocent airs,”

+continued the vicomte. “I pity the poor husband, that little officer

+who gives himself the airs of a monarch.”

+

+Hippolyte spluttered again, and amid his laughter said, “And you were

+saying that the Russian ladies are not equal to the French? One has to

+know how to deal with them.”

+

+Pierre reaching the house first went into Prince Andrew’s study like

+one quite at home, and from habit immediately lay down on the sofa, took

+from the shelf the first book that came to his hand (it was Caesar’s

+Commentaries), and resting on his elbow, began reading it in the middle.

+

+“What have you done to Mlle Schérer? She will be quite ill now,”

+said Prince Andrew, as he entered the study, rubbing his small white

+hands.

+

+Pierre turned his whole body, making the sofa creak. He lifted his eager

+face to Prince Andrew, smiled, and waved his hand.

+

+“That abbé is very interesting but he does not see the thing in the

+right light.... In my opinion perpetual peace is possible but—I do not

+know how to express it ... not by a balance of political power....”

+

+It was evident that Prince Andrew was not interested in such abstract

+conversation.

+

+“One can’t everywhere say all one thinks, mon cher. Well, have

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

+diplomatist?” asked Prince Andrew after a momentary silence.

+

+Pierre sat up on the sofa, with his legs tucked under him.

+

+“Really, I don’t yet know. I don’t like either the one or the

+other.”

+

+“But you must decide on something! Your father expects it.”

+

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

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

+his father dismissed the abbé and said to the young man, “Now go

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

+anything. Here is a letter to Prince Vasíli, and here is money. Write

+to me all about it, and I will help you in everything.” Pierre had

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

+on anything. It was about this choice that Prince Andrew was speaking.

+Pierre rubbed his forehead.

+

+“But he must be a Freemason,” said he, referring to the abbé whom

+he had met that evening.

+

+“That is all nonsense.” Prince Andrew again interrupted him, “let

+us talk business. Have you been to the Horse Guards?”

+

+“No, I have not; but this is what I have been thinking and wanted

+to tell you. There is a war now against Napoleon. If it were a war for

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

+but to help England and Austria against the greatest man in the world is

+not right.”

+

+Prince Andrew only shrugged his shoulders at Pierre’s childish words.

+He put on the air of one who finds it impossible to reply to such

+nonsense, but it would in fact have been difficult to give any other

+answer than the one Prince Andrew gave to this naïve question.

+

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

+wars,” he said.

+

+“And that would be splendid,” said Pierre.

+

+Prince Andrew smiled ironically.

+

+“Very likely it would be splendid, but it will never come about....”

+

+“Well, why are you going to the war?” asked Pierre.

+

+“What for? I don’t know. I must. Besides that I am going....” He

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

+me!”

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER VII

+

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

+Andrew shook himself as if waking up, and his face assumed the look it

+had had in Anna Pávlovna’s drawing room. Pierre removed his feet from

+the sofa. The princess came in. She had changed her gown for a house

+dress as fresh and elegant as the other. Prince Andrew rose and politely

+placed a chair for her.

+

+“How is it,” she began, as usual in French, settling down briskly

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

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

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

+are, Monsieur Pierre!”

+

+“And I am still arguing with your husband. I can’t understand why he

+wants to go to the war,” replied Pierre, addressing the princess

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

+intercourse with young women.

+

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

+quick.

+

+“Ah, that is just what I tell him!” said she. “I don’t

+understand it; I don’t in the least understand why men can’t live

+without wars. How is it that we women don’t want anything of the kind,

+don’t need it? Now you shall judge between us. I always tell him: Here

+he is Uncle’s aide-de-camp, a most brilliant position. He is so

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

+Apráksins’ I heard a lady asking, ‘Is that the famous Prince

+Andrew?’ I did indeed.” She laughed. “He is so well received

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

+the Emperor spoke to him most graciously. Annette and I were speaking of

+how to arrange it. What do you think?”

+

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

+conversation, gave no reply.

+

+“When are you starting?” he asked.

+

+“Oh, don’t speak of his going, don’t! I won’t hear it spoken

+of,” said the princess in the same petulantly playful tone in which

+she had spoken to Hippolyte in the drawing room and which was so plainly

+ill-suited to the family circle of which Pierre was almost a member.

+“Today when I remembered that all these delightful associations

+must be broken off ... and then you know, André...” (she looked

+significantly at her husband) “I’m afraid, I’m afraid!” she

+whispered, and a shudder ran down her back.

+

+Her husband looked at her as if surprised to notice that someone besides

+Pierre and himself was in the room, and addressed her in a tone of

+frigid politeness.

+

+“What is it you are afraid of, Lise? I don’t understand,” said he.

+

+“There, what egotists men all are: all, all egotists! Just for a whim

+of his own, goodness only knows why, he leaves me and locks me up alone

+in the country.”

+

+“With my father and sister, remember,” said Prince Andrew gently.

+

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

+be afraid.”

+

+Her tone was now querulous and her lip drawn up, giving her not a

+joyful, but an animal, squirrel-like expression. She paused as if she

+felt it indecorous to speak of her pregnancy before Pierre, though the

+gist of the matter lay in that.

+

+“I still can’t understand what you are afraid of,” said Prince

+Andrew slowly, not taking his eyes off his wife.

+

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

+

+“No, Andrew, I must say you have changed. Oh, how you have....”

+

+“Your doctor tells you to go to bed earlier,” said Prince Andrew.

+“You had better go.”

+

+The princess said nothing, but suddenly her short downy lip quivered.

+Prince Andrew rose, shrugged his shoulders, and walked about the room.

+

+Pierre looked over his spectacles with naïve surprise, now at him and

+now at her, moved as if about to rise too, but changed his mind.

+

+“Why should I mind Monsieur Pierre being here?” exclaimed the little

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

+grimace. “I have long wanted to ask you, Andrew, why you have changed

+so to me? What have I done to you? You are going to the war and have no

+pity for me. Why is it?”

+

+“Lise!” was all Prince Andrew said. But that one word expressed

+an entreaty, a threat, and above all conviction that she would herself

+regret her words. But she went on hurriedly:

+

+“You treat me like an invalid or a child. I see it all! Did you behave

+like that six months ago?”

+

+“Lise, I beg you to desist,” said Prince Andrew still more

+emphatically.

+

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

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

+sight of tears and was ready to cry himself.

+

+“Calm yourself, Princess! It seems so to you because.... I assure you

+I myself have experienced ... and so ... because ... No, excuse me!

+An outsider is out of place here.... No, don’t distress yourself....

+Good-by!”

+

+Prince Andrew caught him by the hand.

+

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

+the pleasure of spending the evening with you.”

+

+“No, he thinks only of himself,” muttered the princess without

+restraining her angry tears.

+

+“Lise!” said Prince Andrew dryly, raising his voice to the pitch

+which indicates that patience is exhausted.

+

+Suddenly the angry, squirrel-like expression of the princess’ pretty

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

+glanced askance at her husband’s face, and her own assumed the timid,

+deprecating expression of a dog when it rapidly but feebly wags its

+drooping tail.

+

+“Mon Dieu, mon Dieu!” she muttered, and lifting her dress with one

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

+

+“Good night, Lise,” said he, rising and courteously kissing her hand

+as he would have done to a stranger.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER VIII

+

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

+continually glanced at Prince Andrew; Prince Andrew rubbed his forehead

+with his small hand.

+

+“Let us go and have supper,” he said with a sigh, going to the door.

+

+They entered the elegant, newly decorated, and luxurious dining room.

+Everything from the table napkins to the silver, china, and glass bore

+that imprint of newness found in the households of the newly married.

+Halfway through supper Prince Andrew leaned his elbows on the table and,

+with a look of nervous agitation such as Pierre had never before seen on

+his face, began to talk—as one who has long had something on his mind

+and suddenly determines to speak out.

+

+“Never, never marry, my dear fellow! That’s my advice: never marry

+till you can say to yourself that you have done all you are capable of,

+and until you have ceased to love the woman of your choice and have seen

+her plainly as she is, or else you will make a cruel and irrevocable

+mistake. Marry when you are old and good for nothing—or all that is

+good and noble in you will be lost. It will all be wasted on trifles.

+Yes! Yes! Yes! Don’t look at me with such surprise. If you marry

+expecting anything from yourself in the future, you will feel at every

+step that for you all is ended, all is closed except the drawing

+room, where you will be ranged side by side with a court lackey and an

+idiot!... But what’s the good?...” and he waved his arm.

+

+Pierre took off his spectacles, which made his face seem different and

+the good-natured expression still more apparent, and gazed at his friend

+in amazement.

+

+“My wife,” continued Prince Andrew, “is an excellent woman, one

+of those rare women with whom a man’s honor is safe; but, O God, what

+would I not give now to be unmarried! You are the first and only one to

+whom I mention this, because I like you.”

+

+As he said this Prince Andrew was less than ever like that Bolkónski

+who had lolled in Anna Pávlovna’s easy chairs and with half-closed

+eyes had uttered French phrases between his teeth. Every muscle of his

+thin face was now quivering with nervous excitement; his eyes, in which

+the fire of life had seemed extinguished, now flashed with brilliant

+light. It was evident that the more lifeless he seemed at ordinary

+times, the more impassioned he became in these moments of almost morbid

+irritation.

+

+“You don’t understand why I say this,” he continued, “but it is

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

+he (though Pierre had not mentioned Bonaparte), “but Bonaparte when

+he worked went step by step toward his goal. He was free, he had nothing

+but his aim to consider, and he reached it. But tie yourself up with

+a woman and, like a chained convict, you lose all freedom! And all you

+have of hope and strength merely weighs you down and torments you with

+regret. Drawing rooms, gossip, balls, vanity, and triviality—these are

+the enchanted circle I cannot escape from. I am now going to the war,

+the greatest war there ever was, and I know nothing and am fit for

+nothing. I am very amiable and have a caustic wit,” continued Prince

+Andrew, “and at Anna Pávlovna’s they listen to me. And that stupid

+set without whom my wife cannot exist, and those women.... If you only

+knew what those society women are, and women in general! My father is

+right. Selfish, vain, stupid, trivial in everything—that’s what

+women are when you see them in their true colors! When you meet them

+in society it seems as if there were something in them, but there’s

+nothing, nothing, nothing! No, don’t marry, my dear fellow; don’t

+marry!” concluded Prince Andrew.

+

+“It seems funny to me,” said Pierre, “that you, you should

+consider yourself incapable and your life a spoiled life. You have

+everything before you, everything. And you....”

+

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

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

+

+“How can he talk like that?” thought Pierre. He considered his

+friend a model of perfection because Prince Andrew possessed in the

+highest degree just the very qualities Pierre lacked, and which might

+be best described as strength of will. Pierre was always astonished at

+Prince Andrew’s calm manner of treating everybody, his extraordinary

+memory, his extensive reading (he had read everything, knew everything,

+and had an opinion about everything), but above all at his capacity for

+work and study. And if Pierre was often struck by Andrew’s lack

+of capacity for philosophical meditation (to which he himself was

+particularly addicted), he regarded even this not as a defect but as a

+sign of strength.

+

+Even in the best, most friendly and simplest relations of life, praise

+and commendation are essential, just as grease is necessary to wheels

+that they may run smoothly.

+

+“My part is played out,” said Prince Andrew. “What’s the use of

+talking about me? Let us talk about you,” he added after a silence,

+smiling at his reassuring thoughts.

+

+That smile was immediately reflected on Pierre’s face.

+

+“But what is there to say about me?” said Pierre, his face relaxing

+into a careless, merry smile. “What am I? An illegitimate son!”

+He suddenly blushed crimson, and it was plain that he had made a great

+effort to say this. “Without a name and without means... And it

+really...” But he did not say what “it really” was. “For the

+present I am free and am all right. Only I haven’t the least idea what

+I am to do; I wanted to consult you seriously.”

+

+Prince Andrew looked kindly at him, yet his glance—friendly and

+affectionate as it was—expressed a sense of his own superiority.

+

+“I am fond of you, especially as you are the one live man among our

+whole set. Yes, you’re all right! Choose what you will; it’s all the

+same. You’ll be all right anywhere. But look here: give up visiting

+those Kurágins and leading that sort of life. It suits you so

+badly—all this debauchery, dissipation, and the rest of it!”

+

+“What would you have, my dear fellow?” answered Pierre, shrugging

+his shoulders. “Women, my dear fellow; women!”

+

+“I don’t understand it,” replied Prince Andrew. “Women who are

+comme il faut, that’s a different matter; but the Kurágins’ set of

+women, ‘women and wine’ I don’t understand!”

+

+Pierre was staying at Prince Vasíli Kurágin’s and sharing the

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

+reform by marrying him to Prince Andrew’s sister.

+

+“Do you know?” said Pierre, as if suddenly struck by a happy

+thought, “seriously, I have long been thinking of it.... Leading such

+a life I can’t decide or think properly about anything. One’s head

+aches, and one spends all one’s money. He asked me for tonight, but I

+won’t go.”

+

+“You give me your word of honor not to go?”

+

+“On my honor!”

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER IX

+

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

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

+to drive straight home. But the nearer he drew to the house the more he

+felt the impossibility of going to sleep on such a night. It was light

+enough to see a long way in the deserted street and it seemed more like

+morning or evening than night. On the way Pierre remembered that Anatole

+Kurágin was expecting the usual set for cards that evening, after which

+there was generally a drinking bout, finishing with visits of a kind

+Pierre was very fond of.

+

+“I should like to go to Kurágin’s,” thought he.

+

+But he immediately recalled his promise to Prince Andrew not to go

+there. Then, as happens to people of weak character, he desired so

+passionately once more to enjoy that dissipation he was so accustomed to

+that he decided to go. The thought immediately occurred to him that his

+promise to Prince Andrew was of no account, because before he gave it

+he had already promised Prince Anatole to come to his gathering;

+“besides,” thought he, “all such ‘words of honor’ are

+conventional things with no definite meaning, especially if

+one considers that by tomorrow one may be dead, or something so

+extraordinary may happen to one that honor and dishonor will be all the

+same!” Pierre often indulged in reflections of this sort, nullifying

+all his decisions and intentions. He went to Kurágin’s.

+

+Reaching the large house near the Horse Guards’ barracks, in which

+Anatole lived, Pierre entered the lighted porch, ascended the stairs,

+and went in at the open door. There was no one in the anteroom; empty

+bottles, cloaks, and overshoes were lying about; there was a smell of

+alcohol, and sounds of voices and shouting in the distance.

+

+Cards and supper were over, but the visitors had not yet dispersed.

+Pierre threw off his cloak and entered the first room, in which were the

+remains of supper. A footman, thinking no one saw him, was drinking on

+the sly what was left in the glasses. From the third room came sounds of

+laughter, the shouting of familiar voices, the growling of a bear, and

+general commotion. Some eight or nine young men were crowding anxiously

+round an open window. Three others were romping with a young bear, one

+pulling him by the chain and trying to set him at the others.

+

+“I bet a hundred on Stevens!” shouted one.

+

+“Mind, no holding on!” cried another.

+

+“I bet on Dólokhov!” cried a third. “Kurágin, you part our

+hands.”

+

+“There, leave Bruin alone; here’s a bet on.”

+

+“At one draught, or he loses!” shouted a fourth.

+

+“Jacob, bring a bottle!” shouted the host, a tall, handsome fellow

+who stood in the midst of the group, without a coat, and with his fine

+linen shirt unfastened in front. “Wait a bit, you fellows.... Here is

+Pétya! Good man!” cried he, addressing Pierre.

+

+Another voice, from a man of medium height with clear blue eyes,

+particularly striking among all these drunken voices by its sober

+ring, cried from the window: “Come here; part the bets!” This was

+Dólokhov, an officer of the Semënov regiment, a notorious gambler and

+duelist, who was living with Anatole. Pierre smiled, looking about him

+merrily.

+

+“I don’t understand. What’s it all about?”

+

+“Wait a bit, he is not drunk yet! A bottle here,” said Anatole, and

+taking a glass from the table he went up to Pierre.

+

+“First of all you must drink!”

+

+Pierre drank one glass after another, looking from under his brows at

+the tipsy guests who were again crowding round the window, and listening

+to their chatter. Anatole kept on refilling Pierre’s glass while

+explaining that Dólokhov was betting with Stevens, an English naval

+officer, that he would drink a bottle of rum sitting on the outer ledge

+of the third floor window with his legs hanging out.

+

+“Go on, you must drink it all,” said Anatole, giving Pierre the last

+glass, “or I won’t let you go!”

+

+“No, I won’t,” said Pierre, pushing Anatole aside, and he went up

+to the window.

+

+Dólokhov was holding the Englishman’s hand and clearly and distinctly

+repeating the terms of the bet, addressing himself particularly to

+Anatole and Pierre.

+

+Dólokhov was of medium height, with curly hair and light-blue eyes. He

+was about twenty-five. Like all infantry officers he wore no mustache,

+so that his mouth, the most striking feature of his face, was clearly

+seen. The lines of that mouth were remarkably finely curved. The middle

+of the upper lip formed a sharp wedge and closed firmly on the firm

+lower one, and something like two distinct smiles played continually

+round the two corners of the mouth; this, together with the resolute,

+insolent intelligence of his eyes, produced an effect which made it

+impossible not to notice his face. Dólokhov was a man of small means

+and no connections. Yet, though Anatole spent tens of thousands of

+rubles, Dólokhov lived with him and had placed himself on such a

+footing that all who knew them, including Anatole himself, respected him

+more than they did Anatole. Dólokhov could play all games and nearly

+always won. However much he drank, he never lost his clearheadedness.

+Both Kurágin and Dólokhov were at that time notorious among the rakes

+and scapegraces of Petersburg.

+

+The bottle of rum was brought. The window frame which prevented anyone

+from sitting on the outer sill was being forced out by two footmen, who

+were evidently flurried and intimidated by the directions and shouts of

+the gentlemen around.

+

+Anatole with his swaggering air strode up to the window. He wanted to

+smash something. Pushing away the footmen he tugged at the frame, but

+could not move it. He smashed a pane.

+

+“You have a try, Hercules,” said he, turning to Pierre.

+

+Pierre seized the crossbeam, tugged, and wrenched the oak frame out with

+a crash.

+

+“Take it right out, or they’ll think I’m holding on,” said

+Dólokhov.

+

+“Is the Englishman bragging?... Eh? Is it all right?” said Anatole.

+

+“First-rate,” said Pierre, looking at Dólokhov, who with a bottle

+of rum in his hand was approaching the window, from which the light of

+the sky, the dawn merging with the afterglow of sunset, was visible.

+

+Dólokhov, the bottle of rum still in his hand, jumped onto the window

+sill. “Listen!” cried he, standing there and addressing those in the

+room. All were silent.

+

+“I bet fifty imperials”—he spoke French that the Englishman might

+understand him, but he did not speak it very well—“I bet fifty

+imperials ... or do you wish to make it a hundred?” added he,

+addressing the Englishman.

+

+“No, fifty,” replied the latter.

+

+“All right. Fifty imperials ... that I will drink a whole bottle of

+rum without taking it from my mouth, sitting outside the window on this

+spot” (he stooped and pointed to the sloping ledge outside the window)

+“and without holding on to anything. Is that right?”

+

+“Quite right,” said the Englishman.

+

+Anatole turned to the Englishman and taking him by one of the buttons

+of his coat and looking down at him—the Englishman was short—began

+repeating the terms of the wager to him in English.

+

+“Wait!” cried Dólokhov, hammering with the bottle on the window

+sill to attract attention. “Wait a bit, Kurágin. Listen! If

+anyone else does the same, I will pay him a hundred imperials. Do you

+understand?”

+

+The Englishman nodded, but gave no indication whether he intended to

+accept this challenge or not. Anatole did not release him, and though

+he kept nodding to show that he understood, Anatole went on translating

+Dólokhov’s words into English. A thin young lad, an hussar of the

+Life Guards, who had been losing that evening, climbed on the window

+sill, leaned over, and looked down.

+

+“Oh! Oh! Oh!” he muttered, looking down from the window at the

+stones of the pavement.

+

+“Shut up!” cried Dólokhov, pushing him away from the window. The

+lad jumped awkwardly back into the room, tripping over his spurs.

+

+Placing the bottle on the window sill where he could reach it easily,

+Dólokhov climbed carefully and slowly through the window and lowered

+his legs. Pressing against both sides of the window, he adjusted himself

+on his seat, lowered his hands, moved a little to the right and then to

+the left, and took up the bottle. Anatole brought two candles and

+placed them on the window sill, though it was already quite light.

+Dólokhov’s back in his white shirt, and his curly head, were lit

+up from both sides. Everyone crowded to the window, the Englishman in

+front. Pierre stood smiling but silent. One man, older than the others

+present, suddenly pushed forward with a scared and angry look and wanted

+to seize hold of Dólokhov’s shirt.

+

+“I say, this is folly! He’ll be killed,” said this more sensible

+man.

+

+Anatole stopped him.

+

+“Don’t touch him! You’ll startle him and then he’ll be killed.

+Eh?... What then?... Eh?”

+

+Dólokhov turned round and, again holding on with both hands, arranged

+himself on his seat.

+

+“If anyone comes meddling again,” said he, emitting the words

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

+there. Now then!”

+

+Saying this he again turned round, dropped his hands, took the bottle

+and lifted it to his lips, threw back his head, and raised his free hand

+to balance himself. One of the footmen who had stooped to pick up some

+broken glass remained in that position without taking his eyes from the

+window and from Dólokhov’s back. Anatole stood erect with staring

+eyes. The Englishman looked on sideways, pursing up his lips. The man

+who had wished to stop the affair ran to a corner of the room and threw

+himself on a sofa with his face to the wall. Pierre hid his face, from

+which a faint smile forgot to fade though his features now expressed

+horror and fear. All were still. Pierre took his hands from his eyes.

+Dólokhov still sat in the same position, only his head was thrown

+further back till his curly hair touched his shirt collar, and the hand

+holding the bottle was lifted higher and higher and trembled with the

+effort. The bottle was emptying perceptibly and rising still higher

+and his head tilting yet further back. “Why is it so long?” thought

+Pierre. It seemed to him that more than half an hour had elapsed.

+Suddenly Dólokhov made a backward movement with his spine, and his arm

+trembled nervously; this was sufficient to cause his whole body to slip

+as he sat on the sloping ledge. As he began slipping down, his head and

+arm wavered still more with the strain. One hand moved as if to clutch

+the window sill, but refrained from touching it. Pierre again covered

+his eyes and thought he would never open them again. Suddenly he was

+aware of a stir all around. He looked up: Dólokhov was standing on the

+window sill, with a pale but radiant face.

+

+“It’s empty.”

+

+He threw the bottle to the Englishman, who caught it neatly. Dólokhov

+jumped down. He smelt strongly of rum.

+

+“Well done!... Fine fellow!... There’s a bet for you!... Devil take

+you!” came from different sides.

+

+The Englishman took out his purse and began counting out the money.

+Dólokhov stood frowning and did not speak. Pierre jumped upon the

+window sill.

+

+“Gentlemen, who wishes to bet with me? I’ll do the same thing!”

+he suddenly cried. “Even without a bet, there! Tell them to bring me a

+bottle. I’ll do it.... Bring a bottle!”

+

+“Let him do it, let him do it,” said Dólokhov, smiling.

+

+“What next? Have you gone mad?... No one would let you!... Why, you go

+giddy even on a staircase,” exclaimed several voices.

+

+“I’ll drink it! Let’s have a bottle of rum!” shouted Pierre,

+banging the table with a determined and drunken gesture and preparing to

+climb out of the window.

+

+They seized him by his arms; but he was so strong that everyone who

+touched him was sent flying.

+

+“No, you’ll never manage him that way,” said Anatole. “Wait a

+bit and I’ll get round him.... Listen! I’ll take your bet tomorrow,

+but now we are all going to ——’s.”

+

+“Come on then,” cried Pierre. “Come on!... And we’ll take Bruin

+with us.”

+

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

+and began dancing round the room with it.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER X

+

+Prince Vasíli kept the promise he had given to Princess Drubetskáya

+who had spoken to him on behalf of her only son Borís on the evening of

+Anna Pávlovna’s soiree. The matter was mentioned to the Emperor, an

+exception made, and Borís transferred into the regiment of Semënov

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

+to Kutúzov’s staff despite all Anna Mikháylovna’s endeavors and

+entreaties. Soon after Anna Pávlovna’s reception Anna Mikháylovna

+returned to Moscow and went straight to her rich relations, the

+Rostóvs, with whom she stayed when in the town and where her darling

+Bóry, who had only just entered a regiment of the line and was being

+at once transferred to the Guards as a cornet, had been educated from

+childhood and lived for years at a time. The Guards had already left

+Petersburg on the tenth of August, and her son, who had remained in

+Moscow for his equipment, was to join them on the march to Radzivílov.

+

+It was St. Natalia’s day and the name day of two of the Rostóvs—the

+mother and the youngest daughter—both named Nataly. Ever since

+the morning, carriages with six horses had been coming and going

+continually, bringing visitors to the Countess Rostóva’s big house on

+the Povarskáya, so well known to all Moscow. The countess herself and

+her handsome eldest daughter were in the drawing room with the visitors

+who came to congratulate, and who constantly succeeded one another in

+relays.

+

+The countess was a woman of about forty-five, with a thin Oriental type

+of face, evidently worn out with childbearing—she had had twelve.

+A languor of motion and speech, resulting from weakness, gave her a

+distinguished air which inspired respect. Princess Anna Mikháylovna

+Drubetskáya, who as a member of the household was also seated in the

+drawing room, helped to receive and entertain the visitors. The young

+people were in one of the inner rooms, not considering it necessary to

+take part in receiving the visitors. The count met the guests and saw

+them off, inviting them all to dinner.

+

+“I am very, very grateful to you, mon cher,” or “ma chère”—he

+called everyone without exception and without the slightest variation

+in his tone, “my dear,” whether they were above or below him in

+rank—“I thank you for myself and for our two dear ones whose name

+day we are keeping. But mind you come to dinner or I shall be offended,

+ma chère! On behalf of the whole family I beg you to come, mon cher!”

+These words he repeated to everyone without exception or variation, and

+with the same expression on his full, cheerful, clean-shaven face, the

+same firm pressure of the hand and the same quick, repeated bows. As

+soon as he had seen a visitor off he returned to one of those who were

+still in the drawing room, drew a chair toward him or her, and jauntily

+spreading out his legs and putting his hands on his knees with the air

+of a man who enjoys life and knows how to live, he swayed to and

+fro with dignity, offered surmises about the weather, or touched on

+questions of health, sometimes in Russian and sometimes in very bad but

+self-confident French; then again, like a man weary but unflinching in

+the fulfillment of duty, he rose to see some visitors off and, stroking

+his scanty gray hairs over his bald patch, also asked them to dinner.

+Sometimes on his way back from the anteroom he would pass through the

+conservatory and pantry into the large marble dining hall, where tables

+were being set out for eighty people; and looking at the footmen, who

+were bringing in silver and china, moving tables, and unfolding damask

+table linen, he would call Dmítri Vasílevich, a man of good family and

+the manager of all his affairs, and while looking with pleasure at the

+enormous table would say: “Well, Dmítri, you’ll see that things are

+all as they should be? That’s right! The great thing is the serving,

+that’s it.” And with a complacent sigh he would return to the

+drawing room.

+

+“Márya Lvóvna Karágina and her daughter!” announced the

+countess’ gigantic footman in his bass voice, entering the drawing

+room. The countess reflected a moment and took a pinch from a gold

+snuffbox with her husband’s portrait on it.

+

+“I’m quite worn out by these callers. However, I’ll see her and

+no more. She is so affected. Ask her in,” she said to the footman in a

+sad voice, as if saying: “Very well, finish me off.”

+

+A tall, stout, and proud-looking woman, with a round-faced smiling

+daughter, entered the drawing room, their dresses rustling.

+

+“Dear Countess, what an age... She has been laid up, poor child ...

+at the Razumóvski’s ball ... and Countess Apráksina ... I was

+so delighted...” came the sounds of animated feminine voices,

+interrupting one another and mingling with the rustling of dresses and

+the scraping of chairs. Then one of those conversations began which last

+out until, at the first pause, the guests rise with a rustle of dresses

+and say, “I am so delighted... Mamma’s health... and Countess

+Apráksina...” and then, again rustling, pass into the anteroom, put

+on cloaks or mantles, and drive away. The conversation was on the chief

+topic of the day: the illness of the wealthy and celebrated beau of

+Catherine’s day, Count Bezúkhov, and about his illegitimate son

+Pierre, the one who had behaved so improperly at Anna Pávlovna’s

+reception.

+

+“I am so sorry for the poor count,” said the visitor. “He is in

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

+him!”

+

+“What is that?” asked the countess as if she did not know what the

+visitor alluded to, though she had already heard about the cause of

+Count Bezúkhov’s distress some fifteen times.

+

+“That’s what comes of a modern education,” exclaimed the visitor.

+“It seems that while he was abroad this young man was allowed to do

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

+things that he has been expelled by the police.”

+

+“You don’t say so!” replied the countess.

+

+“He chose his friends badly,” interposed Anna Mikháylovna.

+“Prince Vasíli’s son, he, and a certain Dólokhov have, it is said,

+been up to heaven only knows what! And they have had to suffer for it.

+Dólokhov has been degraded to the ranks and Bezúkhov’s son sent

+back to Moscow. Anatole Kurágin’s father managed somehow to get his

+son’s affair hushed up, but even he was ordered out of Petersburg.”

+

+“But what have they been up to?” asked the countess.

+

+“They are regular brigands, especially Dólokhov,” replied the

+visitor. “He is a son of Márya Ivánovna Dólokhova, such a worthy

+woman, but there, just fancy! Those three got hold of a bear somewhere,

+put it in a carriage, and set off with it to visit some actresses! The

+police tried to interfere, and what did the young men do? They tied

+a policeman and the bear back to back and put the bear into the Moyka

+Canal. And there was the bear swimming about with the policeman on his

+back!”

+

+“What a nice figure the policeman must have cut, my dear!” shouted

+the count, dying with laughter.

+

+“Oh, how dreadful! How can you laugh at it, Count?”

+

+Yet the ladies themselves could not help laughing.

+

+“It was all they could do to rescue the poor man,” continued the

+visitor. “And to think it is Cyril Vladímirovich Bezúkhov’s son

+who amuses himself in this sensible manner! And he was said to be so

+well educated and clever. This is all that his foreign education has

+done for him! I hope that here in Moscow no one will receive him, in

+spite of his money. They wanted to introduce him to me, but I quite

+declined: I have my daughters to consider.”

+

+“Why do you say this young man is so rich?” asked the countess,

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

+“His children are all illegitimate. I think Pierre also is

+illegitimate.”

+

+The visitor made a gesture with her hand.

+

+“I should think he has a score of them.”

+

+Princess Anna Mikháylovna intervened in the conversation, evidently

+wishing to show her connections and knowledge of what went on in

+society.

+

+“The fact of the matter is,” said she significantly, and also in a

+half whisper, “everyone knows Count Cyril’s reputation.... He has

+lost count of his children, but this Pierre was his favorite.”

+

+“How handsome the old man still was only a year ago!” remarked the

+countess. “I have never seen a handsomer man.”

+

+“He is very much altered now,” said Anna Mikháylovna. “Well, as

+I was saying, Prince Vasíli is the next heir through his wife, but the

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

+the Emperor about him; so that in the case of his death—and he is

+so ill that he may die at any moment, and Dr. Lorrain has come from

+Petersburg—no one knows who will inherit his immense fortune, Pierre

+or Prince Vasíli. Forty thousand serfs and millions of rubles! I know

+it all very well for Prince Vasíli told me himself. Besides, Cyril

+Vladímirovich is my mother’s second cousin. He’s also my Bóry’s

+godfather,” she added, as if she attached no importance at all to the

+fact.

+

+“Prince Vasíli arrived in Moscow yesterday. I hear he has come on

+some inspection business,” remarked the visitor.

+

+“Yes, but between ourselves,” said the princess, “that is a

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

+hearing how ill he is.”

+

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

+and seeing that the elder visitor was not listening, he turned to the

+young ladies. “I can just imagine what a funny figure that policeman

+cut!”

+

+And as he waved his arms to impersonate the policeman, his portly form

+again shook with a deep ringing laugh, the laugh of one who always eats

+well and, in particular, drinks well. “So do come and dine with us!”

+he said.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XI

+

+Silence ensued. The countess looked at her callers, smiling affably,

+but not concealing the fact that she would not be distressed if they

+now rose and took their leave. The visitor’s daughter was already

+smoothing down her dress with an inquiring look at her mother, when

+suddenly from the next room were heard the footsteps of boys and girls

+running to the door and the noise of a chair falling over, and a girl

+of thirteen, hiding something in the folds of her short muslin frock,

+darted in and stopped short in the middle of the room. It was evident

+that she had not intended her flight to bring her so far. Behind her in

+the doorway appeared a student with a crimson coat collar, an officer

+of the Guards, a girl of fifteen, and a plump rosy-faced boy in a short

+jacket.

+

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

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

+

+“Ah, here she is!” he exclaimed laughing. “My pet, whose name day

+it is. My dear pet!”

+

+“Ma chère, there is a time for everything,” said the countess with

+feigned severity. “You spoil her, Ilyá,” she added, turning to her

+husband.

+

+“How do you do, my dear? I wish you many happy returns of your name

+day,” said the visitor. “What a charming child,” she added,

+addressing the mother.

+

+This black-eyed, wide-mouthed girl, not pretty but full of life—with

+childish bare shoulders which after her run heaved and shook her

+bodice, with black curls tossed backward, thin bare arms, little legs

+in lace-frilled drawers, and feet in low slippers—was just at that

+charming age when a girl is no longer a child, though the child is not

+yet a young woman. Escaping from her father she ran to hide her flushed

+face in the lace of her mother’s mantilla—not paying the least

+attention to her severe remark—and began to laugh. She laughed, and in

+fragmentary sentences tried to explain about a doll which she produced

+from the folds of her frock.

+

+“Do you see?... My doll... Mimi... You see...” was all Natásha

+managed to utter (to her everything seemed funny). She leaned against

+her mother and burst into such a loud, ringing fit of laughter that even

+the prim visitor could not help joining in.

+

+“Now then, go away and take your monstrosity with you,” said the

+mother, pushing away her daughter with pretended sternness, and turning

+to the visitor she added: “She is my youngest girl.”

+

+Natásha, raising her face for a moment from her mother’s mantilla,

+glanced up at her through tears of laughter, and again hid her face.

+

+The visitor, compelled to look on at this family scene, thought it

+necessary to take some part in it.

+

+“Tell me, my dear,” said she to Natásha, “is Mimi a relation of

+yours? A daughter, I suppose?”

+

+Natásha did not like the visitor’s tone of condescension to childish

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

+

+Meanwhile the younger generation: Borís, the officer, Anna

+Mikháylovna’s son; Nicholas, the undergraduate, the count’s eldest

+son; Sónya, the count’s fifteen-year-old niece, and little Pétya,

+his youngest boy, had all settled down in the drawing room and were

+obviously trying to restrain within the bounds of decorum the excitement

+and mirth that shone in all their faces. Evidently in the back rooms,

+from which they had dashed out so impetuously, the conversation had

+been more amusing than the drawing room talk of society scandals, the

+weather, and Countess Apráksina. Now and then they glanced at one

+another, hardly able to suppress their laughter.

+

+The two young men, the student and the officer, friends from childhood,

+were of the same age and both handsome fellows, though not alike. Borís

+was tall and fair, and his calm and handsome face had regular, delicate

+features. Nicholas was short with curly hair and an open expression.

+Dark hairs were already showing on his upper lip, and his whole face

+expressed impetuosity and enthusiasm. Nicholas blushed when he entered

+the drawing room. He evidently tried to find something to say, but

+failed. Borís on the contrary at once found his footing, and related

+quietly and humorously how he had known that doll Mimi when she was

+still quite a young lady, before her nose was broken; how she had aged

+during the five years he had known her, and how her head had cracked

+right across the skull. Having said this he glanced at Natásha.

+She turned away from him and glanced at her younger brother, who was

+screwing up his eyes and shaking with suppressed laughter, and unable

+to control herself any longer, she jumped up and rushed from the room as

+fast as her nimble little feet would carry her. Borís did not laugh.

+

+“You were meaning to go out, weren’t you, Mamma? Do you want the

+carriage?” he asked his mother with a smile.

+

+“Yes, yes, go and tell them to get it ready,” she answered,

+returning his smile.

+

+Borís quietly left the room and went in search of Natásha. The plump

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

+disturbed.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XII

+

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

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

+years older than her sister and behaved already like a grown-up person),

+were Nicholas and Sónya, the niece. Sónya was a slender little

+brunette with a tender look in her eyes which were veiled by long

+lashes, thick black plaits coiling twice round her head, and a tawny

+tint in her complexion and especially in the color of her slender but

+graceful and muscular arms and neck. By the grace of her movements,

+by the softness and flexibility of her small limbs, and by a certain

+coyness and reserve of manner, she reminded one of a pretty, half-grown

+kitten which promises to become a beautiful little cat. She evidently

+considered it proper to show an interest in the general conversation by

+smiling, but in spite of herself her eyes under their thick long lashes

+watched her cousin who was going to join the army, with such passionate

+girlish adoration that her smile could not for a single instant impose

+upon anyone, and it was clear that the kitten had settled down only to

+spring up with more energy and again play with her cousin as soon as

+they too could, like Natásha and Borís, escape from the drawing room.

+

+“Ah yes, my dear,” said the count, addressing the visitor and

+pointing to Nicholas, “his friend Borís has become an officer, and

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

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

+place and everything waiting for him in the Archives Department! Isn’t

+that friendship?” remarked the count in an inquiring tone.

+

+“But they say that war has been declared,” replied the visitor.

+

+“They’ve been saying so a long while,” said the count, “and

+they’ll say so again and again, and that will be the end of it. My

+dear, there’s friendship for you,” he repeated. “He’s joining

+the hussars.”

+

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

+

+“It’s not at all from friendship,” declared Nicholas, flaring

+up and turning away as if from a shameful aspersion. “It is not from

+friendship at all; I simply feel that the army is my vocation.”

+

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

+regarding him with a smile of approbation.

+

+“Schubert, the colonel of the Pávlograd Hussars, is dining with us

+today. He has been here on leave and is taking Nicholas back with him.

+It can’t be helped!” said the count, shrugging his shoulders and

+speaking playfully of a matter that evidently distressed him.

+

+“I have already told you, Papa,” said his son, “that if you

+don’t wish to let me go, I’ll stay. But I know I am no use anywhere

+except in the army; I am not a diplomat or a government clerk.—I

+don’t know how to hide what I feel.” As he spoke he kept glancing

+with the flirtatiousness of a handsome youth at Sónya and the young

+lady visitor.

+

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

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

+

+“All right, all right!” said the old count. “He always flares up!

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

+rose from an ensign and became Emperor. Well, well, God grant it,” he

+added, not noticing his visitor’s sarcastic smile.

+

+The elders began talking about Bonaparte. Julie Karágina turned to

+young Rostóv.

+

+“What a pity you weren’t at the Arkhárovs’ on Thursday. It was so

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

+

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

+smile, and engaged the smiling Julie in a confidential conversation

+without at all noticing that his involuntary smile had stabbed the heart

+of Sónya, who blushed and smiled unnaturally. In the midst of his talk

+he glanced round at her. She gave him a passionately angry glance, and

+hardly able to restrain her tears and maintain the artificial smile

+on her lips, she got up and left the room. All Nicholas’ animation

+vanished. He waited for the first pause in the conversation, and then

+with a distressed face left the room to find Sónya.

+

+“How plainly all these young people wear their hearts on their

+sleeves!” said Anna Mikháylovna, pointing to Nicholas as he went out.

+“Cousinage—dangereux voisinage,” * she added.

+

+     * Cousinhood is a dangerous neighborhood.

+

+“Yes,” said the countess when the brightness these young people had

+brought into the room had vanished; and as if answering a question no

+one had put but which was always in her mind, “and how much suffering,

+how much anxiety one has had to go through that we might rejoice in

+them now! And yet really the anxiety is greater now than the joy. One is

+always, always anxious! Especially just at this age, so dangerous both

+for girls and boys.”

+

+“It all depends on the bringing up,” remarked the visitor.

+

+“Yes, you’re quite right,” continued the countess. “Till now I

+have always, thank God, been my children’s friend and had their full

+confidence,” said she, repeating the mistake of so many parents who

+imagine that their children have no secrets from them. “I know I shall

+always be my daughters’ first confidante, and that if Nicholas, with

+his impulsive nature, does get into mischief (a boy can’t help it), he

+will all the same never be like those Petersburg young men.”

+

+“Yes, they are splendid, splendid youngsters,” chimed in the count,

+who always solved questions that seemed to him perplexing by deciding

+that everything was splendid. “Just fancy: wants to be an hussar.

+What’s one to do, my dear?”

+

+“What a charming creature your younger girl is,” said the visitor;

+“a little volcano!”

+

+“Yes, a regular volcano,” said the count. “Takes after me! And

+what a voice she has; though she’s my daughter, I tell the truth

+when I say she’ll be a singer, a second Salomoni! We have engaged an

+Italian to give her lessons.”

+

+“Isn’t she too young? I have heard that it harms the voice to train

+it at that age.”

+

+“Oh no, not at all too young!” replied the count. “Why, our

+mothers used to be married at twelve or thirteen.”

+

+“And she’s in love with Borís already. Just fancy!” said the

+countess with a gentle smile, looking at Borís and went on, evidently

+concerned with a thought that always occupied her: “Now you see if I

+were to be severe with her and to forbid it ... goodness knows what they

+might be up to on the sly” (she meant that they would be kissing),

+“but as it is, I know every word she utters. She will come running to

+me of her own accord in the evening and tell me everything. Perhaps I

+spoil her, but really that seems the best plan. With her elder sister I

+was stricter.”

+

+“Yes, I was brought up quite differently,” remarked the handsome

+elder daughter, Countess Véra, with a smile.

+

+But the smile did not enhance Véra’s beauty as smiles generally do;

+on the contrary it gave her an unnatural, and therefore unpleasant,

+expression. Véra was good-looking, not at all stupid, quick at

+learning, was well brought up, and had a pleasant voice; what she said

+was true and appropriate, yet, strange to say, everyone—the visitors

+and countess alike—turned to look at her as if wondering why she had

+said it, and they all felt awkward.

+

+“People are always too clever with their eldest children and try to

+make something exceptional of them,” said the visitor.

+

+“What’s the good of denying it, my dear? Our dear countess was too

+clever with Véra,” said the count. “Well, what of that? She’s

+turned out splendidly all the same,” he added, winking at Véra.

+

+The guests got up and took their leave, promising to return to dinner.

+

+“What manners! I thought they would never go,” said the countess,

+when she had seen her guests out.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XIII

+

+When Natásha ran out of the drawing room she only went as far as the

+conservatory. There she paused and stood listening to the conversation

+in the drawing room, waiting for Borís to come out. She was already

+growing impatient, and stamped her foot, ready to cry at his not coming

+at once, when she heard the young man’s discreet steps approaching

+neither quickly nor slowly. At this Natásha dashed swiftly among the

+flower tubs and hid there.

+

+Borís paused in the middle of the room, looked round, brushed a little

+dust from the sleeve of his uniform, and going up to a mirror examined

+his handsome face. Natásha, very still, peered out from her ambush,

+waiting to see what he would do. He stood a little while before the

+glass, smiled, and walked toward the other door. Natásha was about to

+call him but changed her mind. “Let him look for me,” thought she.

+Hardly had Borís gone than Sónya, flushed, in tears, and muttering

+angrily, came in at the other door. Natásha checked her first impulse

+to run out to her, and remained in her hiding place, watching—as

+under an invisible cap—to see what went on in the world. She was

+experiencing a new and peculiar pleasure. Sónya, muttering to herself,

+kept looking round toward the drawing room door. It opened and Nicholas

+came in.

+

+“Sónya, what is the matter with you? How can you?” said he, running

+up to her.

+

+“It’s nothing, nothing; leave me alone!” sobbed Sónya.

+

+“Ah, I know what it is.”

+

+“Well, if you do, so much the better, and you can go back to her!”

+

+“Só-o-onya! Look here! How can you torture me and yourself like that,

+for a mere fancy?” said Nicholas taking her hand.

+

+Sónya did not pull it away, and left off crying. Natásha, not stirring

+and scarcely breathing, watched from her ambush with sparkling eyes.

+“What will happen now?” thought she.

+

+“Sónya! What is anyone in the world to me? You alone are

+everything!” said Nicholas. “And I will prove it to you.”

+

+“I don’t like you to talk like that.”

+

+“Well, then, I won’t; only forgive me, Sónya!” He drew her to him

+and kissed her.

+

+“Oh, how nice,” thought Natásha; and when Sónya and Nicholas had

+gone out of the conservatory she followed and called Borís to her.

+

+“Borís, come here,” said she with a sly and significant look. “I

+have something to tell you. Here, here!” and she led him into the

+conservatory to the place among the tubs where she had been hiding.

+

+Borís followed her, smiling.

+

+“What is the something?” asked he.

+

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

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

+

+“Kiss the doll,” said she.

+

+Borís looked attentively and kindly at her eager face, but did not

+reply.

+

+“Don’t you want to? Well, then, come here,” said she, and

+went further in among the plants and threw down the doll. “Closer,

+closer!” she whispered.

+

+She caught the young officer by his cuffs, and a look of solemnity and

+fear appeared on her flushed face.

+

+“And me? Would you like to kiss me?” she whispered almost inaudibly,

+glancing up at him from under her brows, smiling, and almost crying from

+excitement.

+

+Borís blushed.

+

+“How funny you are!” he said, bending down to her and blushing still

+more, but he waited and did nothing.

+

+Suddenly she jumped up onto a tub to be higher than he, embraced him so

+that both her slender bare arms clasped him above his neck, and, tossing

+back her hair, kissed him full on the lips.

+

+Then she slipped down among the flowerpots on the other side of the tubs

+and stood, hanging her head.

+

+“Natásha,” he said, “you know that I love you, but....”

+

+“You are in love with me?” Natásha broke in.

+

+“Yes, I am, but please don’t let us do like that.... In another four

+years ... then I will ask for your hand.”

+

+Natásha considered.

+

+“Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen,” she counted on her slender

+little fingers. “All right! Then it’s settled?”

+

+A smile of joy and satisfaction lit up her eager face.

+

+“Settled!” replied Borís.

+

+“Forever?” said the little girl. “Till death itself?”

+

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

+sitting room.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XIV

+

+After receiving her visitors, the countess was so tired that she gave

+orders to admit no more, but the porter was told to be sure to invite to

+dinner all who came “to congratulate.” The countess wished to have

+a tête-à-tête talk with the friend of her childhood, Princess Anna

+Mikháylovna, whom she had not seen properly since she returned from

+Petersburg. Anna Mikháylovna, with her tear-worn but pleasant face,

+drew her chair nearer to that of the countess.

+

+“With you I will be quite frank,” said Anna Mikháylovna. “There

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

+friendship.”

+

+Anna Mikháylovna looked at Véra and paused. The countess pressed her

+friend’s hand.

+

+“Véra,” she said to her eldest daughter who was evidently not a

+favorite, “how is it you have so little tact? Don’t you see you are

+not wanted here? Go to the other girls, or...”

+

+The handsome Véra smiled contemptuously but did not seem at all hurt.

+

+“If you had told me sooner, Mamma, I would have gone,” she replied

+as she rose to go to her own room.

+

+But as she passed the sitting room she noticed two couples sitting,

+one pair at each window. She stopped and smiled scornfully. Sónya was

+sitting close to Nicholas who was copying out some verses for her, the

+first he had ever written. Borís and Natásha were at the other window

+and ceased talking when Véra entered. Sónya and Natásha looked at

+Véra with guilty, happy faces.

+

+It was pleasant and touching to see these little girls in love; but

+apparently the sight of them roused no pleasant feeling in Véra.

+

+“How often have I asked you not to take my things?” she said. “You

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

+

+“In a minute, in a minute,” he said, dipping his pen.

+

+“You always manage to do things at the wrong time,” continued Véra.

+“You came rushing into the drawing room so that everyone felt ashamed

+of you.”

+

+Though what she said was quite just, perhaps for that very reason no one

+replied, and the four simply looked at one another. She lingered in the

+room with the inkstand in her hand.

+

+“And at your age what secrets can there be between Natásha and

+Borís, or between you two? It’s all nonsense!”

+

+“Now, Véra, what does it matter to you?” said Natásha in defense,

+speaking very gently.

+

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

+everyone.

+

+“Very silly,” said Véra. “I am ashamed of you. Secrets indeed!”

+

+“All have secrets of their own,” answered Natásha, getting warmer.

+“We don’t interfere with you and Berg.”

+

+“I should think not,” said Véra, “because there can never be

+anything wrong in my behavior. But I’ll just tell Mamma how you are

+behaving with Borís.”

+

+“Natálya Ilyníchna behaves very well to me,” remarked Borís. “I

+have nothing to complain of.”

+

+“Don’t, Borís! You are such a diplomat that it is really

+tiresome,” said Natásha in a mortified voice that trembled slightly.

+(She used the word “diplomat,” which was just then much in vogue

+among the children, in the special sense they attached to it.) “Why

+does she bother me?” And she added, turning to Véra, “You’ll

+never understand it, because you’ve never loved anyone. You have no

+heart! You are a Madame de Genlis and nothing more” (this nickname,

+bestowed on Véra by Nicholas, was considered very stinging), “and

+your greatest pleasure is to be unpleasant to people! Go and flirt with

+Berg as much as you please,” she finished quickly.

+

+“I shall at any rate not run after a young man before visitors...”

+

+“Well, now you’ve done what you wanted,” put in Nicholas—“said

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

+nursery.”

+

+All four, like a flock of scared birds, got up and left the room.

+

+“The unpleasant things were said to me,” remarked Véra, “I said

+none to anyone.”

+

+“Madame de Genlis! Madame de Genlis!” shouted laughing voices

+through the door.

+

+The handsome Véra, who produced such an irritating and unpleasant

+effect on everyone, smiled and, evidently unmoved by what had been

+said to her, went to the looking glass and arranged her hair and scarf.

+Looking at her own handsome face she seemed to become still colder and

+calmer.

+

+

+In the drawing room the conversation was still going on.

+

+“Ah, my dear,” said the countess, “my life is not all roses

+either. Don’t I know that at the rate we are living our means won’t

+last long? It’s all the Club and his easygoing nature. Even in the

+country do we get any rest? Theatricals, hunting, and heaven knows what

+besides! But don’t let’s talk about me; tell me how you managed

+everything. I often wonder at you, Annette—how at your age you

+can rush off alone in a carriage to Moscow, to Petersburg, to those

+ministers and great people, and know how to deal with them all! It’s

+quite astonishing. How did you get things settled? I couldn’t possibly

+do it.”

+

+“Ah, my love,” answered Anna Mikháylovna, “God grant you never

+know what it is to be left a widow without means and with a son you love

+to distraction! One learns many things then,” she added with a certain

+pride. “That lawsuit taught me much. When I want to see one of those

+big people I write a note: ‘Princess So-and-So desires an interview

+with So and-So,’ and then I take a cab and go myself two, three, or

+four times—till I get what I want. I don’t mind what they think of

+me.”

+

+“Well, and to whom did you apply about Bóry?” asked the countess.

+“You see yours is already an officer in the Guards, while my Nicholas

+is going as a cadet. There’s no one to interest himself for him. To

+whom did you apply?”

+

+“To Prince Vasíli. He was so kind. He at once agreed to everything,

+and put the matter before the Emperor,” said Princess Anna

+Mikháylovna enthusiastically, quite forgetting all the humiliation she

+had endured to gain her end.

+

+“Has Prince Vasíli aged much?” asked the countess. “I have not

+seen him since we acted together at the Rumyántsovs’ theatricals. I

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

+the countess, with a smile.

+

+“He is just the same as ever,” replied Anna Mikháylovna,

+“overflowing with amiability. His position has not turned his head

+at all. He said to me, ‘I am sorry I can do so little for you, dear

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

+kind relation. But, Nataly, you know my love for my son: I would do

+anything for his happiness! And my affairs are in such a bad way that my

+position is now a terrible one,” continued Anna Mikháylovna, sadly,

+dropping her voice. “My wretched lawsuit takes all I have and makes no

+progress. Would you believe it, I have literally not a penny and don’t

+know how to equip Borís.” She took out her handkerchief and began to

+cry. “I need five hundred rubles, and have only one twenty-five-ruble

+note. I am in such a state.... My only hope now is in Count Cyril

+Vladímirovich Bezúkhov. If he will not assist his godson—you know

+he is Bóry’s godfather—and allow him something for his maintenance,

+all my trouble will have been thrown away.... I shall not be able to

+equip him.”

+

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

+

+“I often think, though, perhaps it’s a sin,” said the princess,

+“that here lives Count Cyril Vladímirovich Bezúkhov so rich, all

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

+burden to him, and Bóry’s life is only just beginning....”

+

+“Surely he will leave something to Borís,” said the countess.

+

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

+Still, I will take Borís and go to see him at once, and I shall speak

+to him straight out. Let people think what they will of me, it’s

+really all the same to me when my son’s fate is at stake.” The

+princess rose. “It’s now two o’clock and you dine at four. There

+will just be time.”

+

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

+time, Anna Mikháylovna sent someone to call her son, and went into the

+anteroom with him.

+

+“Good-by, my dear,” said she to the countess who saw her to the

+door, and added in a whisper so that her son should not hear, “Wish me

+good luck.”

+

+“Are you going to Count Cyril Vladímirovich, my dear?” said the

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

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

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

+dear. We will see how Tarás distinguishes himself today. He says Count

+Orlóv never gave such a dinner as ours will be!”

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XV

+

+“My dear Borís,” said Princess Anna Mikháylovna to her son as

+Countess Rostóva’s carriage in which they were seated drove over the

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

+Vladímirovich Bezúkhov’s house. “My dear Borís,” said the

+mother, drawing her hand from beneath her old mantle and laying

+it timidly and tenderly on her son’s arm, “be affectionate and

+attentive to him. Count Cyril Vladímirovich is your godfather after

+all, and your future depends on him. Remember that, my dear, and be nice

+to him, as you so well know how to be.”

+

+“If only I knew that anything besides humiliation would come of

+it...” answered her son coldly. “But I have promised and will do it

+for your sake.”

+

+Although the hall porter saw someone’s carriage standing at the

+entrance, after scrutinizing the mother and son (who without asking to

+be announced had passed straight through the glass porch between the

+rows of statues in niches) and looking significantly at the lady’s old

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

+hearing that they wished to see the count, said his excellency was worse

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

+

+“We may as well go back,” said the son in French.

+

+“My dear!” exclaimed his mother imploringly, again laying her hand

+on his arm as if that touch might soothe or rouse him.

+

+Borís said no more, but looked inquiringly at his mother without taking

+off his cloak.

+

+“My friend,” said Anna Mikháylovna in gentle tones, addressing

+the hall porter, “I know Count Cyril Vladímirovich is very ill...

+that’s why I have come... I am a relation. I shall not disturb him,

+my friend... I only need see Prince Vasíli Sergéevich: he is staying

+here, is he not? Please announce me.”

+

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

+away.

+

+“Princess Drubetskáya to see Prince Vasíli Sergéevich,” he called

+to a footman dressed in knee breeches, shoes, and a swallow-tail coat,

+who ran downstairs and looked over from the halfway landing.

+

+The mother smoothed the folds of her dyed silk dress before a large

+Venetian mirror in the wall, and in her trodden-down shoes briskly

+ascended the carpeted stairs.

+

+“My dear,” she said to her son, once more stimulating him by a

+touch, “you promised me!”

+

+The son, lowering his eyes, followed her quietly.

+

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

+apartments assigned to Prince Vasíli.

+

+Just as the mother and son, having reached the middle of the hall, were

+about to ask their way of an elderly footman who had sprung up as they

+entered, the bronze handle of one of the doors turned and Prince Vasíli

+came out—wearing a velvet coat with a single star on his breast,

+as was his custom when at home—taking leave of a good-looking,

+dark-haired man. This was the celebrated Petersburg doctor, Lorrain.

+

+“Then it is certain?” said the prince.

+

+“Prince, humanum est errare, * but...” replied the doctor,

+swallowing his r’s, and pronouncing the Latin words with a French

+accent.

+

+     * To err is human.

+

+“Very well, very well...”

+

+Seeing Anna Mikháylovna and her son, Prince Vasíli dismissed the

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

+inquiry. The son noticed that an expression of profound sorrow suddenly

+clouded his mother’s face, and he smiled slightly.

+

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

+dear invalid?” said she, as though unaware of the cold offensive look

+fixed on her.

+

+Prince Vasíli stared at her and at Borís questioningly and perplexed.

+Borís bowed politely. Prince Vasíli without acknowledging the bow

+turned to Anna Mikháylovna, answering her query by a movement of the

+head and lips indicating very little hope for the patient.

+

+“Is it possible?” exclaimed Anna Mikháylovna. “Oh, how awful!

+It is terrible to think.... This is my son,” she added, indicating

+Borís. “He wanted to thank you himself.”

+

+Borís bowed again politely.

+

+“Believe me, Prince, a mother’s heart will never forget what you

+have done for us.”

+

+“I am glad I was able to do you a service, my dear Anna

+Mikháylovna,” said Prince Vasíli, arranging his lace frill, and in

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

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

+had done in Petersburg at Anna Schérer’s reception.

+

+“Try to serve well and show yourself worthy,” added he, addressing

+Borís with severity. “I am glad.... Are you here on leave?” he went

+on in his usual tone of indifference.

+

+“I am awaiting orders to join my new regiment, your excellency,”

+replied Borís, betraying neither annoyance at the prince’s brusque

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

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

+

+“Are you living with your mother?”

+

+“I am living at Countess Rostóva’s,” replied Borís, again

+adding, “your excellency.”

+

+“That is, with Ilyá Rostóv who married Nataly Shinshiná,” said

+Anna Mikháylovna.

+

+“I know, I know,” answered Prince Vasíli in his monotonous voice.

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

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

+I am told.”

+

+“But a very kind man, Prince,” said Anna Mikháylovna with a

+pathetic smile, as though she too knew that Count Rostóv deserved this

+censure, but asked him not to be too hard on the poor old man. “What

+do the doctors say?” asked the princess after a pause, her worn face

+again expressing deep sorrow.

+

+“They give little hope,” replied the prince.

+

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

+and Borís. He is his godson,” she added, her tone suggesting that

+this fact ought to give Prince Vasíli much satisfaction.

+

+Prince Vasíli became thoughtful and frowned. Anna Mikháylovna saw that

+he was afraid of finding in her a rival for Count Bezúkhov’s fortune,

+and hastened to reassure him.

+

+“If it were not for my sincere affection and devotion to Uncle,”

+said she, uttering the word with peculiar assurance and unconcern, “I

+know his character: noble, upright ... but you see he has no one with

+him except the young princesses.... They are still young....” She bent

+her head and continued in a whisper: “Has he performed his final duty,

+Prince? How priceless are those last moments! It can make things no

+worse, and it is absolutely necessary to prepare him if he is so ill.

+We women, Prince,” and she smiled tenderly, “always know how to say

+these things. I absolutely must see him, however painful it may be for

+me. I am used to suffering.”

+

+Evidently the prince understood her, and also understood, as he had done

+at Anna Pávlovna’s, that it would be difficult to get rid of Anna

+Mikháylovna.

+

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

+Mikháylovna?” said he. “Let us wait until evening. The doctors are

+expecting a crisis.”

+

+“But one cannot delay, Prince, at such a moment! Consider that the

+welfare of his soul is at stake. Ah, it is awful: the duties of a

+Christian...”

+

+A door of one of the inner rooms opened and one of the princesses, the

+count’s niece, entered with a cold, stern face. The length of her

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

+turned to her.

+

+“Well, how is he?”

+

+“Still the same; but what can you expect, this noise...” said the

+princess, looking at Anna Mikháylovna as at a stranger.

+

+“Ah, my dear, I hardly knew you,” said Anna Mikháylovna with a

+happy smile, ambling lightly up to the count’s niece. “I have come,

+and am at your service to help you nurse my uncle. I imagine what you

+have gone through,” and she sympathetically turned up her eyes.

+

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

+Anna Mikháylovna took off her gloves and, occupying the position she

+had conquered, settled down in an armchair, inviting Prince Vasíli to

+take a seat beside her.

+

+“Borís,” she said to her son with a smile, “I shall go in to see

+the count, my uncle; but you, my dear, had better go to Pierre meanwhile

+and don’t forget to give him the Rostóvs’ invitation. They ask him

+to dinner. I suppose he won’t go?” she continued, turning to the

+prince.

+

+“On the contrary,” replied the prince, who had plainly become

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

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

+

+He shrugged his shoulders. A footman conducted Borís down one flight of

+stairs and up another, to Pierre’s rooms.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XVI

+

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

+Petersburg, and had been expelled from there for riotous conduct and

+sent to Moscow. The story told about him at Count Rostóv’s was true.

+Pierre had taken part in tying a policeman to a bear. He had now been

+for some days in Moscow and was staying as usual at his father’s

+house. Though he expected that the story of his escapade would be

+already known in Moscow and that the ladies about his father—who were

+never favorably disposed toward him—would have used it to turn the

+count against him, he nevertheless on the day of his arrival went to

+his father’s part of the house. Entering the drawing room, where the

+princesses spent most of their time, he greeted the ladies, two of whom

+were sitting at embroidery frames while a third read aloud. It was the

+eldest who was reading—the one who had met Anna Mikháylovna. The

+two younger ones were embroidering: both were rosy and pretty and they

+differed only in that one had a little mole on her lip which made her

+much prettier. Pierre was received as if he were a corpse or a leper.

+The eldest princess paused in her reading and silently stared at him

+with frightened eyes; the second assumed precisely the same expression;

+while the youngest, the one with the mole, who was of a cheerful and

+lively disposition, bent over her frame to hide a smile probably evoked

+by the amusing scene she foresaw. She drew her wool down through the

+canvas and, scarcely able to refrain from laughing, stooped as if trying

+to make out the pattern.

+

+“How do you do, cousin?” said Pierre. “You don’t recognize

+me?”

+

+“I recognize you only too well, too well.”

+

+“How is the count? Can I see him?” asked Pierre, awkwardly as usual,

+but unabashed.

+

+“The count is suffering physically and mentally, and apparently you

+have done your best to increase his mental sufferings.”

+

+“Can I see the count?” Pierre again asked.

+

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

+him... Olga, go and see whether Uncle’s beef tea is ready—it is

+almost time,” she added, giving Pierre to understand that they were

+busy, and busy making his father comfortable, while evidently he,

+Pierre, was only busy causing him annoyance.

+

+Olga went out. Pierre stood looking at the sisters; then he bowed and

+said: “Then I will go to my rooms. You will let me know when I can see

+him.”

+

+And he left the room, followed by the low but ringing laughter of the

+sister with the mole.

+

+Next day Prince Vasíli had arrived and settled in the count’s house.

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

+to behave here as you did in Petersburg, you will end very badly; that

+is all I have to say to you. The count is very, very ill, and you must

+not see him at all.”

+

+Since then Pierre had not been disturbed and had spent the whole time in

+his rooms upstairs.

+

+When Borís appeared at his door Pierre was pacing up and down his room,

+stopping occasionally at a corner to make menacing gestures at the wall,

+as if running a sword through an invisible foe, and glaring savagely

+over his spectacles, and then again resuming his walk, muttering

+indistinct words, shrugging his shoulders and gesticulating.

+

+“England is done for,” said he, scowling and pointing his finger

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

+rights of man, is sentenced to...” But before Pierre—who at that

+moment imagined himself to be Napoleon in person and to have just

+effected the dangerous crossing of the Straits of Dover and captured

+London—could pronounce Pitt’s sentence, he saw a well-built and

+handsome young officer entering his room. Pierre paused. He had left

+Moscow when Borís was a boy of fourteen, and had quite forgotten him,

+but in his usual impulsive and hearty way he took Borís by the hand

+with a friendly smile.

+

+“Do you remember me?” asked Borís quietly with a pleasant smile.

+“I have come with my mother to see the count, but it seems he is not

+well.”

+

+“Yes, it seems he is ill. People are always disturbing him,”

+answered Pierre, trying to remember who this young man was.

+

+Borís felt that Pierre did not recognize him but did not consider

+it necessary to introduce himself, and without experiencing the least

+embarrassment looked Pierre straight in the face.

+

+“Count Rostóv asks you to come to dinner today,” said he, after a

+considerable pause which made Pierre feel uncomfortable.

+

+“Ah, Count Rostóv!” exclaimed Pierre joyfully. “Then you are his

+son, Ilyá? Only fancy, I didn’t know you at first. Do you remember

+how we went to the Sparrow Hills with Madame Jacquot?... It’s such an

+age...”

+

+“You are mistaken,” said Borís deliberately, with a bold and

+slightly sarcastic smile. “I am Borís, son of Princess Anna

+Mikháylovna Drubetskáya. Rostóv, the father, is Ilyá, and his son is

+Nicholas. I never knew any Madame Jacquot.”

+

+Pierre shook his head and arms as if attacked by mosquitoes or bees.

+

+“Oh dear, what am I thinking about? I’ve mixed everything up. One

+has so many relatives in Moscow! So you are Borís? Of course. Well, now

+we know where we are. And what do you think of the Boulogne expedition?

+The English will come off badly, you know, if Napoleon gets across the

+Channel. I think the expedition is quite feasible. If only Villeneuve

+doesn’t make a mess of things!”

+

+Borís knew nothing about the Boulogne expedition; he did not read the

+papers and it was the first time he had heard Villeneuve’s name.

+

+“We here in Moscow are more occupied with dinner parties and scandal

+than with politics,” said he in his quiet ironical tone. “I know

+nothing about it and have not thought about it. Moscow is chiefly busy

+with gossip,” he continued. “Just now they are talking about you and

+your father.”

+

+Pierre smiled in his good-natured way as if afraid for his companion’s

+sake that the latter might say something he would afterwards regret.

+But Borís spoke distinctly, clearly, and dryly, looking straight into

+Pierre’s eyes.

+

+“Moscow has nothing else to do but gossip,” Borís went on.

+“Everybody is wondering to whom the count will leave his fortune,

+though he may perhaps outlive us all, as I sincerely hope he will...”

+

+“Yes, it is all very horrid,” interrupted Pierre, “very horrid.”

+

+Pierre was still afraid that this officer might inadvertently say

+something disconcerting to himself.

+

+“And it must seem to you,” said Borís flushing slightly, but not

+changing his tone or attitude, “it must seem to you that everyone is

+trying to get something out of the rich man?”

+

+“So it does,” thought Pierre.

+

+“But I just wish to say, to avoid misunderstandings, that you are

+quite mistaken if you reckon me or my mother among such people. We are

+very poor, but for my own part at any rate, for the very reason that

+your father is rich, I don’t regard myself as a relation of his, and

+neither I nor my mother would ever ask or take anything from him.”

+

+For a long time Pierre could not understand, but when he did, he jumped

+up from the sofa, seized Borís under the elbow in his quick, clumsy

+way, and, blushing far more than Borís, began to speak with a feeling

+of mingled shame and vexation.

+

+“Well, this is strange! Do you suppose I... who could think?... I know

+very well...”

+

+But Borís again interrupted him.

+

+“I am glad I have spoken out fully. Perhaps you did not like it? You

+must excuse me,” said he, putting Pierre at ease instead of being put

+at ease by him, “but I hope I have not offended you. I always make it

+a rule to speak out... Well, what answer am I to take? Will you come to

+dinner at the Rostóvs’?”

+

+And Borís, having apparently relieved himself of an onerous duty and

+extricated himself from an awkward situation and placed another in it,

+became quite pleasant again.

+

+“No, but I say,” said Pierre, calming down, “you are a wonderful

+fellow! What you have just said is good, very good. Of course you

+don’t know me. We have not met for such a long time... not since we

+were children. You might think that I... I understand, quite understand.

+I could not have done it myself, I should not have had the courage, but

+it’s splendid. I am very glad to have made your acquaintance. It’s

+queer,” he added after a pause, “that you should have suspected

+me!” He began to laugh. “Well, what of it! I hope we’ll get better

+acquainted,” and he pressed Borís’ hand. “Do you know, I have not

+once been in to see the count. He has not sent for me.... I am sorry for

+him as a man, but what can one do?”

+

+“And so you think Napoleon will manage to get an army across?” asked

+Borís with a smile.

+

+Pierre saw that Borís wished to change the subject, and being of the

+same mind he began explaining the advantages and disadvantages of the

+Boulogne expedition.

+

+A footman came in to summon Borís—the princess was going. Pierre, in

+order to make Borís’ better acquaintance, promised to come to dinner,

+and warmly pressing his hand looked affectionately over his spectacles

+into Borís’ eyes. After he had gone Pierre continued pacing up and

+down the room for a long time, no longer piercing an imaginary foe with

+his imaginary sword, but smiling at the remembrance of that pleasant,

+intelligent, and resolute young man.

+

+As often happens in early youth, especially to one who leads a lonely

+life, he felt an unaccountable tenderness for this young man and made up

+his mind that they would be friends.

+

+Prince Vasíli saw the princess off. She held a handkerchief to her eyes

+and her face was tearful.

+

+“It is dreadful, dreadful!” she was saying, “but cost me what it

+may I shall do my duty. I will come and spend the night. He must not be

+left like this. Every moment is precious. I can’t think why his nieces

+put it off. Perhaps God will help me to find a way to prepare him!...

+Adieu, Prince! May God support you...”

+

+“Adieu, ma bonne,” answered Prince Vasíli turning away from her.

+

+“Oh, he is in a dreadful state,” said the mother to her son when

+they were in the carriage. “He hardly recognizes anybody.”

+

+“I don’t understand, Mamma—what is his attitude to Pierre?”

+asked the son.

+

+“The will will show that, my dear; our fate also depends on it.”

+

+“But why do you expect that he will leave us anything?”

+

+“Ah, my dear! He is so rich, and we are so poor!”

+

+“Well, that is hardly a sufficient reason, Mamma...”

+

+“Oh, Heaven! How ill he is!” exclaimed the mother.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XVII

+

+After Anna Mikháylovna had driven off with her son to visit Count Cyril

+Vladímirovich Bezúkhov, Countess Rostóva sat for a long time all

+alone applying her handkerchief to her eyes. At last she rang.

+

+“What is the matter with you, my dear?” she said crossly to the maid

+who kept her waiting some minutes. “Don’t you wish to serve me? Then

+I’ll find you another place.”

+

+The countess was upset by her friend’s sorrow and humiliating poverty,

+and was therefore out of sorts, a state of mind which with her always

+found expression in calling her maid “my dear” and speaking to her

+with exaggerated politeness.

+

+“I am very sorry, ma’am,” answered the maid.

+

+“Ask the count to come to me.”

+

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

+usual.

+

+“Well, little countess? What a sauté of game au madère we are to

+have, my dear! I tasted it. The thousand rubles I paid for Tarás were

+not ill-spent. He is worth it!”

+

+He sat down by his wife, his elbows on his knees and his hands ruffling

+his gray hair.

+

+“What are your commands, little countess?”

+

+“You see, my dear... What’s that mess?” she said, pointing to his

+waistcoat. “It’s the sauté, most likely,” she added with a smile.

+“Well, you see, Count, I want some money.”

+

+Her face became sad.

+

+“Oh, little countess!” ... and the count began bustling to get out

+his pocketbook.

+

+“I want a great deal, Count! I want five hundred rubles,” and taking

+out her cambric handkerchief she began wiping her husband’s waistcoat.

+

+“Yes, immediately, immediately! Hey, who’s there?” he called out

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

+rush to obey the summons. “Send Dmítri to me!”

+

+Dmítri, a man of good family who had been brought up in the count’s

+house and now managed all his affairs, stepped softly into the room.

+

+“This is what I want, my dear fellow,” said the count to the

+deferential young man who had entered. “Bring me...” he reflected

+a moment, “yes, bring me seven hundred rubles, yes! But mind, don’t

+bring me such tattered and dirty notes as last time, but nice clean ones

+for the countess.”

+

+“Yes, Dmítri, clean ones, please,” said the countess, sighing

+deeply.

+

+“When would you like them, your excellency?” asked Dmítri. “Allow

+me to inform you... But, don’t be uneasy,” he added, noticing that

+the count was beginning to breathe heavily and quickly which was always

+a sign of approaching anger. “I was forgetting... Do you wish it

+brought at once?”

+

+“Yes, yes; just so! Bring it. Give it to the countess.”

+

+“What a treasure that Dmítri is,” added the count with a smile when

+the young man had departed. “There is never any ‘impossible’ with

+him. That’s a thing I hate! Everything is possible.”

+

+“Ah, money, Count, money! How much sorrow it causes in the world,”

+said the countess. “But I am in great need of this sum.”

+

+“You, my little countess, are a notorious spendthrift,” said the

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

+

+When Anna Mikháylovna returned from Count Bezúkhov’s the money, all

+in clean notes, was lying ready under a handkerchief on the countess’

+little table, and Anna Mikháylovna noticed that something was agitating

+her.

+

+“Well, my dear?” asked the countess.

+

+“Oh, what a terrible state he is in! One would not know him, he is so

+ill! I was only there a few moments and hardly said a word...”

+

+“Annette, for heaven’s sake don’t refuse me,” the countess

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

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

+

+Anna Mikháylovna instantly guessed her intention and stooped to be

+ready to embrace the countess at the appropriate moment.

+

+“This is for Borís from me, for his outfit.”

+

+Anna Mikháylovna was already embracing her and weeping. The countess

+wept too. They wept because they were friends, and because they were

+kindhearted, and because they—friends from childhood—had to think

+about such a base thing as money, and because their youth was over....

+But those tears were pleasant to them both.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XVIII

+

+Countess Rostóva, with her daughters and a large number of guests, was

+already seated in the drawing room. The count took the gentlemen into

+his study and showed them his choice collection of Turkish pipes. From

+time to time he went out to ask: “Hasn’t she come yet?” They

+were expecting Márya Dmítrievna Akhrosímova, known in society as le

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

+common sense and frank plainness of speech. Márya Dmítrievna was known

+to the Imperial family as well as to all Moscow and Petersburg, and both

+cities wondered at her, laughed privately at her rudenesses, and told

+good stories about her, while none the less all without exception

+respected and feared her.

+

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

+of the war that had been announced in a manifesto, and about the

+recruiting. None of them had yet seen the manifesto, but they all knew

+it had appeared. The count sat on the sofa between two guests who were

+smoking and talking. He neither smoked nor talked, but bending his head

+first to one side and then to the other watched the smokers with evident

+pleasure and listened to the conversation of his two neighbors, whom he

+egged on against each other.

+

+One of them was a sallow, clean-shaven civilian with a thin and wrinkled

+face, already growing old, though he was dressed like a most fashionable

+young man. He sat with his legs up on the sofa as if quite at home and,

+having stuck an amber mouthpiece far into his mouth, was inhaling the

+smoke spasmodically and screwing up his eyes. This was an old bachelor,

+Shinshín, a cousin of the countess’, a man with “a sharp tongue”

+as they said in Moscow society. He seemed to be condescending to

+his companion. The latter, a fresh, rosy officer of the Guards,

+irreproachably washed, brushed, and buttoned, held his pipe in the

+middle of his mouth and with red lips gently inhaled the smoke, letting

+it escape from his handsome mouth in rings. This was Lieutenant Berg, an

+officer in the Semënov regiment with whom Borís was to travel to join

+the army, and about whom Natásha had teased her elder sister Véra,

+speaking of Berg as her “intended.” The count sat between them and

+listened attentively. His favorite occupation when not playing boston, a

+card game he was very fond of, was that of listener, especially when he

+succeeded in setting two loquacious talkers at one another.

+

+“Well, then, old chap, mon très honorable Alphonse Kárlovich,”

+said Shinshín, laughing ironically and mixing the most ordinary Russian

+expressions with the choicest French phrases—which was a peculiarity

+of his speech. “Vous comptez vous faire des rentes sur l’état; *

+you want to make something out of your company?”

+

+     * You expect to make an income out of the government.

+

+“No, Peter Nikoláevich; I only want to show that in the cavalry

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

+position now, Peter Nikoláevich...”

+

+Berg always spoke quietly, politely, and with great precision. His

+conversation always related entirely to himself; he would remain calm

+and silent when the talk related to any topic that had no direct bearing

+on himself. He could remain silent for hours without being at all put

+out of countenance himself or making others uncomfortable, but as

+soon as the conversation concerned himself he would begin to talk

+circumstantially and with evident satisfaction.

+

+“Consider my position, Peter Nikoláevich. Were I in the cavalry I

+should get not more than two hundred rubles every four months, even

+with the rank of lieutenant; but as it is I receive two hundred and

+thirty,” said he, looking at Shinshín and the count with a joyful,

+pleasant smile, as if it were obvious to him that his success must

+always be the chief desire of everyone else.

+

+“Besides that, Peter Nikoláevich, by exchanging into the Guards

+I shall be in a more prominent position,” continued Berg, “and

+vacancies occur much more frequently in the Foot Guards. Then just think

+what can be done with two hundred and thirty rubles! I even manage to

+put a little aside and to send something to my father,” he went on,

+emitting a smoke ring.

+

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

+proverb says,” remarked Shinshín, moving his pipe to the other side

+of his mouth and winking at the count.

+

+      * So that squares matters.

+

+The count burst out laughing. The other guests seeing that Shinshín

+was talking came up to listen. Berg, oblivious of irony or indifference,

+continued to explain how by exchanging into the Guards he had already

+gained a step on his old comrades of the Cadet Corps; how in wartime

+the company commander might get killed and he, as senior in the company,

+might easily succeed to the post; how popular he was with everyone in

+the regiment, and how satisfied his father was with him. Berg evidently

+enjoyed narrating all this, and did not seem to suspect that others,

+too, might have their own interests. But all he said was so prettily

+sedate, and the naïveté of his youthful egotism was so obvious, that

+he disarmed his hearers.

+

+“Well, my boy, you’ll get along wherever you go—foot or

+horse—that I’ll warrant,” said Shinshín, patting him on the

+shoulder and taking his feet off the sofa.

+

+Berg smiled joyously. The count, followed by his guests, went into the

+drawing room.

+

+It was just the moment before a big dinner when the assembled guests,

+expecting the summons to zakúska, * avoid engaging in any long

+conversation but think it necessary to move about and talk, in order

+to show that they are not at all impatient for their food. The host and

+hostess look toward the door, and now and then glance at one another,

+and the visitors try to guess from these glances who, or what, they are

+waiting for—some important relation who has not yet arrived, or a dish

+that is not yet ready.

+

+     * Hors d’oeuvres.

+

+Pierre had come just at dinnertime and was sitting awkwardly in the

+middle of the drawing room on the first chair he had come across,

+blocking the way for everyone. The countess tried to make him talk,

+but he went on naïvely looking around through his spectacles as if in

+search of somebody and answered all her questions in monosyllables. He

+was in the way and was the only one who did not notice the fact. Most of

+the guests, knowing of the affair with the bear, looked with curiosity

+at this big, stout, quiet man, wondering how such a clumsy, modest

+fellow could have played such a prank on a policeman.

+

+“You have only lately arrived?” the countess asked him.

+

+“Oui, madame,” replied he, looking around him.

+

+“You have not yet seen my husband?”

+

+“Non, madame.” He smiled quite inappropriately.

+

+“You have been in Paris recently, I believe? I suppose it’s very

+interesting.”

+

+“Very interesting.”

+

+The countess exchanged glances with Anna Mikháylovna. The latter

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

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

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

+guests were all conversing with one another. “The Razumóvskis... It

+was charming... You are very kind... Countess Apráksina...” was heard

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

+

+“Márya Dmítrievna?” came her voice from there.

+

+“Herself,” came the answer in a rough voice, and Márya Dmítrievna

+entered the room.

+

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

+oldest rose. Márya Dmítrievna paused at the door. Tall and stout,

+holding high her fifty-year-old head with its gray curls, she stood

+surveying the guests, and leisurely arranged her wide sleeves as if

+rolling them up. Márya Dmítrievna always spoke in Russian.

+

+“Health and happiness to her whose name day we are keeping and to her

+children,” she said, in her loud, full-toned voice which drowned all

+others. “Well, you old sinner,” she went on, turning to the count

+who was kissing her hand, “you’re feeling dull in Moscow, I daresay?

+Nowhere to hunt with your dogs? But what is to be done, old man? Just

+see how these nestlings are growing up,” and she pointed to the girls.

+“You must look for husbands for them whether you like it or not....”

+

+“Well,” said she, “how’s my Cossack?” (Márya Dmítrievna

+always called Natásha a Cossack) and she stroked the child’s arm as

+she came up fearless and gay to kiss her hand. “I know she’s a scamp

+of a girl, but I like her.”

+

+She took a pair of pear-shaped ruby earrings from her huge reticule and,

+having given them to the rosy Natásha, who beamed with the pleasure

+of her saint’s-day fete, turned away at once and addressed herself to

+Pierre.

+

+“Eh, eh, friend! Come here a bit,” said she, assuming a soft high

+tone of voice. “Come here, my friend...” and she ominously tucked

+up her sleeves still higher. Pierre approached, looking at her in a

+childlike way through his spectacles.

+

+“Come nearer, come nearer, friend! I used to be the only one to tell

+your father the truth when he was in favor, and in your case it’s my

+evident duty.” She paused. All were silent, expectant of what was to

+follow, for this was clearly only a prelude.

+

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

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

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

+

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

+from laughing.

+

+“Well, I suppose it is time we were at table?” said Márya

+Dmítrievna.

+

+The count went in first with Márya Dmítrievna, the countess followed

+on the arm of a colonel of hussars, a man of importance to them because

+Nicholas was to go with him to the regiment; then came Anna Mikháylovna

+with Shinshín. Berg gave his arm to Véra. The smiling Julie Karágina

+went in with Nicholas. After them other couples followed, filling the

+whole dining hall, and last of all the children, tutors, and governesses

+followed singly. The footmen began moving about, chairs scraped, the

+band struck up in the gallery, and the guests settled down in their

+places. Then the strains of the count’s household band were replaced

+by the clatter of knives and forks, the voices of visitors, and the

+soft steps of the footmen. At one end of the table sat the countess with

+Márya Dmítrievna on her right and Anna Mikháylovna on her left, the

+other lady visitors were farther down. At the other end sat the count,

+with the hussar colonel on his left and Shinshín and the other male

+visitors on his right. Midway down the long table on one side sat the

+grown-up young people: Véra beside Berg, and Pierre beside Borís; and

+on the other side, the children, tutors, and governesses. From behind

+the crystal decanters and fruit vases, the count kept glancing at his

+wife and her tall cap with its light-blue ribbons, and busily filled

+his neighbors’ glasses, not neglecting his own. The countess in turn,

+without omitting her duties as hostess, threw significant glances from

+behind the pineapples at her husband whose face and bald head seemed

+by their redness to contrast more than usual with his gray hair. At the

+ladies’ end an even chatter of voices was heard all the time, at the

+men’s end the voices sounded louder and louder, especially that of the

+colonel of hussars who, growing more and more flushed, ate and drank so

+much that the count held him up as a pattern to the other guests. Berg

+with tender smiles was saying to Véra that love is not an earthly but

+a heavenly feeling. Borís was telling his new friend Pierre who the

+guests were and exchanging glances with Natásha, who was sitting

+opposite. Pierre spoke little but examined the new faces, and ate a

+great deal. Of the two soups he chose turtle with savory patties and

+went on to the game without omitting a single dish or one of the wines.

+These latter the butler thrust mysteriously forward, wrapped in a

+napkin, from behind the next man’s shoulders and whispered: “Dry

+Madeira”... “Hungarian”... or “Rhine wine” as the case might

+be. Of the four crystal glasses engraved with the count’s monogram

+that stood before his plate, Pierre held out one at random and drank

+with enjoyment, gazing with ever-increasing amiability at the other

+guests. Natásha, who sat opposite, was looking at Borís as girls of

+thirteen look at the boy they are in love with and have just kissed for

+the first time. Sometimes that same look fell on Pierre, and that funny

+lively little girl’s look made him inclined to laugh without knowing

+why.

+

+Nicholas sat at some distance from Sónya, beside Julie Karágina, to

+whom he was again talking with the same involuntary smile. Sónya wore

+a company smile but was evidently tormented by jealousy; now she turned

+pale, now blushed and strained every nerve to overhear what Nicholas

+and Julie were saying to one another. The governess kept looking round

+uneasily as if preparing to resent any slight that might be put upon the

+children. The German tutor was trying to remember all the dishes, wines,

+and kinds of dessert, in order to send a full description of the dinner

+to his people in Germany; and he felt greatly offended when the butler

+with a bottle wrapped in a napkin passed him by. He frowned, trying to

+appear as if he did not want any of that wine, but was mortified because

+no one would understand that it was not to quench his thirst or from

+greediness that he wanted it, but simply from a conscientious desire for

+knowledge.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XIX

+

+At the men’s end of the table the talk grew more and more animated.

+The colonel told them that the declaration of war had already appeared

+in Petersburg and that a copy, which he had himself seen, had that day

+been forwarded by courier to the commander in chief.

+

+“And why the deuce are we going to fight Bonaparte?” remarked

+Shinshín. “He has stopped Austria’s cackle and I fear it will be

+our turn next.”

+

+The colonel was a stout, tall, plethoric German, evidently devoted to

+the service and patriotically Russian. He resented Shinshín’s remark.

+

+“It is for the reasson, my goot sir,” said he, speaking with a

+German accent, “for the reasson zat ze Emperor knows zat. He

+declares in ze manifessto zat he cannot fiew wiz indifference ze danger

+vreatening Russia and zat ze safety and dignity of ze Empire as vell

+as ze sanctity of its alliances...” he spoke this last word with

+particular emphasis as if in it lay the gist of the matter.

+

+Then with the unerring official memory that characterized him he

+repeated from the opening words of the manifesto:

+

+... and the wish, which constitutes the Emperor’s sole and absolute

+aim—to establish peace in Europe on firm foundations—has now decided

+him to despatch part of the army abroad and to create a new condition

+for the attainment of that purpose.

+

+“Zat, my dear sir, is vy...” he concluded, drinking a tumbler of

+wine with dignity and looking to the count for approval.

+

+“Connaissez-vous le Proverbe:* ‘Jerome, Jerome, do not roam, but

+turn spindles at home!’?” said Shinshín, puckering his brows and

+smiling. “Cela nous convient à merveille.*(2) Suvórov now—he knew

+what he was about; yet they beat him à plate couture,*(3) and where

+are we to find Suvórovs now? Je vous demande un peu,” *(4) said he,

+continually changing from French to Russian.

+

+     *Do you know the proverb?

+

+     *(2) That suits us down to the ground.

+

+     *(3) Hollow.

+

+     *(4) I just ask you that.

+

+“Ve must vight to the last tr-r-op of our plood!” said the colonel,

+thumping the table; “and ve must tie for our Emperor, and zen all vill

+pe vell. And ve must discuss it as little as po-o-ossible”... he dwelt

+particularly on the word possible... “as po-o-ossible,” he ended,

+again turning to the count. “Zat is how ve old hussars look at it, and

+zere’s an end of it! And how do you, a young man and a young hussar,

+how do you judge of it?” he added, addressing Nicholas, who when he

+heard that the war was being discussed had turned from his partner with

+eyes and ears intent on the colonel.

+

+“I am quite of your opinion,” replied Nicholas, flaming up, turning

+his plate round and moving his wineglasses about with as much decision

+and desperation as though he were at that moment facing some great

+danger. “I am convinced that we Russians must die or conquer,” he

+concluded, conscious—as were others—after the words were uttered

+that his remarks were too enthusiastic and emphatic for the occasion and

+were therefore awkward.

+

+“What you said just now was splendid!” said his partner Julie.

+

+Sónya trembled all over and blushed to her ears and behind them and

+down to her neck and shoulders while Nicholas was speaking.

+

+Pierre listened to the colonel’s speech and nodded approvingly.

+

+“That’s fine,” said he.

+

+“The young man’s a real hussar!” shouted the colonel, again

+thumping the table.

+

+“What are you making such a noise about over there?” Márya

+Dmítrievna’s deep voice suddenly inquired from the other end of the

+table. “What are you thumping the table for?” she demanded of the

+hussar, “and why are you exciting yourself? Do you think the French

+are here?”

+

+“I am speaking ze truce,” replied the hussar with a smile.

+

+“It’s all about the war,” the count shouted down the table. “You

+know my son’s going, Márya Dmítrievna? My son is going.”

+

+“I have four sons in the army but still I don’t fret. It is all

+in God’s hands. You may die in your bed or God may spare you in a

+battle,” replied Márya Dmítrievna’s deep voice, which easily

+carried the whole length of the table.

+

+“That’s true!”

+

+Once more the conversations concentrated, the ladies’ at the one end

+and the men’s at the other.

+

+“You won’t ask,” Natásha’s little brother was saying; “I know

+you won’t ask!”

+

+“I will,” replied Natásha.

+

+Her face suddenly flushed with reckless and joyous resolution. She half

+rose, by a glance inviting Pierre, who sat opposite, to listen to what

+was coming, and turning to her mother:

+

+“Mamma!” rang out the clear contralto notes of her childish voice,

+audible the whole length of the table.

+

+“What is it?” asked the countess, startled; but seeing by her

+daughter’s face that it was only mischief, she shook a finger at her

+sternly with a threatening and forbidding movement of her head.

+

+The conversation was hushed.

+

+“Mamma! What sweets are we going to have?” and Natásha’s voice

+sounded still more firm and resolute.

+

+The countess tried to frown, but could not. Márya Dmítrievna shook her

+fat finger.

+

+“Cossack!” she said threateningly.

+

+Most of the guests, uncertain how to regard this sally, looked at the

+elders.

+

+“You had better take care!” said the countess.

+

+“Mamma! What sweets are we going to have?” Natásha again cried

+boldly, with saucy gaiety, confident that her prank would be taken in

+good part.

+

+Sónya and fat little Pétya doubled up with laughter.

+

+“You see! I have asked,” whispered Natásha to her little brother

+and to Pierre, glancing at him again.

+

+“Ice pudding, but you won’t get any,” said Márya Dmítrievna.

+

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

+Márya Dmítrievna.

+

+“Márya Dmítrievna! What kind of ice pudding? I don’t like ice

+cream.”

+

+“Carrot ices.”

+

+“No! What kind, Márya Dmítrievna? What kind?” she almost screamed;

+“I want to know!”

+

+Márya Dmítrievna and the countess burst out laughing, and all the

+guests joined in. Everyone laughed, not at Márya Dmítrievna’s answer

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

+dared to treat Márya Dmítrievna in this fashion.

+

+Natásha only desisted when she had been told that there would be

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

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

+their seats, went up to “congratulate” the countess, and reached

+across the table to clink glasses with the count, with the children, and

+with one another. Again the footmen rushed about, chairs scraped, and

+in the same order in which they had entered but with redder faces, the

+guests returned to the drawing room and to the count’s study.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XX

+

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

+count’s visitors settled themselves, some in the two drawing rooms,

+some in the sitting room, some in the library.

+

+The count, holding his cards fanwise, kept himself with difficulty from

+dropping into his usual after-dinner nap, and laughed at everything.

+The young people, at the countess’ instigation, gathered round the

+clavichord and harp. Julie by general request played first. After she

+had played a little air with variations on the harp, she joined the

+other young ladies in begging Natásha and Nicholas, who were noted for

+their musical talent, to sing something. Natásha, who was treated as

+though she were grown up, was evidently very proud of this but at the

+same time felt shy.

+

+“What shall we sing?” she said.

+

+“‘The Brook,’” suggested Nicholas.

+

+“Well, then, let’s be quick. Borís, come here,” said Natásha.

+“But where is Sónya?”

+

+She looked round and seeing that her friend was not in the room ran to

+look for her.

+

+Running into Sónya’s room and not finding her there, Natásha ran to

+the nursery, but Sónya was not there either. Natásha concluded that

+she must be on the chest in the passage. The chest in the passage was

+the place of mourning for the younger female generation in the Rostóv

+household. And there in fact was Sónya lying face downward on Nurse’s

+dirty feather bed on the top of the chest, crumpling her gauzy pink

+dress under her, hiding her face with her slender fingers, and sobbing

+so convulsively that her bare little shoulders shook. Natásha’s

+face, which had been so radiantly happy all that saint’s day, suddenly

+changed: her eyes became fixed, and then a shiver passed down her broad

+neck and the corners of her mouth drooped.

+

+“Sónya! What is it? What is the matter?... Oo... Oo... Oo...!” And

+Natásha’s large mouth widened, making her look quite ugly, and she

+began to wail like a baby without knowing why, except that Sónya was

+crying. Sónya tried to lift her head to answer but could not, and

+hid her face still deeper in the bed. Natásha wept, sitting on the

+blue-striped feather bed and hugging her friend. With an effort Sónya

+sat up and began wiping her eyes and explaining.

+

+“Nicholas is going away in a week’s time, his... papers... have

+come... he told me himself... but still I should not cry,” and she

+showed a paper she held in her hand—with the verses Nicholas had

+written, “still, I should not cry, but you can’t... no one can

+understand... what a soul he has!”

+

+And she began to cry again because he had such a noble soul.

+

+“It’s all very well for you... I am not envious... I love you and

+Borís also,” she went on, gaining a little strength; “he is nice...

+there are no difficulties in your way.... But Nicholas is my cousin...

+one would have to... the Metropolitan himself... and even then it

+can’t be done. And besides, if she tells Mamma” (Sónya looked upon

+the countess as her mother and called her so) “that I am spoiling

+Nicholas’ career and am heartless and ungrateful, while truly... God

+is my witness,” and she made the sign of the cross, “I love her so

+much, and all of you, only Véra... And what for? What have I done

+to her? I am so grateful to you that I would willingly sacrifice

+everything, only I have nothing....”

+

+Sónya could not continue, and again hid her face in her hands and in

+the feather bed. Natásha began consoling her, but her face showed that

+she understood all the gravity of her friend’s trouble.

+

+“Sónya,” she suddenly exclaimed, as if she had guessed the true

+reason of her friend’s sorrow, “I’m sure Véra has said something

+to you since dinner? Hasn’t she?”

+

+“Yes, these verses Nicholas wrote himself and I copied some others,

+and she found them on my table and said she’d show them to Mamma, and

+that I was ungrateful, and that Mamma would never allow him to marry

+me, but that he’ll marry Julie. You see how he’s been with her all

+day... Natásha, what have I done to deserve it?...”

+

+And again she began to sob, more bitterly than before. Natásha lifted

+her up, hugged her, and, smiling through her tears, began comforting

+her.

+

+“Sónya, don’t believe her, darling! Don’t believe her! Do you

+remember how we and Nicholas, all three of us, talked in the sitting

+room after supper? Why, we settled how everything was to be. I don’t

+quite remember how, but don’t you remember that it could all be

+arranged and how nice it all was? There’s Uncle Shinshín’s brother

+has married his first cousin. And we are only second cousins, you know.

+And Borís says it is quite possible. You know I have told him all about

+it. And he is so clever and so good!” said Natásha. “Don’t

+you cry, Sónya, dear love, darling Sónya!” and she kissed her and

+laughed. “Véra’s spiteful; never mind her! And all will come right

+and she won’t say anything to Mamma. Nicholas will tell her himself,

+and he doesn’t care at all for Julie.”

+

+Natásha kissed her on the hair.

+

+Sónya sat up. The little kitten brightened, its eyes shone, and it

+seemed ready to lift its tail, jump down on its soft paws, and begin

+playing with the ball of worsted as a kitten should.

+

+“Do you think so?... Really? Truly?” she said, quickly smoothing her

+frock and hair.

+

+“Really, truly!” answered Natásha, pushing in a crisp lock that had

+strayed from under her friend’s plaits.

+

+Both laughed.

+

+“Well, let’s go and sing ‘The Brook.’”

+

+“Come along!”

+

+“Do you know, that fat Pierre who sat opposite me is so funny!” said

+Natásha, stopping suddenly. “I feel so happy!”

+

+And she set off at a run along the passage.

+

+Sónya, shaking off some down which clung to her and tucking away the

+verses in the bosom of her dress close to her bony little chest, ran

+after Natásha down the passage into the sitting room with flushed face

+and light, joyous steps. At the visitors’ request the young people

+sang the quartette, “The Brook,” with which everyone was delighted.

+Then Nicholas sang a song he had just learned:

+

+   At nighttime in the moon’s fair glow

+     How sweet, as fancies wander free,

+   To feel that in this world there’s one

+     Who still is thinking but of thee!

+

+   That while her fingers touch the harp

+     Wafting sweet music o’er the lea,

+   It is for thee thus swells her heart,

+     Sighing its message out to thee...

+

+   A day or two, then bliss unspoilt,

+     But oh! till then I cannot live!...

+

+He had not finished the last verse before the young people began to

+get ready to dance in the large hall, and the sound of the feet and the

+coughing of the musicians were heard from the gallery.

+

+

+Pierre was sitting in the drawing room where Shinshín had engaged him,

+as a man recently returned from abroad, in a political conversation in

+which several others joined but which bored Pierre. When the music began

+Natásha came in and walking straight up to Pierre said, laughing and

+blushing:

+

+“Mamma told me to ask you to join the dancers.”

+

+“I am afraid of mixing the figures,” Pierre replied; “but if you

+will be my teacher...” And lowering his big arm he offered it to the

+slender little girl.

+

+While the couples were arranging themselves and the musicians tuning up,

+Pierre sat down with his little partner. Natásha was perfectly happy;

+she was dancing with a grown-up man, who had been abroad. She was

+sitting in a conspicuous place and talking to him like a grown-up lady.

+She had a fan in her hand that one of the ladies had given her to hold.

+Assuming quite the pose of a society woman (heaven knows when and where

+she had learned it) she talked with her partner, fanning herself and

+smiling over the fan.

+

+“Dear, dear! Just look at her!” exclaimed the countess as she

+crossed the ballroom, pointing to Natásha.

+

+Natásha blushed and laughed.

+

+“Well, really, Mamma! Why should you? What is there to be surprised

+at?”

+

+

+In the midst of the third écossaise there was a clatter of chairs being

+pushed back in the sitting room where the count and Márya Dmítrievna

+had been playing cards with the majority of the more distinguished and

+older visitors. They now, stretching themselves after sitting so long,

+and replacing their purses and pocketbooks, entered the ballroom. First

+came Márya Dmítrievna and the count, both with merry countenances. The

+count, with playful ceremony somewhat in ballet style, offered his

+bent arm to Márya Dmítrievna. He drew himself up, a smile of debonair

+gallantry lit up his face and as soon as the last figure of the

+écossaise was ended, he clapped his hands to the musicians and shouted

+up to their gallery, addressing the first violin:

+

+“Semën! Do you know the Daniel Cooper?”

+

+This was the count’s favorite dance, which he had danced in his youth.

+(Strictly speaking, Daniel Cooper was one figure of the anglaise.)

+

+“Look at Papa!” shouted Natásha to the whole company, and quite

+forgetting that she was dancing with a grown-up partner she bent her

+curly head to her knees and made the whole room ring with her laughter.

+

+And indeed everybody in the room looked with a smile of pleasure at the

+jovial old gentleman, who standing beside his tall and stout partner,

+Márya Dmítrievna, curved his arms, beat time, straightened his

+shoulders, turned out his toes, tapped gently with his foot, and, by

+a smile that broadened his round face more and more, prepared the

+onlookers for what was to follow. As soon as the provocatively gay

+strains of Daniel Cooper (somewhat resembling those of a merry peasant

+dance) began to sound, all the doorways of the ballroom were suddenly

+filled by the domestic serfs—the men on one side and the women on

+the other—who with beaming faces had come to see their master making

+merry.

+

+“Just look at the master! A regular eagle he is!” loudly remarked

+the nurse, as she stood in one of the doorways.

+

+The count danced well and knew it. But his partner could not and did not

+want to dance well. Her enormous figure stood erect, her powerful arms

+hanging down (she had handed her reticule to the countess), and only her

+stern but handsome face really joined in the dance. What was expressed

+by the whole of the count’s plump figure, in Márya Dmítrievna found

+expression only in her more and more beaming face and quivering nose.

+But if the count, getting more and more into the swing of it, charmed

+the spectators by the unexpectedness of his adroit maneuvers and

+the agility with which he capered about on his light feet, Márya

+Dmítrievna produced no less impression by slight exertions—the least

+effort to move her shoulders or bend her arms when turning, or stamp

+her foot—which everyone appreciated in view of her size and habitual

+severity. The dance grew livelier and livelier. The other couples could

+not attract a moment’s attention to their own evolutions and did not

+even try to do so. All were watching the count and Márya Dmítrievna.

+Natásha kept pulling everyone by sleeve or dress, urging them to

+“look at Papa!” though as it was they never took their eyes off the

+couple. In the intervals of the dance the count, breathing deeply, waved

+and shouted to the musicians to play faster. Faster, faster, and faster;

+lightly, more lightly, and yet more lightly whirled the count, flying

+round Márya Dmítrievna, now on his toes, now on his heels; until,

+turning his partner round to her seat, he executed the final pas,

+raising his soft foot backwards, bowing his perspiring head, smiling

+and making a wide sweep with his arm, amid a thunder of applause and

+laughter led by Natásha. Both partners stood still, breathing heavily

+and wiping their faces with their cambric handkerchiefs.

+

+“That’s how we used to dance in our time, ma chère,” said the

+count.

+

+“That was a Daniel Cooper!” exclaimed Márya Dmítrievna, tucking up

+her sleeves and puffing heavily.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XXI

+

+While in the Rostóvs’ ballroom the sixth anglaise was being danced,

+to a tune in which the weary musicians blundered, and while tired

+footmen and cooks were getting the supper, Count Bezúkhov had a

+sixth stroke. The doctors pronounced recovery impossible. After a mute

+confession, communion was administered to the dying man, preparations

+made for the sacrament of unction, and in his house there was the bustle

+and thrill of suspense usual at such moments. Outside the house, beyond

+the gates, a group of undertakers, who hid whenever a carriage drove up,

+waited in expectation of an important order for an expensive funeral.

+The Military Governor of Moscow, who had been assiduous in sending

+aides-de-camp to inquire after the count’s health, came himself

+that evening to bid a last farewell to the celebrated grandee of

+Catherine’s court, Count Bezúkhov.

+

+The magnificent reception room was crowded. Everyone stood up

+respectfully when the Military Governor, having stayed about half an

+hour alone with the dying man, passed out, slightly acknowledging their

+bows and trying to escape as quickly as possible from the glances fixed

+on him by the doctors, clergy, and relatives of the family. Prince

+Vasíli, who had grown thinner and paler during the last few days,

+escorted him to the door, repeating something to him several times in

+low tones.

+

+When the Military Governor had gone, Prince Vasíli sat down all alone

+on a chair in the ballroom, crossing one leg high over the other,

+leaning his elbow on his knee and covering his face with his hand. After

+sitting so for a while he rose, and, looking about him with frightened

+eyes, went with unusually hurried steps down the long corridor leading

+to the back of the house, to the room of the eldest princess.

+

+Those who were in the dimly lit reception room spoke in nervous

+whispers, and, whenever anyone went into or came from the dying man’s

+room, grew silent and gazed with eyes full of curiosity or expectancy at

+his door, which creaked slightly when opened.

+

+“The limits of human life ... are fixed and may not be

+o’erpassed,” said an old priest to a lady who had taken a seat

+beside him and was listening naïvely to his words.

+

+“I wonder, is it not too late to administer unction?” asked the

+lady, adding the priest’s clerical title, as if she had no opinion of

+her own on the subject.

+

+“Ah, madam, it is a great sacrament,” replied the priest, passing

+his hand over the thin grizzled strands of hair combed back across his

+bald head.

+

+“Who was that? The Military Governor himself?” was being asked at

+the other side of the room. “How young-looking he is!”

+

+“Yes, and he is over sixty. I hear the count no longer recognizes

+anyone. They wished to administer the sacrament of unction.”

+

+“I knew someone who received that sacrament seven times.”

+

+The second princess had just come from the sickroom with her eyes red

+from weeping and sat down beside Dr. Lorrain, who was sitting in a

+graceful pose under a portrait of Catherine, leaning his elbow on a

+table.

+

+“Beautiful,” said the doctor in answer to a remark about the

+weather. “The weather is beautiful, Princess; and besides, in Moscow

+one feels as if one were in the country.”

+

+“Yes, indeed,” replied the princess with a sigh. “So he may have

+something to drink?”

+

+Lorrain considered.

+

+“Has he taken his medicine?”

+

+“Yes.”

+

+The doctor glanced at his watch.

+

+“Take a glass of boiled water and put a pinch of cream of tartar,”

+and he indicated with his delicate fingers what he meant by a pinch.

+

+“Dere has neffer been a gase,” a German doctor was saying to an

+aide-de-camp, “dat one liffs after de sird stroke.”

+

+“And what a well-preserved man he was!” remarked the aide-de-camp.

+“And who will inherit his wealth?” he added in a whisper.

+

+“It von’t go begging,” replied the German with a smile.

+

+Everyone again looked toward the door, which creaked as the second

+princess went in with the drink she had prepared according to

+Lorrain’s instructions. The German doctor went up to Lorrain.

+

+“Do you think he can last till morning?” asked the German,

+addressing Lorrain in French which he pronounced badly.

+

+Lorrain, pursing up his lips, waved a severely negative finger before

+his nose.

+

+“Tonight, not later,” said he in a low voice, and he moved away

+with a decorous smile of self-satisfaction at being able clearly to

+understand and state the patient’s condition.

+

+Meanwhile Prince Vasíli had opened the door into the princess’ room.

+

+In this room it was almost dark; only two tiny lamps were burning before

+the icons and there was a pleasant scent of flowers and burnt pastilles.

+The room was crowded with small pieces of furniture, whatnots,

+cupboards, and little tables. The quilt of a high, white feather bed was

+just visible behind a screen. A small dog began to bark.

+

+“Ah, is it you, cousin?”

+

+She rose and smoothed her hair, which was as usual so extremely smooth

+that it seemed to be made of one piece with her head and covered with

+varnish.

+

+“Has anything happened?” she asked. “I am so terrified.”

+

+“No, there is no change. I only came to have a talk about business,

+Catiche,” * muttered the prince, seating himself wearily on the chair

+she had just vacated. “You have made the place warm, I must say,” he

+remarked. “Well, sit down: let’s have a talk.”

+

+     *Catherine.

+

+“I thought perhaps something had happened,” she said with her

+unchanging stonily severe expression; and, sitting down opposite the

+prince, she prepared to listen.

+

+“I wished to get a nap, mon cousin, but I can’t.”

+

+“Well, my dear?” said Prince Vasíli, taking her hand and bending it

+downwards as was his habit.

+

+It was plain that this “well?” referred to much that they both

+understood without naming.

+

+The princess, who had a straight, rigid body, abnormally long for her

+legs, looked directly at Prince Vasíli with no sign of emotion in her

+prominent gray eyes. Then she shook her head and glanced up at the icons

+with a sigh. This might have been taken as an expression of sorrow

+and devotion, or of weariness and hope of resting before long. Prince

+Vasíli understood it as an expression of weariness.

+

+“And I?” he said; “do you think it is easier for me? I am as worn

+out as a post horse, but still I must have a talk with you, Catiche, a

+very serious talk.”

+

+Prince Vasíli said no more and his cheeks began to twitch nervously,

+now on one side, now on the other, giving his face an unpleasant

+expression which was never to be seen on it in a drawing room. His eyes

+too seemed strange; at one moment they looked impudently sly and at the

+next glanced round in alarm.

+

+The princess, holding her little dog on her lap with her thin bony

+hands, looked attentively into Prince Vasíli’s eyes evidently

+resolved not to be the first to break silence, if she had to wait till

+morning.

+

+“Well, you see, my dear princess and cousin, Catherine Semënovna,”

+continued Prince Vasíli, returning to his theme, apparently not

+without an inner struggle; “at such a moment as this one must think

+of everything. One must think of the future, of all of you... I love you

+all, like children of my own, as you know.”

+

+The princess continued to look at him without moving, and with the same

+dull expression.

+

+“And then of course my family has also to be considered,” Prince

+Vasíli went on, testily pushing away a little table without looking at

+her. “You know, Catiche, that we—you three sisters, Mámontov, and

+my wife—are the count’s only direct heirs. I know, I know how hard

+it is for you to talk or think of such matters. It is no easier for

+me; but, my dear, I am getting on for sixty and must be prepared for

+anything. Do you know I have sent for Pierre? The count,” pointing to

+his portrait, “definitely demanded that he should be called.”

+

+Prince Vasíli looked questioningly at the princess, but could not make

+out whether she was considering what he had just said or whether she was

+simply looking at him.

+

+“There is one thing I constantly pray God to grant, mon cousin,” she

+replied, “and it is that He would be merciful to him and would allow

+his noble soul peacefully to leave this...”

+

+“Yes, yes, of course,” interrupted Prince Vasíli impatiently,

+rubbing his bald head and angrily pulling back toward him the little

+table that he had pushed away. “But... in short, the fact is... you

+know yourself that last winter the count made a will by which he left

+all his property, not to us his direct heirs, but to Pierre.”

+

+“He has made wills enough!” quietly remarked the princess. “But he

+cannot leave the estate to Pierre. Pierre is illegitimate.”

+

+“But, my dear,” said Prince Vasíli suddenly, clutching the little

+table and becoming more animated and talking more rapidly: “what if

+a letter has been written to the Emperor in which the count asks for

+Pierre’s legitimation? Do you understand that in consideration of the

+count’s services, his request would be granted?...”

+

+The princess smiled as people do who think they know more about the

+subject under discussion than those they are talking with.

+

+“I can tell you more,” continued Prince Vasíli, seizing her hand,

+“that letter was written, though it was not sent, and the Emperor knew

+of it. The only question is, has it been destroyed or not? If not, then

+as soon as all is over,” and Prince Vasíli sighed to intimate what he

+meant by the words all is over, “and the count’s papers are opened,

+the will and letter will be delivered to the Emperor, and the petition

+will certainly be granted. Pierre will get everything as the legitimate

+son.”

+

+“And our share?” asked the princess smiling ironically, as if

+anything might happen, only not that.

+

+“But, my poor Catiche, it is as clear as daylight! He will then be the

+legal heir to everything and you won’t get anything. You must know,

+my dear, whether the will and letter were written, and whether they have

+been destroyed or not. And if they have somehow been overlooked, you

+ought to know where they are, and must find them, because...”

+

+“What next?” the princess interrupted, smiling sardonically and not

+changing the expression of her eyes. “I am a woman, and you think we

+are all stupid; but I know this: an illegitimate son cannot inherit...

+un bâtard!”* she added, as if supposing that this translation of the

+word would effectively prove to Prince Vasíli the invalidity of his

+contention.

+

+     * A bastard.

+

+“Well, really, Catiche! Can’t you understand! You are so

+intelligent, how is it you don’t see that if the count has written a

+letter to the Emperor begging him to recognize Pierre as legitimate, it

+follows that Pierre will not be Pierre but will become Count Bezúkhov,

+and will then inherit everything under the will? And if the will and

+letter are not destroyed, then you will have nothing but the consolation

+of having been dutiful et tout ce qui s’ensuit!* That’s certain.”

+

+     * And all that follows therefrom.

+

+“I know the will was made, but I also know that it is invalid;

+and you, mon cousin, seem to consider me a perfect fool,” said the

+princess with the expression women assume when they suppose they are

+saying something witty and stinging.

+

+“My dear Princess Catherine Semënovna,” began Prince Vasíli

+impatiently, “I came here not to wrangle with you, but to talk about

+your interests as with a kinswoman, a good, kind, true relation. And I

+tell you for the tenth time that if the letter to the Emperor and the

+will in Pierre’s favor are among the count’s papers, then, my dear

+girl, you and your sisters are not heiresses! If you don’t believe me,

+then believe an expert. I have just been talking to Dmítri Onúfrich”

+(the family solicitor) “and he says the same.”

+

+At this a sudden change evidently took place in the princess’ ideas;

+her thin lips grew white, though her eyes did not change, and her voice

+when she began to speak passed through such transitions as she herself

+evidently did not expect.

+

+“That would be a fine thing!” said she. “I never wanted anything

+and I don’t now.”

+

+She pushed the little dog off her lap and smoothed her dress.

+

+“And this is gratitude—this is recognition for those who have

+sacrificed everything for his sake!” she cried. “It’s splendid!

+Fine! I don’t want anything, Prince.”

+

+“Yes, but you are not the only one. There are your sisters...”

+replied Prince Vasíli.

+

+But the princess did not listen to him.

+

+“Yes, I knew it long ago but had forgotten. I knew that I could expect

+nothing but meanness, deceit, envy, intrigue, and ingratitude—the

+blackest ingratitude—in this house...”

+

+“Do you or do you not know where that will is?” insisted Prince

+Vasíli, his cheeks twitching more than ever.

+

+“Yes, I was a fool! I still believed in people, loved them, and

+sacrificed myself. But only the base, the vile succeed! I know who has

+been intriguing!”

+

+The princess wished to rise, but the prince held her by the hand. She

+had the air of one who has suddenly lost faith in the whole human race.

+She gave her companion an angry glance.

+

+“There is still time, my dear. You must remember, Catiche, that it was

+all done casually in a moment of anger, of illness, and was afterwards

+forgotten. Our duty, my dear, is to rectify his mistake, to ease his

+last moments by not letting him commit this injustice, and not to let

+him die feeling that he is rendering unhappy those who...”

+

+“Who sacrificed everything for him,” chimed in the princess, who

+would again have risen had not the prince still held her fast, “though

+he never could appreciate it. No, mon cousin,” she added with a sigh,

+“I shall always remember that in this world one must expect no reward,

+that in this world there is neither honor nor justice. In this world one

+has to be cunning and cruel.”

+

+“Now come, come! Be reasonable. I know your excellent heart.”

+

+“No, I have a wicked heart.”

+

+“I know your heart,” repeated the prince. “I value your friendship

+and wish you to have as good an opinion of me. Don’t upset yourself,

+and let us talk sensibly while there is still time, be it a day or be it

+but an hour.... Tell me all you know about the will, and above all where

+it is. You must know. We will take it at once and show it to the

+count. He has, no doubt, forgotten it and will wish to destroy it.

+You understand that my sole desire is conscientiously to carry out his

+wishes; that is my only reason for being here. I came simply to help him

+and you.”

+

+“Now I see it all! I know who has been intriguing—I know!” cried

+the princess.

+

+“That’s not the point, my dear.”

+

+“It’s that protégé of yours, that sweet Princess Drubetskáya,

+that Anna Mikháylovna whom I would not take for a housemaid... the

+infamous, vile woman!”

+

+“Do not let us lose any time...”

+

+“Ah, don’t talk to me! Last winter she wheedled herself in here and

+told the count such vile, disgraceful things about us, especially about

+Sophie—I can’t repeat them—that it made the count quite ill and he

+would not see us for a whole fortnight. I know it was then he wrote this

+vile, infamous paper, but I thought the thing was invalid.”

+

+“We’ve got to it at last—why did you not tell me about it

+sooner?”

+

+“It’s in the inlaid portfolio that he keeps under his pillow,”

+said the princess, ignoring his question. “Now I know! Yes; if I have

+a sin, a great sin, it is hatred of that vile woman!” almost shrieked

+the princess, now quite changed. “And what does she come worming

+herself in here for? But I will give her a piece of my mind. The time

+will come!”

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XXII

+

+While these conversations were going on in the reception room and the

+princess’ room, a carriage containing Pierre (who had been sent for)

+and Anna Mikháylovna (who found it necessary to accompany him) was

+driving into the court of Count Bezúkhov’s house. As the wheels

+rolled softly over the straw beneath the windows, Anna Mikháylovna,

+having turned with words of comfort to her companion, realized that

+he was asleep in his corner and woke him up. Rousing himself, Pierre

+followed Anna Mikháylovna out of the carriage, and only then began

+to think of the interview with his dying father which awaited him. He

+noticed that they had not come to the front entrance but to the back

+door. While he was getting down from the carriage steps two men, who

+looked like tradespeople, ran hurriedly from the entrance and hid in the

+shadow of the wall. Pausing for a moment, Pierre noticed several other

+men of the same kind hiding in the shadow of the house on both sides.

+But neither Anna Mikháylovna nor the footman nor the coachman, who

+could not help seeing these people, took any notice of them. “It seems

+to be all right,” Pierre concluded, and followed Anna Mikháylovna.

+She hurriedly ascended the narrow dimly lit stone staircase, calling to

+Pierre, who was lagging behind, to follow. Though he did not see why it

+was necessary for him to go to the count at all, still less why he had

+to go by the back stairs, yet judging by Anna Mikháylovna’s air

+of assurance and haste, Pierre concluded that it was all absolutely

+necessary. Halfway up the stairs they were almost knocked over by

+some men who, carrying pails, came running downstairs, their boots

+clattering. These men pressed close to the wall to let Pierre and Anna

+Mikháylovna pass and did not evince the least surprise at seeing them

+there.

+

+“Is this the way to the princesses’ apartments?” asked Anna

+Mikháylovna of one of them.

+

+“Yes,” replied a footman in a bold loud voice, as if anything were

+now permissible; “the door to the left, ma’am.”

+

+“Perhaps the count did not ask for me,” said Pierre when he reached

+the landing. “I’d better go to my own room.”

+

+Anna Mikháylovna paused and waited for him to come up.

+

+“Ah, my friend!” she said, touching his arm as she had done her

+son’s when speaking to him that afternoon, “believe me I suffer no

+less than you do, but be a man!”

+

+“But really, hadn’t I better go away?” he asked, looking kindly at

+her over his spectacles.

+

+“Ah, my dear friend! Forget the wrongs that may have been done you.

+Think that he is your father ... perhaps in the agony of death.” She

+sighed. “I have loved you like a son from the first. Trust yourself to

+me, Pierre. I shall not forget your interests.”

+

+Pierre did not understand a word, but the conviction that all this had

+to be grew stronger, and he meekly followed Anna Mikháylovna who was

+already opening a door.

+

+This door led into a back anteroom. An old man, a servant of the

+princesses, sat in a corner knitting a stocking. Pierre had never been

+in this part of the house and did not even know of the existence of

+these rooms. Anna Mikháylovna, addressing a maid who was hurrying past

+with a decanter on a tray as “my dear” and “my sweet,” asked

+about the princess’ health and then led Pierre along a stone passage.

+The first door on the left led into the princesses’ apartments. The

+maid with the decanter in her haste had not closed the door (everything

+in the house was done in haste at that time), and Pierre and Anna

+Mikháylovna in passing instinctively glanced into the room, where

+Prince Vasíli and the eldest princess were sitting close together

+talking. Seeing them pass, Prince Vasíli drew back with obvious

+impatience, while the princess jumped up and with a gesture of

+desperation slammed the door with all her might.

+

+This action was so unlike her usual composure and the fear depicted on

+Prince Vasíli’s face so out of keeping with his dignity that Pierre

+stopped and glanced inquiringly over his spectacles at his guide. Anna

+Mikháylovna evinced no surprise, she only smiled faintly and sighed, as

+if to say that this was no more than she had expected.

+

+“Be a man, my friend. I will look after your interests,” said she in

+reply to his look, and went still faster along the passage.

+

+Pierre could not make out what it was all about, and still less what

+“watching over his interests” meant, but he decided that all these

+things had to be. From the passage they went into a large, dimly

+lit room adjoining the count’s reception room. It was one of those

+sumptuous but cold apartments known to Pierre only from the front

+approach, but even in this room there now stood an empty bath, and water

+had been spilled on the carpet. They were met by a deacon with a censer

+and by a servant who passed out on tiptoe without heeding them. They

+went into the reception room familiar to Pierre, with two Italian

+windows opening into the conservatory, with its large bust and full

+length portrait of Catherine the Great. The same people were still

+sitting here in almost the same positions as before, whispering to one

+another. All became silent and turned to look at the pale tear-worn Anna

+Mikháylovna as she entered, and at the big stout figure of Pierre who,

+hanging his head, meekly followed her.

+

+Anna Mikháylovna’s face expressed a consciousness that the decisive

+moment had arrived. With the air of a practical Petersburg lady she now,

+keeping Pierre close beside her, entered the room even more boldly than

+that afternoon. She felt that as she brought with her the person the

+dying man wished to see, her own admission was assured. Casting a rapid

+glance at all those in the room and noticing the count’s confessor

+there, she glided up to him with a sort of amble, not exactly bowing yet

+seeming to grow suddenly smaller, and respectfully received the blessing

+first of one and then of another priest.

+

+“God be thanked that you are in time,” said she to one of the

+priests; “all we relatives have been in such anxiety. This young

+man is the count’s son,” she added more softly. “What a terrible

+moment!”

+

+Having said this she went up to the doctor.

+

+“Dear doctor,” said she, “this young man is the count’s son. Is

+there any hope?”

+

+The doctor cast a rapid glance upwards and silently shrugged his

+shoulders. Anna Mikháylovna with just the same movement raised her

+shoulders and eyes, almost closing the latter, sighed, and moved away

+from the doctor to Pierre. To him, in a particularly respectful and

+tenderly sad voice, she said:

+

+“Trust in His mercy!” and pointing out a small sofa for him to sit

+and wait for her, she went silently toward the door that everyone was

+watching and it creaked very slightly as she disappeared behind it.

+

+Pierre, having made up his mind to obey his monitress implicitly, moved

+toward the sofa she had indicated. As soon as Anna Mikháylovna had

+disappeared he noticed that the eyes of all in the room turned to him

+with something more than curiosity and sympathy. He noticed that they

+whispered to one another, casting significant looks at him with a kind

+of awe and even servility. A deference such as he had never before

+received was shown him. A strange lady, the one who had been talking to

+the priests, rose and offered him her seat; an aide-de-camp picked up

+and returned a glove Pierre had dropped; the doctors became respectfully

+silent as he passed by, and moved to make way for him. At first Pierre

+wished to take another seat so as not to trouble the lady, and also to

+pick up the glove himself and to pass round the doctors who were not

+even in his way; but all at once he felt that this would not do, and

+that tonight he was a person obliged to perform some sort of awful

+rite which everyone expected of him, and that he was therefore bound

+to accept their services. He took the glove in silence from the

+aide-de-camp, and sat down in the lady’s chair, placing his huge hands

+symmetrically on his knees in the naïve attitude of an Egyptian statue,

+and decided in his own mind that all was as it should be, and that in

+order not to lose his head and do foolish things he must not act on his

+own ideas tonight, but must yield himself up entirely to the will of

+those who were guiding him.

+

+Not two minutes had passed before Prince Vasíli with head erect

+majestically entered the room. He was wearing his long coat with three

+stars on his breast. He seemed to have grown thinner since the morning;

+his eyes seemed larger than usual when he glanced round and noticed

+Pierre. He went up to him, took his hand (a thing he never used to do),

+and drew it downwards as if wishing to ascertain whether it was firmly

+fixed on.

+

+“Courage, courage, my friend! He has asked to see you. That is

+well!” and he turned to go.

+

+But Pierre thought it necessary to ask: “How is...” and hesitated,

+not knowing whether it would be proper to call the dying man “the

+count,” yet ashamed to call him “father.”

+

+“He had another stroke about half an hour ago. Courage, my

+friend...”

+

+Pierre’s mind was in such a confused state that the word “stroke”

+suggested to him a blow from something. He looked at Prince Vasíli

+in perplexity, and only later grasped that a stroke was an attack of

+illness. Prince Vasíli said something to Lorrain in passing and went

+through the door on tiptoe. He could not walk well on tiptoe and his

+whole body jerked at each step. The eldest princess followed him, and

+the priests and deacons and some servants also went in at the door.

+Through that door was heard a noise of things being moved about, and

+at last Anna Mikháylovna, still with the same expression, pale but

+resolute in the discharge of duty, ran out and touching Pierre lightly

+on the arm said:

+

+“The divine mercy is inexhaustible! Unction is about to be

+administered. Come.”

+

+Pierre went in at the door, stepping on the soft carpet, and noticed

+that the strange lady, the aide-de-camp, and some of the servants, all

+followed him in, as if there were now no further need for permission to

+enter that room.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XXIII

+

+Pierre well knew this large room divided by columns and an arch, its

+walls hung round with Persian carpets. The part of the room behind the

+columns, with a high silk-curtained mahogany bedstead on one side and

+on the other an immense case containing icons, was brightly illuminated

+with red light like a Russian church during evening service. Under

+the gleaming icons stood a long invalid chair, and in that chair

+on snowy-white smooth pillows, evidently freshly changed, Pierre

+saw—covered to the waist by a bright green quilt—the familiar,

+majestic figure of his father, Count Bezúkhov, with that gray mane of

+hair above his broad forehead which reminded one of a lion, and the deep

+characteristically noble wrinkles of his handsome, ruddy face. He lay

+just under the icons; his large thick hands outside the quilt. Into the

+right hand, which was lying palm downwards, a wax taper had been thrust

+between forefinger and thumb, and an old servant, bending over from

+behind the chair, held it in position. By the chair stood the priests,

+their long hair falling over their magnificent glittering vestments,

+with lighted tapers in their hands, slowly and solemnly conducting the

+service. A little behind them stood the two younger princesses holding

+handkerchiefs to their eyes, and just in front of them their eldest

+sister, Catiche, with a vicious and determined look steadily fixed on

+the icons, as though declaring to all that she could not answer for

+herself should she glance round. Anna Mikháylovna, with a meek,

+sorrowful, and all-forgiving expression on her face, stood by the door

+near the strange lady. Prince Vasíli in front of the door, near the

+invalid chair, a wax taper in his left hand, was leaning his left arm on

+the carved back of a velvet chair he had turned round for the purpose,

+and was crossing himself with his right hand, turning his eyes upward

+each time he touched his forehead. His face wore a calm look of piety

+and resignation to the will of God. “If you do not understand these

+sentiments,” he seemed to be saying, “so much the worse for you!”

+

+Behind him stood the aide-de-camp, the doctors, and the menservants;

+the men and women had separated as in church. All were silently crossing

+themselves, and the reading of the church service, the subdued chanting

+of deep bass voices, and in the intervals sighs and the shuffling of

+feet were the only sounds that could be heard. Anna Mikháylovna, with

+an air of importance that showed that she felt she quite knew what she

+was about, went across the room to where Pierre was standing and gave

+him a taper. He lit it and, distracted by observing those around him,

+began crossing himself with the hand that held the taper.

+

+Sophie, the rosy, laughter-loving, youngest princess with the mole,

+watched him. She smiled, hid her face in her handkerchief, and remained

+with it hidden for awhile; then looking up and seeing Pierre she

+again began to laugh. She evidently felt unable to look at him

+without laughing, but could not resist looking at him: so to be out of

+temptation she slipped quietly behind one of the columns. In the midst

+of the service the voices of the priests suddenly ceased, they whispered

+to one another, and the old servant who was holding the count’s hand

+got up and said something to the ladies. Anna Mikháylovna stepped

+forward and, stooping over the dying man, beckoned to Lorrain from

+behind her back. The French doctor held no taper; he was leaning

+against one of the columns in a respectful attitude implying that he,

+a foreigner, in spite of all differences of faith, understood the full

+importance of the rite now being performed and even approved of it. He

+now approached the sick man with the noiseless step of one in full vigor

+of life, with his delicate white fingers raised from the green quilt the

+hand that was free, and turning sideways felt the pulse and reflected

+a moment. The sick man was given something to drink, there was a

+stir around him, then the people resumed their places and the service

+continued. During this interval Pierre noticed that Prince Vasíli

+left the chair on which he had been leaning, and—with an air

+which intimated that he knew what he was about and if others did not

+understand him it was so much the worse for them—did not go up to the

+dying man, but passed by him, joined the eldest princess, and moved

+with her to the side of the room where stood the high bedstead with its

+silken hangings. On leaving the bed both Prince Vasíli and the princess

+passed out by a back door, but returned to their places one after the

+other before the service was concluded. Pierre paid no more attention

+to this occurrence than to the rest of what went on, having made up his

+mind once for all that what he saw happening around him that evening was

+in some way essential.

+

+The chanting of the service ceased, and the voice of the priest was

+heard respectfully congratulating the dying man on having received the

+sacrament. The dying man lay as lifeless and immovable as before. Around

+him everyone began to stir: steps were audible and whispers, among which

+Anna Mikháylovna’s was the most distinct.

+

+Pierre heard her say:

+

+“Certainly he must be moved onto the bed; here it will be

+impossible...”

+

+The sick man was so surrounded by doctors, princesses, and servants

+that Pierre could no longer see the reddish-yellow face with its gray

+mane—which, though he saw other faces as well, he had not lost sight

+of for a single moment during the whole service. He judged by the

+cautious movements of those who crowded round the invalid chair that

+they had lifted the dying man and were moving him.

+

+“Catch hold of my arm or you’ll drop him!” he heard one of the

+servants say in a frightened whisper. “Catch hold from underneath.

+Here!” exclaimed different voices; and the heavy breathing of the

+bearers and the shuffling of their feet grew more hurried, as if the

+weight they were carrying were too much for them.

+

+As the bearers, among whom was Anna Mikháylovna, passed the young man

+he caught a momentary glimpse between their heads and backs of the dying

+man’s high, stout, uncovered chest and powerful shoulders, raised by

+those who were holding him under the armpits, and of his gray, curly,

+leonine head. This head, with its remarkably broad brow and cheekbones,

+its handsome, sensual mouth, and its cold, majestic expression, was

+not disfigured by the approach of death. It was the same as Pierre

+remembered it three months before, when the count had sent him to

+Petersburg. But now this head was swaying helplessly with the uneven

+movements of the bearers, and the cold listless gaze fixed itself upon

+nothing.

+

+After a few minutes’ bustle beside the high bedstead, those who had

+carried the sick man dispersed. Anna Mikháylovna touched Pierre’s

+hand and said, “Come.” Pierre went with her to the bed on which the

+sick man had been laid in a stately pose in keeping with the ceremony

+just completed. He lay with his head propped high on the pillows. His

+hands were symmetrically placed on the green silk quilt, the palms

+downward. When Pierre came up the count was gazing straight at him, but

+with a look the significance of which could not be understood by mortal

+man. Either this look meant nothing but that as long as one has eyes

+they must look somewhere, or it meant too much. Pierre hesitated,

+not knowing what to do, and glanced inquiringly at his guide. Anna

+Mikháylovna made a hurried sign with her eyes, glancing at the sick

+man’s hand and moving her lips as if to send it a kiss. Pierre,

+carefully stretching his neck so as not to touch the quilt, followed her

+suggestion and pressed his lips to the large boned, fleshy hand. Neither

+the hand nor a single muscle of the count’s face stirred. Once more

+Pierre looked questioningly at Anna Mikháylovna to see what he was to

+do next. Anna Mikháylovna with her eyes indicated a chair that stood

+beside the bed. Pierre obediently sat down, his eyes asking if he were

+doing right. Anna Mikháylovna nodded approvingly. Again Pierre fell

+into the naïvely symmetrical pose of an Egyptian statue, evidently

+distressed that his stout and clumsy body took up so much room and doing

+his utmost to look as small as possible. He looked at the count, who

+still gazed at the spot where Pierre’s face had been before he sat

+down. Anna Mikháylovna indicated by her attitude her consciousness of

+the pathetic importance of these last moments of meeting between the

+father and son. This lasted about two minutes, which to Pierre seemed an

+hour. Suddenly the broad muscles and lines of the count’s face began

+to twitch. The twitching increased, the handsome mouth was drawn to one

+side (only now did Pierre realize how near death his father was), and

+from that distorted mouth issued an indistinct, hoarse sound. Anna

+Mikháylovna looked attentively at the sick man’s eyes, trying to

+guess what he wanted; she pointed first to Pierre, then to some drink,

+then named Prince Vasíli in an inquiring whisper, then pointed to the

+quilt. The eyes and face of the sick man showed impatience. He made an

+effort to look at the servant who stood constantly at the head of the

+bed.

+

+“Wants to turn on the other side,” whispered the servant, and got up

+to turn the count’s heavy body toward the wall.

+

+Pierre rose to help him.

+

+While the count was being turned over, one of his arms fell back

+helplessly and he made a fruitless effort to pull it forward. Whether he

+noticed the look of terror with which Pierre regarded that lifeless arm,

+or whether some other thought flitted across his dying brain, at any

+rate he glanced at the refractory arm, at Pierre’s terror-stricken

+face, and again at the arm, and on his face a feeble, piteous smile

+appeared, quite out of keeping with his features, that seemed to deride

+his own helplessness. At sight of this smile Pierre felt an unexpected

+quivering in his breast and a tickling in his nose, and tears dimmed his

+eyes. The sick man was turned on to his side with his face to the wall.

+He sighed.

+

+“He is dozing,” said Anna Mikháylovna, observing that one of the

+princesses was coming to take her turn at watching. “Let us go.”

+

+Pierre went out.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XXIV

+

+There was now no one in the reception room except Prince Vasíli and the

+eldest princess, who were sitting under the portrait of Catherine the

+Great and talking eagerly. As soon as they saw Pierre and his companion

+they became silent, and Pierre thought he saw the princess hide

+something as she whispered:

+

+“I can’t bear the sight of that woman.”

+

+“Catiche has had tea served in the small drawing room,” said Prince

+Vasíli to Anna Mikháylovna. “Go and take something, my poor Anna

+Mikháylovna, or you will not hold out.”

+

+To Pierre he said nothing, merely giving his arm a sympathetic squeeze

+below the shoulder. Pierre went with Anna Mikháylovna into the small

+drawing room.

+

+“There is nothing so refreshing after a sleepless night as a cup

+of this delicious Russian tea,” Lorrain was saying with an air of

+restrained animation as he stood sipping tea from a delicate Chinese

+handleless cup before a table on which tea and a cold supper were laid

+in the small circular room. Around the table all who were at Count

+Bezúkhov’s house that night had gathered to fortify themselves.

+Pierre well remembered this small circular drawing room with its mirrors

+and little tables. During balls given at the house Pierre, who did not

+know how to dance, had liked sitting in this room to watch the ladies

+who, as they passed through in their ball dresses with diamonds and

+pearls on their bare shoulders, looked at themselves in the brilliantly

+lighted mirrors which repeated their reflections several times. Now

+this same room was dimly lighted by two candles. On one small table tea

+things and supper dishes stood in disorder, and in the middle of the

+night a motley throng of people sat there, not merrymaking, but somberly

+whispering, and betraying by every word and movement that they none

+of them forgot what was happening and what was about to happen in the

+bedroom. Pierre did not eat anything though he would very much have

+liked to. He looked inquiringly at his monitress and saw that she was

+again going on tiptoe to the reception room where they had left Prince

+Vasíli and the eldest princess. Pierre concluded that this also was

+essential, and after a short interval followed her. Anna Mikháylovna

+was standing beside the princess, and they were both speaking in excited

+whispers.

+

+“Permit me, Princess, to know what is necessary and what is not

+necessary,” said the younger of the two speakers, evidently in the

+same state of excitement as when she had slammed the door of her room.

+

+“But, my dear princess,” answered Anna Mikháylovna blandly but

+impressively, blocking the way to the bedroom and preventing the other

+from passing, “won’t this be too much for poor Uncle at a moment

+when he needs repose? Worldly conversation at a moment when his soul is

+already prepared...”

+

+Prince Vasíli was seated in an easy chair in his familiar attitude,

+with one leg crossed high above the other. His cheeks, which were so

+flabby that they looked heavier below, were twitching violently; but

+he wore the air of a man little concerned in what the two ladies were

+saying.

+

+“Come, my dear Anna Mikháylovna, let Catiche do as she pleases. You

+know how fond the count is of her.”

+

+“I don’t even know what is in this paper,” said the younger of

+the two ladies, addressing Prince Vasíli and pointing to an inlaid

+portfolio she held in her hand. “All I know is that his real will is

+in his writing table, and this is a paper he has forgotten....”

+

+She tried to pass Anna Mikháylovna, but the latter sprang so as to bar

+her path.

+

+“I know, my dear, kind princess,” said Anna Mikháylovna, seizing

+the portfolio so firmly that it was plain she would not let go easily.

+“Dear princess, I beg and implore you, have some pity on him! Je vous

+en conjure...”

+

+The princess did not reply. Their efforts in the struggle for the

+portfolio were the only sounds audible, but it was evident that if

+the princess did speak, her words would not be flattering to Anna

+Mikháylovna. Though the latter held on tenaciously, her voice lost none

+of its honeyed firmness and softness.

+

+“Pierre, my dear, come here. I think he will not be out of place in a

+family consultation; is it not so, Prince?”

+

+“Why don’t you speak, cousin?” suddenly shrieked the princess so

+loud that those in the drawing room heard her and were startled. “Why

+do you remain silent when heaven knows who permits herself to

+interfere, making a scene on the very threshold of a dying man’s room?

+Intriguer!” she hissed viciously, and tugged with all her might at the

+portfolio.

+

+But Anna Mikháylovna went forward a step or two to keep her hold on the

+portfolio, and changed her grip.

+

+Prince Vasíli rose. “Oh!” said he with reproach and surprise,

+“this is absurd! Come, let go I tell you.”

+

+The princess let go.

+

+“And you too!”

+

+But Anna Mikháylovna did not obey him.

+

+“Let go, I tell you! I will take the responsibility. I myself will go

+and ask him, I!... does that satisfy you?”

+

+“But, Prince,” said Anna Mikháylovna, “after such a solemn

+sacrament, allow him a moment’s peace! Here, Pierre, tell them your

+opinion,” said she, turning to the young man who, having come quite

+close, was gazing with astonishment at the angry face of the princess

+which had lost all dignity, and at the twitching cheeks of Prince

+Vasíli.

+

+“Remember that you will answer for the consequences,” said Prince

+Vasíli severely. “You don’t know what you are doing.”

+

+“Vile woman!” shouted the princess, darting unexpectedly at Anna

+Mikháylovna and snatching the portfolio from her.

+

+Prince Vasíli bent his head and spread out his hands.

+

+At this moment that terrible door, which Pierre had watched so long

+and which had always opened so quietly, burst noisily open and banged

+against the wall, and the second of the three sisters rushed out

+wringing her hands.

+

+“What are you doing!” she cried vehemently. “He is dying and you

+leave me alone with him!”

+

+Her sister dropped the portfolio. Anna Mikháylovna, stooping, quickly

+caught up the object of contention and ran into the bedroom. The eldest

+princess and Prince Vasíli, recovering themselves, followed her. A few

+minutes later the eldest sister came out with a pale hard face, again

+biting her underlip. At sight of Pierre her expression showed an

+irrepressible hatred.

+

+“Yes, now you may be glad!” said she; “this is what you have

+been waiting for.” And bursting into tears she hid her face in her

+handkerchief and rushed from the room.

+

+Prince Vasíli came next. He staggered to the sofa on which Pierre was

+sitting and dropped onto it, covering his face with his hand. Pierre

+noticed that he was pale and that his jaw quivered and shook as if in an

+ague.

+

+“Ah, my friend!” said he, taking Pierre by the elbow; and there was

+in his voice a sincerity and weakness Pierre had never observed in it

+before. “How often we sin, how much we deceive, and all for what? I am

+near sixty, dear friend... I too... All will end in death, all! Death is

+awful...” and he burst into tears.

+

+Anna Mikháylovna came out last. She approached Pierre with slow, quiet

+steps.

+

+“Pierre!” she said.

+

+Pierre gave her an inquiring look. She kissed the young man on his

+forehead, wetting him with her tears. Then after a pause she said:

+

+“He is no more....”

+

+Pierre looked at her over his spectacles.

+

+“Come, I will go with you. Try to weep, nothing gives such relief as

+tears.”

+

+She led him into the dark drawing room and Pierre was glad no one could

+see his face. Anna Mikháylovna left him, and when she returned he was

+fast asleep with his head on his arm.

+

+In the morning Anna Mikháylovna said to Pierre:

+

+“Yes, my dear, this is a great loss for us all, not to speak of you.

+But God will support you: you are young, and are now, I hope, in command

+of an immense fortune. The will has not yet been opened. I know you

+well enough to be sure that this will not turn your head, but it imposes

+duties on you, and you must be a man.”

+

+Pierre was silent.

+

+“Perhaps later on I may tell you, my dear boy, that if I had not been

+there, God only knows what would have happened! You know, Uncle promised

+me only the day before yesterday not to forget Borís. But he had

+no time. I hope, my dear friend, you will carry out your father’s

+wish?”

+

+Pierre understood nothing of all this and coloring shyly looked in

+silence at Princess Anna Mikháylovna. After her talk with Pierre, Anna

+Mikháylovna returned to the Rostóvs’ and went to bed. On waking in

+the morning she told the Rostóvs and all her acquaintances the details

+of Count Bezúkhov’s death. She said the count had died as she would

+herself wish to die, that his end was not only touching but edifying. As

+to the last meeting between father and son, it was so touching that she

+could not think of it without tears, and did not know which had behaved

+better during those awful moments—the father who so remembered

+everything and everybody at last and had spoken such pathetic words to

+the son, or Pierre, whom it had been pitiful to see, so stricken was he

+with grief, though he tried hard to hide it in order not to sadden his

+dying father. “It is painful, but it does one good. It uplifts the

+soul to see such men as the old count and his worthy son,” said she.

+Of the behavior of the eldest princess and Prince Vasíli she spoke

+disapprovingly, but in whispers and as a great secret.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XXV

+

+At Bald Hills, Prince Nicholas Andréevich Bolkónski’s estate, the

+arrival of young Prince Andrew and his wife was daily expected, but

+this expectation did not upset the regular routine of life in the old

+prince’s household. General in Chief Prince Nicholas Andréevich

+(nicknamed in society, “the King of Prussia”) ever since the Emperor

+Paul had exiled him to his country estate had lived there continuously

+with his daughter, Princess Mary, and her companion, Mademoiselle

+Bourienne. Though in the new reign he was free to return to the

+capitals, he still continued to live in the country, remarking that

+anyone who wanted to see him could come the hundred miles from Moscow to

+Bald Hills, while he himself needed no one and nothing. He used to

+say that there are only two sources of human vice—idleness and

+superstition, and only two virtues—activity and intelligence. He

+himself undertook his daughter’s education, and to develop these two

+cardinal virtues in her gave her lessons in algebra and geometry

+till she was twenty, and arranged her life so that her whole time was

+occupied. He was himself always occupied: writing his memoirs, solving

+problems in higher mathematics, turning snuffboxes on a lathe, working

+in the garden, or superintending the building that was always going on

+at his estate. As regularity is a prime condition facilitating activity,

+regularity in his household was carried to the highest point of

+exactitude. He always came to table under precisely the same conditions,

+and not only at the same hour but at the same minute. With those about

+him, from his daughter to his serfs, the prince was sharp and invariably

+exacting, so that without being a hardhearted man he inspired such fear

+and respect as few hardhearted men would have aroused. Although he was

+in retirement and had now no influence in political affairs, every high

+official appointed to the province in which the prince’s estate lay

+considered it his duty to visit him and waited in the lofty antechamber

+just as the architect, gardener, or Princess Mary did, till the prince

+appeared punctually to the appointed hour. Everyone sitting in this

+antechamber experienced the same feeling of respect and even fear when

+the enormously high study door opened and showed the figure of a rather

+small old man, with powdered wig, small withered hands, and bushy gray

+eyebrows which, when he frowned, sometimes hid the gleam of his shrewd,

+youthfully glittering eyes.

+

+On the morning of the day that the young couple were to arrive, Princess

+Mary entered the antechamber as usual at the time appointed for the

+morning greeting, crossing herself with trepidation and repeating a

+silent prayer. Every morning she came in like that, and every morning

+prayed that the daily interview might pass off well.

+

+An old powdered manservant who was sitting in the antechamber rose

+quietly and said in a whisper: “Please walk in.”

+

+Through the door came the regular hum of a lathe. The princess timidly

+opened the door which moved noiselessly and easily. She paused at the

+entrance. The prince was working at the lathe and after glancing round

+continued his work.

+

+The enormous study was full of things evidently in constant use.

+The large table covered with books and plans, the tall glass-fronted

+bookcases with keys in the locks, the high desk for writing while

+standing up, on which lay an open exercise book, and the lathe with

+tools laid ready to hand and shavings scattered around—all indicated

+continuous, varied, and orderly activity. The motion of the small foot

+shod in a Tartar boot embroidered with silver, and the firm pressure

+of the lean sinewy hand, showed that the prince still possessed the

+tenacious endurance and vigor of hardy old age. After a few more turns

+of the lathe he removed his foot from the pedal, wiped his chisel,

+dropped it into a leather pouch attached to the lathe, and, approaching

+the table, summoned his daughter. He never gave his children a blessing,

+so he simply held out his bristly cheek (as yet unshaven) and, regarding

+her tenderly and attentively, said severely:

+

+“Quite well? All right then, sit down.” He took the exercise book

+containing lessons in geometry written by himself and drew up a chair

+with his foot.

+

+“For tomorrow!” said he, quickly finding the page and making a

+scratch from one paragraph to another with his hard nail.

+

+The princess bent over the exercise book on the table.

+

+“Wait a bit, here’s a letter for you,” said the old man suddenly,

+taking a letter addressed in a woman’s hand from a bag hanging above

+the table, onto which he threw it.

+

+At the sight of the letter red patches showed themselves on the

+princess’ face. She took it quickly and bent her head over it.

+

+“From Héloïse?” asked the prince with a cold smile that showed his

+still sound, yellowish teeth.

+

+“Yes, it’s from Julie,” replied the princess with a timid glance

+and a timid smile.

+

+“I’ll let two more letters pass, but the third I’ll read,” said

+the prince sternly; “I’m afraid you write much nonsense. I’ll read

+the third!”

+

+“Read this if you like, Father,” said the princess, blushing still

+more and holding out the letter.

+

+“The third, I said the third!” cried the prince abruptly, pushing

+the letter away, and leaning his elbows on the table he drew toward him

+the exercise book containing geometrical figures.

+

+“Well, madam,” he began, stooping over the book close to his

+daughter and placing an arm on the back of the chair on which she sat,

+so that she felt herself surrounded on all sides by the acrid scent of

+old age and tobacco, which she had known so long. “Now, madam, these

+triangles are equal; please note that the angle ABC...”

+

+The princess looked in a scared way at her father’s eyes glittering

+close to her; the red patches on her face came and went, and it was

+plain that she understood nothing and was so frightened that her

+fear would prevent her understanding any of her father’s further

+explanations, however clear they might be. Whether it was the

+teacher’s fault or the pupil’s, this same thing happened every day:

+the princess’ eyes grew dim, she could not see and could not hear

+anything, but was only conscious of her stern father’s withered face

+close to her, of his breath and the smell of him, and could think only

+of how to get away quickly to her own room to make out the problem in

+peace. The old man was beside himself: moved the chair on which he was

+sitting noisily backward and forward, made efforts to control himself

+and not become vehement, but almost always did become vehement, scolded,

+and sometimes flung the exercise book away.

+

+The princess gave a wrong answer.

+

+“Well now, isn’t she a fool!” shouted the prince, pushing the book

+aside and turning sharply away; but rising immediately, he paced up and

+down, lightly touched his daughter’s hair and sat down again.

+

+He drew up his chair, and continued to explain.

+

+“This won’t do, Princess; it won’t do,” said he, when Princess

+Mary, having taken and closed the exercise book with the next day’s

+lesson, was about to leave: “Mathematics are most important, madam!

+I don’t want to have you like our silly ladies. Get used to it and

+you’ll like it,” and he patted her cheek. “It will drive all the

+nonsense out of your head.”

+

+She turned to go, but he stopped her with a gesture and took an uncut

+book from the high desk.

+

+“Here is some sort of Key to the Mysteries that your Héloïse has

+sent you. Religious! I don’t interfere with anyone’s belief... I

+have looked at it. Take it. Well, now go. Go.”

+

+He patted her on the shoulder and himself closed the door after her.

+

+Princess Mary went back to her room with the sad, scared expression that

+rarely left her and which made her plain, sickly face yet plainer. She

+sat down at her writing table, on which stood miniature portraits and

+which was littered with books and papers. The princess was as untidy as

+her father was tidy. She put down the geometry book and eagerly broke

+the seal of her letter. It was from her most intimate friend from

+childhood; that same Julie Karágina who had been at the Rostóvs’

+name-day party.

+

+Julie wrote in French:

+

+Dear and precious Friend, How terrible and frightful a thing is

+separation! Though I tell myself that half my life and half my happiness

+are wrapped up in you, and that in spite of the distance separating us

+our hearts are united by indissoluble bonds, my heart rebels against

+fate and in spite of the pleasures and distractions around me I cannot

+overcome a certain secret sorrow that has been in my heart ever since

+we parted. Why are we not together as we were last summer, in your big

+study, on the blue sofa, the confidential sofa? Why cannot I now, as

+three months ago, draw fresh moral strength from your look, so gentle,

+calm, and penetrating, a look I loved so well and seem to see before me

+as I write?

+

+Having read thus far, Princess Mary sighed and glanced into the mirror

+which stood on her right. It reflected a weak, ungraceful figure and

+thin face. Her eyes, always sad, now looked with particular hopelessness

+at her reflection in the glass. “She flatters me,” thought the

+princess, turning away and continuing to read. But Julie did not flatter

+her friend, the princess’ eyes—large, deep and luminous (it seemed

+as if at times there radiated from them shafts of warm light)—were

+so beautiful that very often in spite of the plainness of her face

+they gave her an attraction more powerful than that of beauty. But the

+princess never saw the beautiful expression of her own eyes—the look

+they had when she was not thinking of herself. As with everyone, her

+face assumed a forced unnatural expression as soon as she looked in a

+glass. She went on reading:

+

+All Moscow talks of nothing but war. One of my two brothers is already

+abroad, the other is with the Guards, who are starting on their march

+to the frontier. Our dear Emperor has left Petersburg and it is thought

+intends to expose his precious person to the chances of war. God grant

+that the Corsican monster who is destroying the peace of Europe may

+be overthrown by the angel whom it has pleased the Almighty, in His

+goodness, to give us as sovereign! To say nothing of my brothers, this

+war has deprived me of one of the associations nearest my heart. I mean

+young Nicholas Rostóv, who with his enthusiasm could not bear to remain

+inactive and has left the university to join the army. I will confess to

+you, dear Mary, that in spite of his extreme youth his departure for

+the army was a great grief to me. This young man, of whom I spoke to you

+last summer, is so noble-minded and full of that real youthfulness which

+one seldom finds nowadays among our old men of twenty and, particularly,

+he is so frank and has so much heart. He is so pure and poetic that

+my relations with him, transient as they were, have been one of the

+sweetest comforts to my poor heart, which has already suffered so much.

+Someday I will tell you about our parting and all that was said then.

+That is still too fresh. Ah, dear friend, you are happy not to know

+these poignant joys and sorrows. You are fortunate, for the latter are

+generally the stronger! I know very well that Count Nicholas is too

+young ever to be more to me than a friend, but this sweet friendship,

+this poetic and pure intimacy, were what my heart needed. But enough of

+this! The chief news, about which all Moscow gossips, is the death of

+old Count Bezúkhov, and his inheritance. Fancy! The three princesses

+have received very little, Prince Vasíli nothing, and it is Monsieur

+Pierre who has inherited all the property and has besides been

+recognized as legitimate; so that he is now Count Bezúkhov and

+possessor of the finest fortune in Russia. It is rumored that Prince

+Vasíli played a very despicable part in this affair and that he

+returned to Petersburg quite crestfallen.

+

+I confess I understand very little about all these matters of wills and

+inheritance; but I do know that since this young man, whom we all used

+to know as plain Monsieur Pierre, has become Count Bezúkhov and the

+owner of one of the largest fortunes in Russia, I am much amused to

+watch the change in the tone and manners of the mammas burdened by

+marriageable daughters, and of the young ladies themselves, toward

+him, though, between you and me, he always seemed to me a poor sort

+of fellow. As for the past two years people have amused themselves

+by finding husbands for me (most of whom I don’t even know), the

+matchmaking chronicles of Moscow now speak of me as the future Countess

+Bezúkhova. But you will understand that I have no desire for the post.

+À propos of marriages: do you know that a while ago that universal

+auntie Anna Mikháylovna told me, under the seal of strict secrecy, of

+a plan of marriage for you. It is neither more nor less than with Prince

+Vasíli’s son Anatole, whom they wish to reform by marrying him to

+someone rich and distinguée, and it is on you that his relations’

+choice has fallen. I don’t know what you will think of it, but

+I consider it my duty to let you know of it. He is said to be very

+handsome and a terrible scapegrace. That is all I have been able to find

+out about him.

+

+But enough of gossip. I am at the end of my second sheet of paper, and

+Mamma has sent for me to go and dine at the Apráksins’. Read the

+mystical book I am sending you; it has an enormous success here. Though

+there are things in it difficult for the feeble human mind to grasp, it

+is an admirable book which calms and elevates the soul. Adieu! Give

+my respects to monsieur your father and my compliments to Mademoiselle

+Bourienne. I embrace you as I love you.

+

+JULIE

+

+P.S. Let me have news of your brother and his charming little wife.

+

+The princess pondered awhile with a thoughtful smile and her luminous

+eyes lit up so that her face was entirely transformed. Then she suddenly

+rose and with her heavy tread went up to the table. She took a sheet of

+paper and her hand moved rapidly over it. This is the reply she wrote,

+also in French:

+

+Dear and precious Friend, Your letter of the 13th has given me great

+delight. So you still love me, my romantic Julie? Separation, of which

+you say so much that is bad, does not seem to have had its usual effect

+on you. You complain of our separation. What then should I say, if I

+dared complain, I who am deprived of all who are dear to me? Ah, if

+we had not religion to console us life would be very sad. Why do you

+suppose that I should look severely on your affection for that young

+man? On such matters I am only severe with myself. I understand such

+feelings in others, and if never having felt them I cannot approve of

+them, neither do I condemn them. Only it seems to me that Christian

+love, love of one’s neighbor, love of one’s enemy, is worthier,

+sweeter, and better than the feelings which the beautiful eyes of a

+young man can inspire in a romantic and loving young girl like yourself.

+

+The news of Count Bezúkhov’s death reached us before your letter

+and my father was much affected by it. He says the count was the last

+representative but one of the great century, and that it is his own

+turn now, but that he will do all he can to let his turn come as late as

+possible. God preserve us from that terrible misfortune!

+

+I cannot agree with you about Pierre, whom I knew as a child. He always

+seemed to me to have an excellent heart, and that is the quality I value

+most in people. As to his inheritance and the part played by Prince

+Vasíli, it is very sad for both. Ah, my dear friend, our divine

+Saviour’s words, that it is easier for a camel to go through the

+eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of God, are

+terribly true. I pity Prince Vasíli but am still more sorry for Pierre.

+So young, and burdened with such riches—to what temptations he will be

+exposed! If I were asked what I desire most on earth, it would be to be

+poorer than the poorest beggar. A thousand thanks, dear friend, for the

+volume you have sent me and which has such success in Moscow. Yet since

+you tell me that among some good things it contains others which our

+weak human understanding cannot grasp, it seems to me rather useless to

+spend time in reading what is unintelligible and can therefore bear

+no fruit. I never could understand the fondness some people have for

+confusing their minds by dwelling on mystical books that merely awaken

+their doubts and excite their imagination, giving them a bent for

+exaggeration quite contrary to Christian simplicity. Let us rather read

+the Epistles and Gospels. Let us not seek to penetrate what mysteries

+they contain; for how can we, miserable sinners that we are, know the

+terrible and holy secrets of Providence while we remain in this flesh

+which forms an impenetrable veil between us and the Eternal? Let us

+rather confine ourselves to studying those sublime rules which our

+divine Saviour has left for our guidance here below. Let us try to

+conform to them and follow them, and let us be persuaded that the less

+we let our feeble human minds roam, the better we shall please God, who

+rejects all knowledge that does not come from Him; and the less we seek

+to fathom what He has been pleased to conceal from us, the sooner will

+He vouchsafe its revelation to us through His divine Spirit.

+

+My father has not spoken to me of a suitor, but has only told me that he

+has received a letter and is expecting a visit from Prince Vasíli. In

+regard to this project of marriage for me, I will tell you, dear sweet

+friend, that I look on marriage as a divine institution to which we must

+conform. However painful it may be to me, should the Almighty lay

+the duties of wife and mother upon me I shall try to perform them as

+faithfully as I can, without disquieting myself by examining my feelings

+toward him whom He may give me for husband.

+

+I have had a letter from my brother, who announces his speedy arrival

+at Bald Hills with his wife. This pleasure will be but a brief one,

+however, for he will leave us again to take part in this unhappy war

+into which we have been drawn, God knows how or why. Not only where you

+are—at the heart of affairs and of the world—is the talk all of

+war, even here amid fieldwork and the calm of nature—which townsfolk

+consider characteristic of the country—rumors of war are heard

+and painfully felt. My father talks of nothing but marches and

+countermarches, things of which I understand nothing; and the day

+before yesterday during my daily walk through the village I witnessed a

+heartrending scene.... It was a convoy of conscripts enrolled from our

+people and starting to join the army. You should have seen the state of

+the mothers, wives, and children of the men who were going and should

+have heard the sobs. It seems as though mankind has forgotten the

+laws of its divine Saviour, Who preached love and forgiveness of

+injuries—and that men attribute the greatest merit to skill in killing

+one another.

+

+Adieu, dear and kind friend; may our divine Saviour and His most Holy

+Mother keep you in their holy and all-powerful care!

+

+MARY

+

+“Ah, you are sending off a letter, Princess? I have already dispatched

+mine. I have written to my poor mother,” said the smiling Mademoiselle

+Bourienne rapidly, in her pleasant mellow tones and with guttural r’s.

+She brought into Princess Mary’s strenuous, mournful, and gloomy

+world a quite different atmosphere, careless, lighthearted, and

+self-satisfied.

+

+“Princess, I must warn you,” she added, lowering her voice and

+evidently listening to herself with pleasure, and speaking with

+exaggerated grasseyement, “the prince has been scolding Michael

+Ivánovich. He is in a very bad humor, very morose. Be prepared.”

+

+“Ah, dear friend,” replied Princess Mary, “I have asked you never

+to warn me of the humor my father is in. I do not allow myself to judge

+him and would not have others do so.”

+

+The princess glanced at her watch and, seeing that she was five minutes

+late in starting her practice on the clavichord, went into the sitting

+room with a look of alarm. Between twelve and two o’clock, as the

+day was mapped out, the prince rested and the princess played the

+clavichord.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XXVI

+

+The gray-haired valet was sitting drowsily listening to the snoring of

+the prince, who was in his large study. From the far side of the house

+through the closed doors came the sound of difficult passages—twenty

+times repeated—of a sonata by Dussek.

+

+Just then a closed carriage and another with a hood drove up to the

+porch. Prince Andrew got out of the carriage, helped his little wife to

+alight, and let her pass into the house before him. Old Tíkhon, wearing

+a wig, put his head out of the door of the antechamber, reported in

+a whisper that the prince was sleeping, and hastily closed the door.

+Tíkhon knew that neither the son’s arrival nor any other unusual

+event must be allowed to disturb the appointed order of the day. Prince

+Andrew apparently knew this as well as Tíkhon; he looked at his watch

+as if to ascertain whether his father’s habits had changed since he

+was at home last, and, having assured himself that they had not, he

+turned to his wife.

+

+“He will get up in twenty minutes. Let us go across to Mary’s

+room,” he said.

+

+The little princess had grown stouter during this time, but her eyes

+and her short, downy, smiling lip lifted when she began to speak just as

+merrily and prettily as ever.

+

+“Why, this is a palace!” she said to her husband, looking around

+with the expression with which people compliment their host at a ball.

+“Let’s come, quick, quick!” And with a glance round, she smiled at

+Tíkhon, at her husband, and at the footman who accompanied them.

+

+“Is that Mary practicing? Let’s go quietly and take her by

+surprise.”

+

+Prince Andrew followed her with a courteous but sad expression.

+

+“You’ve grown older, Tíkhon,” he said in passing to the old man,

+who kissed his hand.

+

+Before they reached the room from which the sounds of the clavichord

+came, the pretty, fair-haired Frenchwoman, Mademoiselle Bourienne,

+rushed out apparently beside herself with delight.

+

+“Ah! what joy for the princess!” exclaimed she: “At last! I must

+let her know.”

+

+“No, no, please not... You are Mademoiselle Bourienne,” said

+the little princess, kissing her. “I know you already through my

+sister-in-law’s friendship for you. She was not expecting us?”

+

+They went up to the door of the sitting room from which came the sound

+of the oft-repeated passage of the sonata. Prince Andrew stopped and

+made a grimace, as if expecting something unpleasant.

+

+The little princess entered the room. The passage broke off in the

+middle, a cry was heard, then Princess Mary’s heavy tread and the

+sound of kissing. When Prince Andrew went in the two princesses, who

+had only met once before for a short time at his wedding, were in

+each other’s arms warmly pressing their lips to whatever place they

+happened to touch. Mademoiselle Bourienne stood near them pressing her

+hand to her heart, with a beatific smile and obviously equally ready to

+cry or to laugh. Prince Andrew shrugged his shoulders and frowned, as

+lovers of music do when they hear a false note. The two women let go

+of one another, and then, as if afraid of being too late, seized each

+other’s hands, kissing them and pulling them away, and again began

+kissing each other on the face, and then to Prince Andrew’s surprise

+both began to cry and kissed again. Mademoiselle Bourienne also began to

+cry. Prince Andrew evidently felt ill at ease, but to the two women

+it seemed quite natural that they should cry, and apparently it never

+entered their heads that it could have been otherwise at this meeting.

+

+“Ah! my dear!... Ah! Mary!...” they suddenly exclaimed, and then

+laughed. “I dreamed last night...”—“You were not expecting

+us?...” “Ah! Mary, you have got thinner?...” “And you have grown

+stouter!...”

+

+“I knew the princess at once,” put in Mademoiselle Bourienne.

+

+“And I had no idea!...” exclaimed Princess Mary. “Ah, Andrew, I

+did not see you.”

+

+Prince Andrew and his sister, hand in hand, kissed one another, and

+he told her she was still the same crybaby as ever. Princess Mary had

+turned toward her brother, and through her tears the loving, warm,

+gentle look of her large luminous eyes, very beautiful at that moment,

+rested on Prince Andrew’s face.

+

+The little princess talked incessantly, her short, downy upper lip

+continually and rapidly touching her rosy nether lip when necessary

+and drawing up again next moment when her face broke into a smile of

+glittering teeth and sparkling eyes. She told of an accident they had

+had on the Spásski Hill which might have been serious for her in her

+condition, and immediately after that informed them that she had left

+all her clothes in Petersburg and that heaven knew what she would have

+to dress in here; and that Andrew had quite changed, and that Kitty

+Odýntsova had married an old man, and that there was a suitor for Mary,

+a real one, but that they would talk of that later. Princess Mary was

+still looking silently at her brother and her beautiful eyes were full

+of love and sadness. It was plain that she was following a train of

+thought independent of her sister-in-law’s words. In the midst of a

+description of the last Petersburg fete she addressed her brother:

+

+“So you are really going to the war, Andrew?” she said sighing.

+

+Lise sighed too.

+

+“Yes, and even tomorrow,” replied her brother.

+

+“He is leaving me here, God knows why, when he might have had

+promotion...”

+

+Princess Mary did not listen to the end, but continuing her train of

+thought turned to her sister-in-law with a tender glance at her figure.

+

+“Is it certain?” she said.

+

+The face of the little princess changed. She sighed and said: “Yes,

+quite certain. Ah! it is very dreadful...”

+

+Her lip descended. She brought her face close to her sister-in-law’s

+and unexpectedly again began to cry.

+

+“She needs rest,” said Prince Andrew with a frown. “Don’t you,

+Lise? Take her to your room and I’ll go to Father. How is he? Just the

+same?”

+

+“Yes, just the same. Though I don’t know what your opinion will

+be,” answered the princess joyfully.

+

+“And are the hours the same? And the walks in the avenues? And the

+lathe?” asked Prince Andrew with a scarcely perceptible smile which

+showed that, in spite of all his love and respect for his father, he was

+aware of his weaknesses.

+

+“The hours are the same, and the lathe, and also the mathematics and

+my geometry lessons,” said Princess Mary gleefully, as if her lessons

+in geometry were among the greatest delights of her life.

+

+When the twenty minutes had elapsed and the time had come for the old

+prince to get up, Tíkhon came to call the young prince to his father.

+The old man made a departure from his usual routine in honor of his

+son’s arrival: he gave orders to admit him to his apartments while

+he dressed for dinner. The old prince always dressed in old-fashioned

+style, wearing an antique coat and powdered hair; and when Prince Andrew

+entered his father’s dressing room (not with the contemptuous look and

+manner he wore in drawing rooms, but with the animated face with which

+he talked to Pierre), the old man was sitting on a large leather-covered

+chair, wrapped in a powdering mantle, entrusting his head to Tíkhon.

+

+“Ah! here’s the warrior! Wants to vanquish Buonaparte?” said the

+old man, shaking his powdered head as much as the tail, which Tíkhon

+was holding fast to plait, would allow.

+

+“You at least must tackle him properly, or else if he goes on like

+this he’ll soon have us, too, for his subjects! How are you?” And he

+held out his cheek.

+

+The old man was in a good temper after his nap before dinner. (He

+used to say that a nap “after dinner was silver—before dinner,

+golden.”) He cast happy, sidelong glances at his son from under his

+thick, bushy eyebrows. Prince Andrew went up and kissed his father on

+the spot indicated to him. He made no reply on his father’s favorite

+topic—making fun of the military men of the day, and more particularly

+of Bonaparte.

+

+“Yes, Father, I have come to you and brought my wife who is

+pregnant,” said Prince Andrew, following every movement of his

+father’s face with an eager and respectful look. “How is your

+health?”

+

+“Only fools and rakes fall ill, my boy. You know me: I am busy from

+morning till night and abstemious, so of course I am well.”

+

+“Thank God,” said his son smiling.

+

+“God has nothing to do with it! Well, go on,” he continued,

+returning to his hobby; “tell me how the Germans have taught you to

+fight Bonaparte by this new science you call ‘strategy.’”

+

+Prince Andrew smiled.

+

+“Give me time to collect my wits, Father,” said he, with a smile

+that showed that his father’s foibles did not prevent his son from

+loving and honoring him. “Why, I have not yet had time to settle

+down!”

+

+“Nonsense, nonsense!” cried the old man, shaking his pigtail to

+see whether it was firmly plaited, and grasping his by the hand. “The

+house for your wife is ready. Princess Mary will take her there and

+show her over, and they’ll talk nineteen to the dozen. That’s

+their woman’s way! I am glad to have her. Sit down and talk. About

+Mikhelson’s army I understand—Tolstóy ‘s too... a simultaneous

+expedition.... But what’s the southern army to do? Prussia is

+neutral... I know that. What about Austria?” said he, rising from his

+chair and pacing up and down the room followed by Tíkhon, who ran after

+him, handing him different articles of clothing. “What of Sweden? How

+will they cross Pomerania?”

+

+Prince Andrew, seeing that his father insisted, began—at first

+reluctantly, but gradually with more and more animation, and from habit

+changing unconsciously from Russian to French as he went on—to explain

+the plan of operation for the coming campaign. He explained how an army,

+ninety thousand strong, was to threaten Prussia so as to bring her out

+of her neutrality and draw her into the war; how part of that army was

+to join some Swedish forces at Stralsund; how two hundred and twenty

+thousand Austrians, with a hundred thousand Russians, were to operate in

+Italy and on the Rhine; how fifty thousand Russians and as many English

+were to land at Naples, and how a total force of five hundred thousand

+men was to attack the French from different sides. The old prince did

+not evince the least interest during this explanation, but as if he were

+not listening to it continued to dress while walking about, and three

+times unexpectedly interrupted. Once he stopped it by shouting: “The

+white one, the white one!”

+

+This meant that Tíkhon was not handing him the waistcoat he wanted.

+Another time he interrupted, saying:

+

+“And will she soon be confined?” and shaking his head reproachfully

+said: “That’s bad! Go on, go on.”

+

+The third interruption came when Prince Andrew was finishing his

+description. The old man began to sing, in the cracked voice of old age:

+“Malbrook s’en va-t-en guerre. Dieu sait quand reviendra.” *

+

+     * “Marlborough is going to the wars; God knows when he’ll

+     return.”

+

+

+His son only smiled.

+

+“I don’t say it’s a plan I approve of,” said the son; “I am

+only telling you what it is. Napoleon has also formed his plan by now,

+not worse than this one.”

+

+“Well, you’ve told me nothing new,” and the old man repeated,

+meditatively and rapidly:

+

+“Dieu sait quand reviendra. Go to the dining room.”

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XXVII

+

+At the appointed hour the prince, powdered and shaven, entered the

+dining room where his daughter-in-law, Princess Mary, and Mademoiselle

+Bourienne were already awaiting him together with his architect, who by

+a strange caprice of his employer’s was admitted to table though the

+position of that insignificant individual was such as could certainly

+not have caused him to expect that honor. The prince, who generally kept

+very strictly to social distinctions and rarely admitted even important

+government officials to his table, had unexpectedly selected Michael

+Ivánovich (who always went into a corner to blow his nose on his

+checked handkerchief) to illustrate the theory that all men are equals,

+and had more than once impressed on his daughter that Michael Ivánovich

+was “not a whit worse than you or I.” At dinner the prince usually

+spoke to the taciturn Michael Ivánovich more often than to anyone else.

+

+In the dining room, which like all the rooms in the house was

+exceedingly lofty, the members of the household and the footmen—one

+behind each chair—stood waiting for the prince to enter. The head

+butler, napkin on arm, was scanning the setting of the table, making

+signs to the footmen, and anxiously glancing from the clock to the door

+by which the prince was to enter. Prince Andrew was looking at a large

+gilt frame, new to him, containing the genealogical tree of the Princes

+Bolkónski, opposite which hung another such frame with a badly painted

+portrait (evidently by the hand of the artist belonging to the estate)

+of a ruling prince, in a crown—an alleged descendant of Rúrik and

+ancestor of the Bolkónskis. Prince Andrew, looking again at that

+genealogical tree, shook his head, laughing as a man laughs who looks at

+a portrait so characteristic of the original as to be amusing.

+

+“How thoroughly like him that is!” he said to Princess Mary, who had

+come up to him.

+

+Princess Mary looked at her brother in surprise. She did not understand

+what he was laughing at. Everything her father did inspired her with

+reverence and was beyond question.

+

+“Everyone has his Achilles’ heel,” continued Prince Andrew.

+“Fancy, with his powerful mind, indulging in such nonsense!”

+

+Princess Mary could not understand the boldness of her brother’s

+criticism and was about to reply, when the expected footsteps were heard

+coming from the study. The prince walked in quickly and jauntily as was

+his wont, as if intentionally contrasting the briskness of his manners

+with the strict formality of his house. At that moment the great clock

+struck two and another with a shrill tone joined in from the drawing

+room. The prince stood still; his lively glittering eyes from under

+their thick, bushy eyebrows sternly scanned all present and rested on

+the little princess. She felt, as courtiers do when the Tsar enters, the

+sensation of fear and respect which the old man inspired in all around

+him. He stroked her hair and then patted her awkwardly on the back of

+her neck.

+

+“I’m glad, glad, to see you,” he said, looking attentively into

+her eyes, and then quickly went to his place and sat down. “Sit down,

+sit down! Sit down, Michael Ivánovich!”

+

+He indicated a place beside him to his daughter-in-law. A footman moved

+the chair for her.

+

+“Ho, ho!” said the old man, casting his eyes on her rounded figure.

+“You’ve been in a hurry. That’s bad!”

+

+He laughed in his usual dry, cold, unpleasant way, with his lips only

+and not with his eyes.

+

+“You must walk, walk as much as possible, as much as possible,” he

+said.

+

+The little princess did not, or did not wish to, hear his words. She was

+silent and seemed confused. The prince asked her about her father, and

+she began to smile and talk. He asked about mutual acquaintances, and

+she became still more animated and chattered away giving him greetings

+from various people and retelling the town gossip.

+

+“Countess Apráksina, poor thing, has lost her husband and she has

+cried her eyes out,” she said, growing more and more lively.

+

+As she became animated the prince looked at her more and more sternly,

+and suddenly, as if he had studied her sufficiently and had formed a

+definite idea of her, he turned away and addressed Michael Ivánovich.

+

+“Well, Michael Ivánovich, our Bonaparte will be having a bad time

+of it. Prince Andrew” (he always spoke thus of his son) “has been

+telling me what forces are being collected against him! While you and I

+never thought much of him.”

+

+Michael Ivánovich did not at all know when “you and I” had said

+such things about Bonaparte, but understanding that he was wanted as

+a peg on which to hang the prince’s favorite topic, he looked

+inquiringly at the young prince, wondering what would follow.

+

+“He is a great tactician!” said the prince to his son, pointing to

+the architect.

+

+And the conversation again turned on the war, on Bonaparte, and the

+generals and statesmen of the day. The old prince seemed convinced not

+only that all the men of the day were mere babies who did not know the

+A B C of war or of politics, and that Bonaparte was an insignificant

+little Frenchy, successful only because there were no longer any

+Potëmkins or Suvórovs left to oppose him; but he was also convinced

+that there were no political difficulties in Europe and no real war,

+but only a sort of puppet show at which the men of the day were playing,

+pretending to do something real. Prince Andrew gaily bore with his

+father’s ridicule of the new men, and drew him on and listened to him

+with evident pleasure.

+

+“The past always seems good,” said he, “but did not Suvórov

+himself fall into a trap Moreau set him, and from which he did not know

+how to escape?”

+

+“Who told you that? Who?” cried the prince. “Suvórov!” And he

+jerked away his plate, which Tíkhon briskly caught. “Suvórov!...

+Consider, Prince Andrew. Two... Frederick and Suvórov; Moreau!...

+Moreau would have been a prisoner if Suvórov had had a free hand; but

+he had the Hofs-kriegs-wurst-schnapps-Rath on his hands. It would have

+puzzled the devil himself! When you get there you’ll find out what

+those Hofs-kriegs-wurst-Raths are! Suvórov couldn’t manage them so

+what chance has Michael Kutúzov? No, my dear boy,” he continued,

+“you and your generals won’t get on against Buonaparte; you’ll

+have to call in the French, so that birds of a feather may fight

+together. The German, Pahlen, has been sent to New York in America, to

+fetch the Frenchman, Moreau,” he said, alluding to the invitation made

+that year to Moreau to enter the Russian service.... “Wonderful!...

+Were the Potëmkins, Suvórovs, and Orlóvs Germans? No, lad, either you

+fellows have all lost your wits, or I have outlived mine. May God help

+you, but we’ll see what will happen. Buonaparte has become a great

+commander among them! Hm!...”

+

+“I don’t at all say that all the plans are good,” said Prince

+Andrew, “I am only surprised at your opinion of Bonaparte. You

+may laugh as much as you like, but all the same Bonaparte is a great

+general!”

+

+“Michael Ivánovich!” cried the old prince to the architect who,

+busy with his roast meat, hoped he had been forgotten: “Didn’t

+I tell you Buonaparte was a great tactician? Here, he says the same

+thing.”

+

+“To be sure, your excellency,” replied the architect.

+

+The prince again laughed his frigid laugh.

+

+“Buonaparte was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He has got

+splendid soldiers. Besides he began by attacking Germans. And only

+idlers have failed to beat the Germans. Since the world began everybody

+has beaten the Germans. They beat no one—except one another. He made

+his reputation fighting them.”

+

+And the prince began explaining all the blunders which, according to

+him, Bonaparte had made in his campaigns and even in politics. His

+son made no rejoinder, but it was evident that whatever arguments were

+presented he was as little able as his father to change his opinion. He

+listened, refraining from a reply, and involuntarily wondered how this

+old man, living alone in the country for so many years, could know and

+discuss so minutely and acutely all the recent European military and

+political events.

+

+“You think I’m an old man and don’t understand the present state

+of affairs?” concluded his father. “But it troubles me. I don’t

+sleep at night. Come now, where has this great commander of yours shown

+his skill?” he concluded.

+

+“That would take too long to tell,” answered the son.

+

+“Well, then go off to your Buonaparte! Mademoiselle Bourienne,

+here’s another admirer of that powder-monkey emperor of yours,” he

+exclaimed in excellent French.

+

+“You know, Prince, I am not a Bonapartist!”

+

+“Dieu sait quand reviendra.” hummed the prince out of tune and, with

+a laugh still more so, he quitted the table.

+

+The little princess during the whole discussion and the rest of

+the dinner sat silent, glancing with a frightened look now at her

+father-in-law and now at Princess Mary. When they left the table she

+took her sister-in-law’s arm and drew her into another room.

+

+“What a clever man your father is,” said she; “perhaps that is why

+I am afraid of him.”

+

+“Oh, he is so kind!” answered Princess Mary.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XXVIII

+

+Prince Andrew was to leave next evening. The old prince, not altering

+his routine, retired as usual after dinner. The little princess was in

+her sister-in-law’s room. Prince Andrew in a traveling coat without

+epaulettes had been packing with his valet in the rooms assigned to him.

+After inspecting the carriage himself and seeing the trunks put in, he

+ordered the horses to be harnessed. Only those things he always kept

+with him remained in his room; a small box, a large canteen fitted

+with silver plate, two Turkish pistols and a saber—a present from

+his father who had brought it from the siege of Ochákov. All these

+traveling effects of Prince Andrew’s were in very good order: new,

+clean, and in cloth covers carefully tied with tapes.

+

+When starting on a journey or changing their mode of life, men capable

+of reflection are generally in a serious frame of mind. At such moments

+one reviews the past and plans for the future. Prince Andrew’s face

+looked very thoughtful and tender. With his hands behind him he paced

+briskly from corner to corner of the room, looking straight before him

+and thoughtfully shaking his head. Did he fear going to the war, or was

+he sad at leaving his wife?—perhaps both, but evidently he did not

+wish to be seen in that mood, for hearing footsteps in the passage he

+hurriedly unclasped his hands, stopped at a table as if tying the

+cover of the small box, and assumed his usual tranquil and impenetrable

+expression. It was the heavy tread of Princess Mary that he heard.

+

+“I hear you have given orders to harness,” she cried, panting (she

+had apparently been running), “and I did so wish to have another talk

+with you alone! God knows how long we may again be parted. You are not

+angry with me for coming? You have changed so, Andrúsha,” she added,

+as if to explain such a question.

+

+She smiled as she uttered his pet name, “Andrúsha.” It was

+obviously strange to her to think that this stern handsome man should be

+Andrúsha—the slender mischievous boy who had been her playfellow in

+childhood.

+

+“And where is Lise?” he asked, answering her question only by a

+smile.

+

+“She was so tired that she has fallen asleep on the sofa in my room.

+Oh, Andrew! What a treasure of a wife you have,” said she, sitting

+down on the sofa, facing her brother. “She is quite a child: such a

+dear, merry child. I have grown so fond of her.”

+

+Prince Andrew was silent, but the princess noticed the ironical and

+contemptuous look that showed itself on his face.

+

+“One must be indulgent to little weaknesses; who is free from them,

+Andrew? Don’t forget that she has grown up and been educated in

+society, and so her position now is not a rosy one. We should enter into

+everyone’s situation. Tout comprendre, c’est tout pardonner. * Think

+what it must be for her, poor thing, after what she has been used to,

+to be parted from her husband and be left alone in the country, in her

+condition! It’s very hard.”

+

+     * To understand all is to forgive all.

+

+Prince Andrew smiled as he looked at his sister, as we smile at those we

+think we thoroughly understand.

+

+“You live in the country and don’t think the life terrible,” he

+replied.

+

+“I... that’s different. Why speak of me? I don’t want any other

+life, and can’t, for I know no other. But think, Andrew: for a young

+society woman to be buried in the country during the best years of her

+life, all alone—for Papa is always busy, and I... well, you know what

+poor resources I have for entertaining a woman used to the best society.

+There is only Mademoiselle Bourienne....”

+

+“I don’t like your Mademoiselle Bourienne at all,” said Prince

+Andrew.

+

+“No? She is very nice and kind and, above all, she’s much to be

+pitied. She has no one, no one. To tell the truth, I don’t need her,

+and she’s even in my way. You know I always was a savage, and now am

+even more so. I like being alone.... Father likes her very much. She and

+Michael Ivánovich are the two people to whom he is always gentle and

+kind, because he has been a benefactor to them both. As Sterne says:

+‘We don’t love people so much for the good they have done us, as

+for the good we have done them.’ Father took her when she was homeless

+after losing her own father. She is very good-natured, and my father

+likes her way of reading. She reads to him in the evenings and reads

+splendidly.”

+

+“To be quite frank, Mary, I expect Father’s character sometimes

+makes things trying for you, doesn’t it?” Prince Andrew asked

+suddenly.

+

+Princess Mary was first surprised and then aghast at this question.

+

+“For me? For me?... Trying for me!...” said she.

+

+“He always was rather harsh; and now I should think he’s getting

+very trying,” said Prince Andrew, apparently speaking lightly of their

+father in order to puzzle or test his sister.

+

+“You are good in every way, Andrew, but you have a kind of

+intellectual pride,” said the princess, following the train of her own

+thoughts rather than the trend of the conversation—“and that’s a

+great sin. How can one judge Father? But even if one might, what feeling

+except veneration could such a man as my father evoke? And I am so

+contented and happy with him. I only wish you were all as happy as I

+am.”

+

+Her brother shook his head incredulously.

+

+“The only thing that is hard for me... I will tell you the truth,

+Andrew... is Father’s way of treating religious subjects. I don’t

+understand how a man of his immense intellect can fail to see what is

+as clear as day, and can go so far astray. That is the only thing

+that makes me unhappy. But even in this I can see lately a shade of

+improvement. His satire has been less bitter of late, and there was a

+monk he received and had a long talk with.”

+

+“Ah! my dear, I am afraid you and your monk are wasting your

+powder,” said Prince Andrew banteringly yet tenderly.

+

+“Ah! mon ami, I only pray, and hope that God will hear me.

+Andrew...” she said timidly after a moment’s silence, “I have a

+great favor to ask of you.”

+

+“What is it, dear?”

+

+“No—promise that you will not refuse! It will give you no trouble

+and is nothing unworthy of you, but it will comfort me. Promise,

+Andrúsha!...” said she, putting her hand in her reticule but not yet

+taking out what she was holding inside it, as if what she held were

+the subject of her request and must not be shown before the request was

+granted.

+

+She looked timidly at her brother.

+

+“Even if it were a great deal of trouble...” answered Prince Andrew,

+as if guessing what it was about.

+

+“Think what you please! I know you are just like Father. Think as

+you please, but do this for my sake! Please do! Father’s father, our

+grandfather, wore it in all his wars.” (She still did not take out

+what she was holding in her reticule.) “So you promise?”

+

+“Of course. What is it?”

+

+“Andrew, I bless you with this icon and you must promise me you will

+never take it off. Do you promise?”

+

+“If it does not weigh a hundredweight and won’t break my neck...

+To please you...” said Prince Andrew. But immediately, noticing

+the pained expression his joke had brought to his sister’s face, he

+repented and added: “I am glad; really, dear, I am very glad.”

+

+“Against your will He will save and have mercy on you and bring you

+to Himself, for in Him alone is truth and peace,” said she in a voice

+trembling with emotion, solemnly holding up in both hands before her

+brother a small, oval, antique, dark-faced icon of the Saviour in a gold

+setting, on a finely wrought silver chain.

+

+She crossed herself, kissed the icon, and handed it to Andrew.

+

+“Please, Andrew, for my sake!...”

+

+Rays of gentle light shone from her large, timid eyes. Those eyes lit

+up the whole of her thin, sickly face and made it beautiful. Her brother

+would have taken the icon, but she stopped him. Andrew understood,

+crossed himself and kissed the icon. There was a look of tenderness, for

+he was touched, but also a gleam of irony on his face.

+

+“Thank you, my dear.” She kissed him on the forehead and sat down

+again on the sofa. They were silent for a while.

+

+“As I was saying to you, Andrew, be kind and generous as you always

+used to be. Don’t judge Lise harshly,” she began. “She is so

+sweet, so good-natured, and her position now is a very hard one.”

+

+“I do not think I have complained of my wife to you, Másha, or blamed

+her. Why do you say all this to me?”

+

+Red patches appeared on Princess Mary’s face and she was silent as if

+she felt guilty.

+

+“I have said nothing to you, but you have already been talked to. And

+I am sorry for that,” he went on.

+

+The patches grew deeper on her forehead, neck, and cheeks. She tried to

+say something but could not. Her brother had guessed right: the little

+princess had been crying after dinner and had spoken of her forebodings

+about her confinement, and how she dreaded it, and had complained of her

+fate, her father-in-law, and her husband. After crying she had fallen

+asleep. Prince Andrew felt sorry for his sister.

+

+“Know this, Másha: I can’t reproach, have not reproached, and never

+shall reproach my wife with anything, and I cannot reproach myself

+with anything in regard to her; and that always will be so in whatever

+circumstances I may be placed. But if you want to know the truth... if

+you want to know whether I am happy? No! Is she happy? No! But why this

+is so I don’t know...”

+

+As he said this he rose, went to his sister, and, stooping, kissed

+her forehead. His fine eyes lit up with a thoughtful, kindly, and

+unaccustomed brightness, but he was looking not at his sister but over

+her head toward the darkness of the open doorway.

+

+“Let us go to her, I must say good-by. Or—go and wake and I’ll

+come in a moment. Petrúshka!” he called to his valet: “Come here,

+take these away. Put this on the seat and this to the right.”

+

+Princess Mary rose and moved to the door, then stopped and said:

+“Andrew, if you had faith you would have turned to God and asked Him

+to give you the love you do not feel, and your prayer would have been

+answered.”

+

+“Well, maybe!” said Prince Andrew. “Go, Másha; I’ll come

+immediately.”

+

+On the way to his sister’s room, in the passage which connected one

+wing with the other, Prince Andrew met Mademoiselle Bourienne smiling

+sweetly. It was the third time that day that, with an ecstatic and

+artless smile, she had met him in secluded passages.

+

+“Oh! I thought you were in your room,” she said, for some reason

+blushing and dropping her eyes.

+

+Prince Andrew looked sternly at her and an expression of anger suddenly

+came over his face. He said nothing to her but looked at her forehead

+and hair, without looking at her eyes, with such contempt that the

+Frenchwoman blushed and went away without a word. When he reached his

+sister’s room his wife was already awake and her merry voice, hurrying

+one word after another, came through the open door. She was speaking as

+usual in French, and as if after long self-restraint she wished to make

+up for lost time.

+

+“No, but imagine the old Countess Zúbova, with false curls and her

+mouth full of false teeth, as if she were trying to cheat old age....

+Ha, ha, ha! Mary!”

+

+This very sentence about Countess Zúbova and this same laugh Prince

+Andrew had already heard from his wife in the presence of others some

+five times. He entered the room softly. The little princess, plump and

+rosy, was sitting in an easy chair with her work in her hands, talking

+incessantly, repeating Petersburg reminiscences and even phrases. Prince

+Andrew came up, stroked her hair, and asked if she felt rested after

+their journey. She answered him and continued her chatter.

+

+The coach with six horses was waiting at the porch. It was an autumn

+night, so dark that the coachman could not see the carriage pole.

+Servants with lanterns were bustling about in the porch. The immense

+house was brilliant with lights shining through its lofty windows. The

+domestic serfs were crowding in the hall, waiting to bid good-by to

+the young prince. The members of the household were all gathered in the

+reception hall: Michael Ivánovich, Mademoiselle Bourienne, Princess

+Mary, and the little princess. Prince Andrew had been called to his

+father’s study as the latter wished to say good-by to him alone. All

+were waiting for them to come out.

+

+When Prince Andrew entered the study the old man in his old-age

+spectacles and white dressing gown, in which he received no one but his

+son, sat at the table writing. He glanced round.

+

+“Going?” And he went on writing.

+

+“I’ve come to say good-by.”

+

+“Kiss me here,” and he touched his cheek: “Thanks, thanks!”

+

+“What do you thank me for?”

+

+“For not dilly-dallying and not hanging to a woman’s apron strings.

+The Service before everything. Thanks, thanks!” And he went on

+writing, so that his quill spluttered and squeaked. “If you have

+anything to say, say it. These two things can be done together,” he

+added.

+

+“About my wife... I am ashamed as it is to leave her on your

+hands....”

+

+“Why talk nonsense? Say what you want.”

+

+“When her confinement is due, send to Moscow for an accoucheur.... Let

+him be here....”

+

+The old prince stopped writing and, as if not understanding, fixed his

+stern eyes on his son.

+

+“I know that no one can help if nature does not do her work,” said

+Prince Andrew, evidently confused. “I know that out of a million

+cases only one goes wrong, but it is her fancy and mine. They have been

+telling her things. She has had a dream and is frightened.”

+

+“Hm... Hm...” muttered the old prince to himself, finishing what he

+was writing. “I’ll do it.”

+

+He signed with a flourish and suddenly turning to his son began to

+laugh.

+

+“It’s a bad business, eh?”

+

+“What is bad, Father?”

+

+“The wife!” said the old prince, briefly and significantly.

+

+“I don’t understand!” said Prince Andrew.

+

+“No, it can’t be helped, lad,” said the prince. “They’re

+all like that; one can’t unmarry. Don’t be afraid; I won’t tell

+anyone, but you know it yourself.”

+

+He seized his son by the hand with small bony fingers, shook it, looked

+straight into his son’s face with keen eyes which seemed to see

+through him, and again laughed his frigid laugh.

+

+The son sighed, thus admitting that his father had understood him. The

+old man continued to fold and seal his letter, snatching up and throwing

+down the wax, the seal, and the paper, with his accustomed rapidity.

+

+“What’s to be done? She’s pretty! I will do everything. Make your

+mind easy,” said he in abrupt sentences while sealing his letter.

+

+Andrew did not speak; he was both pleased and displeased that his father

+understood him. The old man got up and gave the letter to his son.

+

+“Listen!” said he; “don’t worry about your wife: what can be

+done shall be. Now listen! Give this letter to Michael Ilariónovich. *

+I have written that he should make use of you in proper places and not

+keep you long as an adjutant: a bad position! Tell him I remember

+and like him. Write and tell me how he receives you. If he is all

+right—serve him. Nicholas Bolkónski’s son need not serve under

+anyone if he is in disfavor. Now come here.”

+

+     *Kutúzov.

+

+He spoke so rapidly that he did not finish half his words, but his son

+was accustomed to understand him. He led him to the desk, raised the

+lid, drew out a drawer, and took out an exercise book filled with his

+bold, tall, close handwriting.

+

+“I shall probably die before you. So remember, these are my memoirs;

+hand them to the Emperor after my death. Now here is a Lombard bond

+and a letter; it is a premium for the man who writes a history of

+Suvórov’s wars. Send it to the Academy. Here are some jottings for

+you to read when I am gone. You will find them useful.”

+

+Andrew did not tell his father that he would no doubt live a long time

+yet. He felt that he must not say it.

+

+“I will do it all, Father,” he said.

+

+“Well, now, good-by!” He gave his son his hand to kiss, and embraced

+him. “Remember this, Prince Andrew, if they kill you it will hurt me,

+your old father...” he paused unexpectedly, and then in a querulous

+voice suddenly shrieked: “but if I hear that you have not behaved like

+a son of Nicholas Bolkónski, I shall be ashamed!”

+

+“You need not have said that to me, Father,” said the son with a

+smile.

+

+The old man was silent.

+

+“I also wanted to ask you,” continued Prince Andrew, “if I’m

+killed and if I have a son, do not let him be taken away from you—as I

+said yesterday... let him grow up with you.... Please.”

+

+“Not let the wife have him?” said the old man, and laughed.

+

+They stood silent, facing one another. The old man’s sharp eyes were

+fixed straight on his son’s. Something twitched in the lower part of

+the old prince’s face.

+

+“We’ve said good-by. Go!” he suddenly shouted in a loud, angry

+voice, opening his door.

+

+“What is it? What?” asked both princesses when they saw for a moment

+at the door Prince Andrew and the figure of the old man in a white

+dressing gown, spectacled and wigless, shouting in an angry voice.

+

+Prince Andrew sighed and made no reply.

+

+“Well!” he said, turning to his wife.

+

+And this “Well!” sounded coldly ironic, as if he were saying: “Now

+go through your performance.”

+

+“Andrew, already!” said the little princess, turning pale and

+looking with dismay at her husband.

+

+He embraced her. She screamed and fell unconscious on his shoulder.

+

+He cautiously released the shoulder she leaned on, looked into her face,

+and carefully placed her in an easy chair.

+

+“Adieu, Mary,” said he gently to his sister, taking her by the hand

+and kissing her, and then he left the room with rapid steps.

+

+The little princess lay in the armchair, Mademoiselle Bourienne chafing

+her temples. Princess Mary, supporting her sister-in-law, still looked

+with her beautiful eyes full of tears at the door through which Prince

+Andrew had gone and made the sign of the cross in his direction. From

+the study, like pistol shots, came the frequent sound of the old man

+angrily blowing his nose. Hardly had Prince Andrew gone when the study

+door opened quickly and the stern figure of the old man in the white

+dressing gown looked out.

+

+“Gone? That’s all right!” said he; and looking angrily at the

+unconscious little princess, he shook his head reprovingly and slammed

+the door.

+

+

+

+

+

+BOOK TWO: 1805

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER I

+

+In October, 1805, a Russian army was occupying the villages and towns of

+the Archduchy of Austria, and yet other regiments freshly arriving from

+Russia were settling near the fortress of Braunau and burdening the

+inhabitants on whom they were quartered. Braunau was the headquarters of

+the commander in chief, Kutúzov.

+

+On October 11, 1805, one of the infantry regiments that had just reached

+Braunau had halted half a mile from the town, waiting to be inspected

+by the commander in chief. Despite the un-Russian appearance of the

+locality and surroundings—fruit gardens, stone fences, tiled roofs,

+and hills in the distance—and despite the fact that the inhabitants

+(who gazed with curiosity at the soldiers) were not Russians, the

+regiment had just the appearance of any Russian regiment preparing for

+an inspection anywhere in the heart of Russia.

+

+On the evening of the last day’s march an order had been received that

+the commander in chief would inspect the regiment on the march. Though

+the words of the order were not clear to the regimental commander, and

+the question arose whether the troops were to be in marching order or

+not, it was decided at a consultation between the battalion commanders

+to present the regiment in parade order, on the principle that it is

+always better to “bow too low than not bow low enough.” So the

+soldiers, after a twenty-mile march, were kept mending and cleaning all

+night long without closing their eyes, while the adjutants and

+company commanders calculated and reckoned, and by morning the

+regiment—instead of the straggling, disorderly crowd it had been on

+its last march the day before—presented a well-ordered array of two

+thousand men each of whom knew his place and his duty, had every button

+and every strap in place, and shone with cleanliness. And not only

+externally was all in order, but had it pleased the commander in chief

+to look under the uniforms he would have found on every man a clean

+shirt, and in every knapsack the appointed number of articles, “awl,

+soap, and all,” as the soldiers say. There was only one circumstance

+concerning which no one could be at ease. It was the state of the

+soldiers’ boots. More than half the men’s boots were in holes. But

+this defect was not due to any fault of the regimental commander, for

+in spite of repeated demands boots had not been issued by the Austrian

+commissariat, and the regiment had marched some seven hundred miles.

+

+The commander of the regiment was an elderly, choleric, stout, and

+thick-set general with grizzled eyebrows and whiskers, and wider from

+chest to back than across the shoulders. He had on a brand-new uniform

+showing the creases where it had been folded and thick gold epaulettes

+which seemed to stand rather than lie down on his massive shoulders. He

+had the air of a man happily performing one of the most solemn duties of

+his life. He walked about in front of the line and at every step pulled

+himself up, slightly arching his back. It was plain that the commander

+admired his regiment, rejoiced in it, and that his whole mind was

+engrossed by it, yet his strut seemed to indicate that, besides military

+matters, social interests and the fair sex occupied no small part of his

+thoughts.

+

+“Well, Michael Mítrich, sir?” he said, addressing one of the

+battalion commanders who smilingly pressed forward (it was plain that

+they both felt happy). “We had our hands full last night. However, I

+think the regiment is not a bad one, eh?”

+

+The battalion commander perceived the jovial irony and laughed.

+

+“It would not be turned off the field even on the Tsarítsin

+Meadow.”

+

+“What?” asked the commander.

+

+At that moment, on the road from the town on which signalers had been

+posted, two men appeared on horse back. They were an aide-de-camp

+followed by a Cossack.

+

+The aide-de-camp was sent to confirm the order which had not been

+clearly worded the day before, namely, that the commander in chief

+wished to see the regiment just in the state in which it had been on

+the march: in their greatcoats, and packs, and without any preparation

+whatever.

+

+A member of the Hofkriegsrath from Vienna had come to Kutúzov the day

+before with proposals and demands for him to join up with the army of

+the Archduke Ferdinand and Mack, and Kutúzov, not considering this

+junction advisable, meant, among other arguments in support of his view,

+to show the Austrian general the wretched state in which the troops

+arrived from Russia. With this object he intended to meet the regiment;

+so the worse the condition it was in, the better pleased the commander

+in chief would be. Though the aide-de-camp did not know these

+circumstances, he nevertheless delivered the definite order that the

+men should be in their greatcoats and in marching order, and that the

+commander in chief would otherwise be dissatisfied. On hearing this the

+regimental commander hung his head, silently shrugged his shoulders, and

+spread out his arms with a choleric gesture.

+

+“A fine mess we’ve made of it!” he remarked.

+

+“There now! Didn’t I tell you, Michael Mítrich, that if it was said

+‘on the march’ it meant in greatcoats?” said he reproachfully to

+the battalion commander. “Oh, my God!” he added, stepping resolutely

+forward. “Company commanders!” he shouted in a voice accustomed to

+command. “Sergeants major!... How soon will he be here?” he asked

+the aide-de-camp with a respectful politeness evidently relating to the

+personage he was referring to.

+

+“In an hour’s time, I should say.”

+

+“Shall we have time to change clothes?”

+

+“I don’t know, General....”

+

+The regimental commander, going up to the line himself, ordered the

+soldiers to change into their greatcoats. The company commanders ran off

+to their companies, the sergeants major began bustling (the greatcoats

+were not in very good condition), and instantly the squares that had up

+to then been in regular order and silent began to sway and stretch and

+hum with voices. On all sides soldiers were running to and fro, throwing

+up their knapsacks with a jerk of their shoulders and pulling the straps

+over their heads, unstrapping their overcoats and drawing the sleeves on

+with upraised arms.

+

+In half an hour all was again in order, only the squares had become gray

+instead of black. The regimental commander walked with his jerky steps

+to the front of the regiment and examined it from a distance.

+

+“Whatever is this? This!” he shouted and stood still. “Commander

+of the third company!”

+

+“Commander of the third company wanted by the general!... commander to

+the general... third company to the commander.” The words passed along

+the lines and an adjutant ran to look for the missing officer.

+

+When the eager but misrepeated words had reached their destination in

+a cry of: “The general to the third company,” the missing officer

+appeared from behind his company and, though he was a middle-aged man

+and not in the habit of running, trotted awkwardly stumbling on his

+toes toward the general. The captain’s face showed the uneasiness of

+a schoolboy who is told to repeat a lesson he has not learned. Spots

+appeared on his nose, the redness of which was evidently due to

+intemperance, and his mouth twitched nervously. The general looked the

+captain up and down as he came up panting, slackening his pace as he

+approached.

+

+“You will soon be dressing your men in petticoats! What is this?”

+shouted the regimental commander, thrusting forward his jaw and pointing

+at a soldier in the ranks of the third company in a greatcoat of bluish

+cloth, which contrasted with the others. “What have you been after?

+The commander in chief is expected and you leave your place? Eh? I’ll

+teach you to dress the men in fancy coats for a parade.... Eh...?”

+

+The commander of the company, with his eyes fixed on his superior,

+pressed two fingers more and more rigidly to his cap, as if in this

+pressure lay his only hope of salvation.

+

+“Well, why don’t you speak? Whom have you got there dressed up as a

+Hungarian?” said the commander with an austere gibe.

+

+“Your excellency...”

+

+“Well, your excellency, what? Your excellency! But what about your

+excellency?... nobody knows.”

+

+“Your excellency, it’s the officer Dólokhov, who has been reduced

+to the ranks,” said the captain softly.

+

+“Well? Has he been degraded into a field marshal, or into a soldier?

+If a soldier, he should be dressed in regulation uniform like the

+others.”

+

+“Your excellency, you gave him leave yourself, on the march.”

+

+“Gave him leave? Leave? That’s just like you young men,” said the

+regimental commander cooling down a little. “Leave indeed.... One says

+a word to you and you... What?” he added with renewed irritation, “I

+beg you to dress your men decently.”

+

+And the commander, turning to look at the adjutant, directed his jerky

+steps down the line. He was evidently pleased at his own display of

+anger and walking up to the regiment wished to find a further excuse for

+wrath. Having snapped at an officer for an unpolished badge, at another

+because his line was not straight, he reached the third company.

+

+“H-o-o-w are you standing? Where’s your leg? Your leg?” shouted

+the commander with a tone of suffering in his voice, while there were

+still five men between him and Dólokhov with his bluish-gray uniform.

+

+Dólokhov slowly straightened his bent knee, looking straight with his

+clear, insolent eyes in the general’s face.

+

+“Why a blue coat? Off with it... Sergeant major! Change his coat...

+the ras...” he did not finish.

+

+“General, I must obey orders, but I am not bound to endure...”

+Dólokhov hurriedly interrupted.

+

+“No talking in the ranks!... No talking, no talking!”

+

+“Not bound to endure insults,” Dólokhov concluded in loud, ringing

+tones.

+

+The eyes of the general and the soldier met. The general became silent,

+angrily pulling down his tight scarf.

+

+“I request you to have the goodness to change your coat,” he said as

+he turned away.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER II

+

+“He’s coming!” shouted the signaler at that moment.

+

+The regimental commander, flushing, ran to his horse, seized the stirrup

+with trembling hands, threw his body across the saddle, righted himself,

+drew his saber, and with a happy and resolute countenance, opening

+his mouth awry, prepared to shout. The regiment fluttered like a bird

+preening its plumage and became motionless.

+

+“Att-ention!” shouted the regimental commander in a soul-shaking

+voice which expressed joy for himself, severity for the regiment, and

+welcome for the approaching chief.

+

+Along the broad country road, edged on both sides by trees, came a high,

+light blue Viennese calèche, slightly creaking on its springs and drawn

+by six horses at a smart trot. Behind the calèche galloped the suite

+and a convoy of Croats. Beside Kutúzov sat an Austrian general, in

+a white uniform that looked strange among the Russian black ones. The

+calèche stopped in front of the regiment. Kutúzov and the Austrian

+general were talking in low voices and Kutúzov smiled slightly as

+treading heavily he stepped down from the carriage just as if those two

+thousand men breathlessly gazing at him and the regimental commander did

+not exist.

+

+The word of command rang out, and again the regiment quivered, as with a

+jingling sound it presented arms. Then amidst a dead silence the

+feeble voice of the commander in chief was heard. The regiment roared,

+“Health to your ex... len... len... lency!” and again all became

+silent. At first Kutúzov stood still while the regiment moved; then he

+and the general in white, accompanied by the suite, walked between the

+ranks.

+

+From the way the regimental commander saluted the commander in chief and

+devoured him with his eyes, drawing himself up obsequiously, and from

+the way he walked through the ranks behind the generals, bending forward

+and hardly able to restrain his jerky movements, and from the way he

+darted forward at every word or gesture of the commander in chief,

+it was evident that he performed his duty as a subordinate with even

+greater zeal than his duty as a commander. Thanks to the strictness and

+assiduity of its commander the regiment, in comparison with others that

+had reached Braunau at the same time, was in splendid condition. There

+were only 217 sick and stragglers. Everything was in good order except

+the boots.

+

+Kutúzov walked through the ranks, sometimes stopping to say a few

+friendly words to officers he had known in the Turkish war, sometimes

+also to the soldiers. Looking at their boots he several times shook his

+head sadly, pointing them out to the Austrian general with an expression

+which seemed to say that he was not blaming anyone, but could not help

+noticing what a bad state of things it was. The regimental commander

+ran forward on each such occasion, fearing to miss a single word of the

+commander in chief’s regarding the regiment. Behind Kutúzov, at a

+distance that allowed every softly spoken word to be heard, followed

+some twenty men of his suite. These gentlemen talked among themselves

+and sometimes laughed. Nearest of all to the commander in chief walked

+a handsome adjutant. This was Prince Bolkónski. Beside him was his

+comrade Nesvítski, a tall staff officer, extremely stout, with a

+kindly, smiling, handsome face and moist eyes. Nesvítski could hardly

+keep from laughter provoked by a swarthy hussar officer who walked

+beside him. This hussar, with a grave face and without a smile or a

+change in the expression of his fixed eyes, watched the regimental

+commander’s back and mimicked his every movement. Each time the

+commander started and bent forward, the hussar started and bent forward

+in exactly the same manner. Nesvítski laughed and nudged the others to

+make them look at the wag.

+

+Kutúzov walked slowly and languidly past thousands of eyes which were

+starting from their sockets to watch their chief. On reaching the

+third company he suddenly stopped. His suite, not having expected this,

+involuntarily came closer to him.

+

+“Ah, Timókhin!” said he, recognizing the red-nosed captain who had

+been reprimanded on account of the blue greatcoat.

+

+One would have thought it impossible for a man to stretch himself

+more than Timókhin had done when he was reprimanded by the regimental

+commander, but now that the commander in chief addressed him he drew

+himself up to such an extent that it seemed he could not have sustained

+it had the commander in chief continued to look at him, and so Kutúzov,

+who evidently understood his case and wished him nothing but good,

+quickly turned away, a scarcely perceptible smile flitting over his

+scarred and puffy face.

+

+“Another Ismail comrade,” said he. “A brave officer! Are you

+satisfied with him?” he asked the regimental commander.

+

+And the latter—unconscious that he was being reflected in the hussar

+officer as in a looking glass—started, moved forward, and answered:

+“Highly satisfied, your excellency!”

+

+“We all have our weaknesses,” said Kutúzov smiling and walking away

+from him. “He used to have a predilection for Bacchus.”

+

+The regimental commander was afraid he might be blamed for this and did

+not answer. The hussar at that moment noticed the face of the red-nosed

+captain and his drawn-in stomach, and mimicked his expression and pose

+with such exactitude that Nesvítski could not help laughing. Kutúzov

+turned round. The officer evidently had complete control of his face,

+and while Kutúzov was turning managed to make a grimace and then assume

+a most serious, deferential, and innocent expression.

+

+The third company was the last, and Kutúzov pondered, apparently trying

+to recollect something. Prince Andrew stepped forward from among the

+suite and said in French:

+

+“You told me to remind you of the officer Dólokhov, reduced to the

+ranks in this regiment.”

+

+“Where is Dólokhov?” asked Kutúzov.

+

+Dólokhov, who had already changed into a soldier’s gray greatcoat,

+did not wait to be called. The shapely figure of the fair-haired

+soldier, with his clear blue eyes, stepped forward from the ranks, went

+up to the commander in chief, and presented arms.

+

+“Have you a complaint to make?” Kutúzov asked with a slight frown.

+

+“This is Dólokhov,” said Prince Andrew.

+

+“Ah!” said Kutúzov. “I hope this will be a lesson to you. Do your

+duty. The Emperor is gracious, and I shan’t forget you if you deserve

+well.”

+

+The clear blue eyes looked at the commander in chief just as boldly as

+they had looked at the regimental commander, seeming by their expression

+to tear open the veil of convention that separates a commander in chief

+so widely from a private.

+

+“One thing I ask of your excellency,” Dólokhov said in his firm,

+ringing, deliberate voice. “I ask an opportunity to atone for my fault

+and prove my devotion to His Majesty the Emperor and to Russia!”

+

+Kutúzov turned away. The same smile of the eyes with which he had

+turned from Captain Timókhin again flitted over his face. He turned

+away with a grimace as if to say that everything Dólokhov had said to

+him and everything he could say had long been known to him, that he was

+weary of it and it was not at all what he wanted. He turned away and

+went to the carriage.

+

+The regiment broke up into companies, which went to their appointed

+quarters near Braunau, where they hoped to receive boots and clothes and

+to rest after their hard marches.

+

+“You won’t bear me a grudge, Prokhór Ignátych?” said the

+regimental commander, overtaking the third company on its way to its

+quarters and riding up to Captain Timókhin who was walking in front.

+(The regimental commander’s face now that the inspection was happily

+over beamed with irrepressible delight.) “It’s in the Emperor’s

+service... it can’t be helped... one is sometimes a bit hasty on

+parade... I am the first to apologize, you know me!... He was very

+pleased!” And he held out his hand to the captain.

+

+“Don’t mention it, General, as if I’d be so bold!” replied the

+captain, his nose growing redder as he gave a smile which showed where

+two front teeth were missing that had been knocked out by the butt end

+of a gun at Ismail.

+

+“And tell Mr. Dólokhov that I won’t forget him—he may be quite

+easy. And tell me, please—I’ve been meaning to ask—how is he

+behaving himself, and in general...”

+

+“As far as the service goes he is quite punctilious, your excellency;

+but his character...” said Timókhin.

+

+“And what about his character?” asked the regimental commander.

+

+“It’s different on different days,” answered the captain. “One

+day he is sensible, well educated, and good-natured, and the next he’s

+a wild beast.... In Poland, if you please, he nearly killed a Jew.”

+

+“Oh, well, well!” remarked the regimental commander. “Still, one

+must have pity on a young man in misfortune. You know he has important

+connections... Well, then, you just...”

+

+“I will, your excellency,” said Timókhin, showing by his smile that

+he understood his commander’s wish.

+

+“Well, of course, of course!”

+

+The regimental commander sought out Dólokhov in the ranks and, reining

+in his horse, said to him:

+

+“After the next affair... epaulettes.”

+

+Dólokhov looked round but did not say anything, nor did the mocking

+smile on his lips change.

+

+“Well, that’s all right,” continued the regimental commander. “A

+cup of vodka for the men from me,” he added so that the soldiers

+could hear. “I thank you all! God be praised!” and he rode past that

+company and overtook the next one.

+

+“Well, he’s really a good fellow, one can serve under him,” said

+Timókhin to the subaltern beside him.

+

+“In a word, a hearty one...” said the subaltern, laughing (the

+regimental commander was nicknamed King of Hearts).

+

+The cheerful mood of their officers after the inspection infected the

+soldiers. The company marched on gaily. The soldiers’ voices could be

+heard on every side.

+

+“And they said Kutúzov was blind of one eye?”

+

+“And so he is! Quite blind!”

+

+“No, friend, he is sharper-eyed than you are. Boots and leg bands...

+he noticed everything...”

+

+“When he looked at my feet, friend... well, thinks I...”

+

+“And that other one with him, the Austrian, looked as if he were

+smeared with chalk—as white as flour! I suppose they polish him up as

+they do the guns.”

+

+“I say, Fédeshon!... Did he say when the battles are to begin? You

+were near him. Everybody said that Buonaparte himself was at Braunau.”

+

+“Buonaparte himself!... Just listen to the fool, what he doesn’t

+know! The Prussians are up in arms now. The Austrians, you see, are

+putting them down. When they’ve been put down, the war with Buonaparte

+will begin. And he says Buonaparte is in Braunau! Shows you’re a fool.

+You’d better listen more carefully!”

+

+“What devils these quartermasters are! See, the fifth company is

+turning into the village already... they will have their buckwheat

+cooked before we reach our quarters.”

+

+“Give me a biscuit, you devil!”

+

+“And did you give me tobacco yesterday? That’s just it, friend! Ah,

+well, never mind, here you are.”

+

+“They might call a halt here or we’ll have to do another four miles

+without eating.”

+

+“Wasn’t it fine when those Germans gave us lifts! You just sit still

+and are drawn along.”

+

+“And here, friend, the people are quite beggarly. There they all

+seemed to be Poles—all under the Russian crown—but here they’re

+all regular Germans.”

+

+“Singers to the front” came the captain’s order.

+

+And from the different ranks some twenty men ran to the front. A

+drummer, their leader, turned round facing the singers, and flourishing

+his arm, began a long-drawn-out soldiers’ song, commencing with the

+words: “Morning dawned, the sun was rising,” and concluding: “On

+then, brothers, on to glory, led by Father Kámenski.” This song had

+been composed in the Turkish campaign and now being sung in Austria, the

+only change being that the words “Father Kámenski” were replaced by

+“Father Kutúzov.”

+

+Having jerked out these last words as soldiers do and waved his arms

+as if flinging something to the ground, the drummer—a lean, handsome

+soldier of forty—looked sternly at the singers and screwed up his

+eyes. Then having satisfied himself that all eyes were fixed on him,

+he raised both arms as if carefully lifting some invisible but precious

+object above his head and, holding it there for some seconds, suddenly

+flung it down and began:

+

+“Oh, my bower, oh, my bower...!”

+

+“Oh, my bower new...!” chimed in twenty voices, and the castanet

+player, in spite of the burden of his equipment, rushed out to the front

+and, walking backwards before the company, jerked his shoulders and

+flourished his castanets as if threatening someone. The soldiers,

+swinging their arms and keeping time spontaneously, marched with long

+steps. Behind the company the sound of wheels, the creaking of springs,

+and the tramp of horses’ hoofs were heard. Kutúzov and his suite were

+returning to the town. The commander in chief made a sign that the

+men should continue to march at ease, and he and all his suite showed

+pleasure at the sound of the singing and the sight of the dancing

+soldier and the gay and smartly marching men. In the second file

+from the right flank, beside which the carriage passed the company,

+a blue-eyed soldier involuntarily attracted notice. It was Dólokhov

+marching with particular grace and boldness in time to the song and

+looking at those driving past as if he pitied all who were not at that

+moment marching with the company. The hussar cornet of Kutúzov’s

+suite who had mimicked the regimental commander, fell back from the

+carriage and rode up to Dólokhov.

+

+Hussar cornet Zherkóv had at one time, in Petersburg, belonged to

+the wild set led by Dólokhov. Zherkóv had met Dólokhov abroad as a

+private and had not seen fit to recognize him. But now that Kutúzov had

+spoken to the gentleman ranker, he addressed him with the cordiality of

+an old friend.

+

+“My dear fellow, how are you?” said he through the singing, making

+his horse keep pace with the company.

+

+“How am I?” Dólokhov answered coldly. “I am as you see.”

+

+The lively song gave a special flavor to the tone of free and easy

+gaiety with which Zherkóv spoke, and to the intentional coldness of

+Dólokhov’s reply.

+

+“And how do you get on with the officers?” inquired Zherkóv.

+

+“All right. They are good fellows. And how have you wriggled onto the

+staff?”

+

+“I was attached; I’m on duty.”

+

+Both were silent.

+

+“She let the hawk fly upward from her wide right sleeve,” went the

+song, arousing an involuntary sensation of courage and cheerfulness.

+Their conversation would probably have been different but for the effect

+of that song.

+

+“Is it true that Austrians have been beaten?” asked Dólokhov.

+

+“The devil only knows! They say so.”

+

+“I’m glad,” answered Dólokhov briefly and clearly, as the song

+demanded.

+

+“I say, come round some evening and we’ll have a game of faro!”

+said Zherkóv.

+

+“Why, have you too much money?”

+

+“Do come.”

+

+“I can’t. I’ve sworn not to. I won’t drink and won’t play till

+I get reinstated.”

+

+“Well, that’s only till the first engagement.”

+

+“We shall see.”

+

+They were again silent.

+

+“Come if you need anything. One can at least be of use on the

+staff...”

+

+Dólokhov smiled. “Don’t trouble. If I want anything, I won’t

+beg—I’ll take it!”

+

+“Well, never mind; I only...”

+

+“And I only...”

+

+“Good-by.”

+

+“Good health...”

+

+        “It’s a long, long way.

+        To my native land...”

+

+

+Zherkóv touched his horse with the spurs; it pranced excitedly from

+foot to foot uncertain with which to start, then settled down, galloped

+past the company, and overtook the carriage, still keeping time to the

+song.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER III

+

+On returning from the review, Kutúzov took the Austrian general into

+his private room and, calling his adjutant, asked for some papers

+relating to the condition of the troops on their arrival, and the

+letters that had come from the Archduke Ferdinand, who was in command of

+the advanced army. Prince Andrew Bolkónski came into the room with the

+required papers. Kutúzov and the Austrian member of the Hofkriegsrath

+were sitting at the table on which a plan was spread out.

+

+“Ah!...” said Kutúzov glancing at Bolkónski as if by this

+exclamation he was asking the adjutant to wait, and he went on with the

+conversation in French.

+

+“All I can say, General,” said he with a pleasant elegance

+of expression and intonation that obliged one to listen to each

+deliberately spoken word. It was evident that Kutúzov himself listened

+with pleasure to his own voice. “All I can say, General, is that if

+the matter depended on my personal wishes, the will of His Majesty the

+Emperor Francis would have been fulfilled long ago. I should long

+ago have joined the archduke. And believe me on my honour that to me

+personally it would be a pleasure to hand over the supreme command

+of the army into the hands of a better informed and more skillful

+general—of whom Austria has so many—and to lay down all this heavy

+responsibility. But circumstances are sometimes too strong for us,

+General.”

+

+And Kutúzov smiled in a way that seemed to say, “You are quite at

+liberty not to believe me and I don’t even care whether you do or

+not, but you have no grounds for telling me so. And that is the whole

+point.”

+

+The Austrian general looked dissatisfied, but had no option but to reply

+in the same tone.

+

+“On the contrary,” he said, in a querulous and angry tone that

+contrasted with his flattering words, “on the contrary, your

+excellency’s participation in the common action is highly valued by

+His Majesty; but we think the present delay is depriving the splendid

+Russian troops and their commander of the laurels they have been

+accustomed to win in their battles,” he concluded his evidently

+prearranged sentence.

+

+Kutúzov bowed with the same smile.

+

+“But that is my conviction, and judging by the last letter with which

+His Highness the Archduke Ferdinand has honored me, I imagine that the

+Austrian troops, under the direction of so skillful a leader as General

+Mack, have by now already gained a decisive victory and no longer need

+our aid,” said Kutúzov.

+

+The general frowned. Though there was no definite news of an Austrian

+defeat, there were many circumstances confirming the unfavorable rumors

+that were afloat, and so Kutúzov’s suggestion of an Austrian victory

+sounded much like irony. But Kutúzov went on blandly smiling with the

+same expression, which seemed to say that he had a right to suppose

+so. And, in fact, the last letter he had received from Mack’s army

+informed him of a victory and stated strategically the position of the

+army was very favorable.

+

+“Give me that letter,” said Kutúzov turning to Prince Andrew.

+“Please have a look at it”—and Kutúzov with an ironical smile

+about the corners of his mouth read to the Austrian general the

+following passage, in German, from the Archduke Ferdinand’s letter:

+

+We have fully concentrated forces of nearly seventy thousand men with

+which to attack and defeat the enemy should he cross the Lech. Also,

+as we are masters of Ulm, we cannot be deprived of the advantage of

+commanding both sides of the Danube, so that should the enemy not

+cross the Lech, we can cross the Danube, throw ourselves on his line

+of communications, recross the river lower down, and frustrate his

+intention should he try to direct his whole force against our faithful

+ally. We shall therefore confidently await the moment when the Imperial

+Russian army will be fully equipped, and shall then, in conjunction with

+it, easily find a way to prepare for the enemy the fate he deserves.

+

+Kutúzov sighed deeply on finishing this paragraph and looked at the

+member of the Hofkriegsrath mildly and attentively.

+

+“But you know the wise maxim your excellency, advising one to expect

+the worst,” said the Austrian general, evidently wishing to have done

+with jests and to come to business. He involuntarily looked round at the

+aide-de-camp.

+

+“Excuse me, General,” interrupted Kutúzov, also turning to Prince

+Andrew. “Look here, my dear fellow, get from Kozlóvski all the

+reports from our scouts. Here are two letters from Count Nostitz and

+here is one from His Highness the Archduke Ferdinand and here are

+these,” he said, handing him several papers, “make a neat memorandum

+in French out of all this, showing all the news we have had of the

+movements of the Austrian army, and then give it to his excellency.”

+

+Prince Andrew bowed his head in token of having understood from the

+first not only what had been said but also what Kutúzov would have

+liked to tell him. He gathered up the papers and with a bow to both,

+stepped softly over the carpet and went out into the waiting room.

+

+Though not much time had passed since Prince Andrew had left Russia, he

+had changed greatly during that period. In the expression of his face,

+in his movements, in his walk, scarcely a trace was left of his former

+affected languor and indolence. He now looked like a man who has time

+to think of the impression he makes on others, but is occupied with

+agreeable and interesting work. His face expressed more satisfaction

+with himself and those around him, his smile and glance were brighter

+and more attractive.

+

+Kutúzov, whom he had overtaken in Poland, had received him very kindly,

+promised not to forget him, distinguished him above the other adjutants,

+and had taken him to Vienna and given him the more serious commissions.

+From Vienna Kutúzov wrote to his old comrade, Prince Andrew’s father.

+

+Your son bids fair to become an officer distinguished by his industry,

+firmness, and expedition. I consider myself fortunate to have such a

+subordinate by me.

+

+On Kutúzov’s staff, among his fellow officers and in the army

+generally, Prince Andrew had, as he had had in Petersburg society, two

+quite opposite reputations. Some, a minority, acknowledged him to be

+different from themselves and from everyone else, expected great things

+of him, listened to him, admired, and imitated him, and with them Prince

+Andrew was natural and pleasant. Others, the majority, disliked him and

+considered him conceited, cold, and disagreeable. But among these people

+Prince Andrew knew how to take his stand so that they respected and even

+feared him.

+

+Coming out of Kutúzov’s room into the waiting room with the papers in

+his hand Prince Andrew came up to his comrade, the aide-de-camp on duty,

+Kozlóvski, who was sitting at the window with a book.

+

+“Well, Prince?” asked Kozlóvski.

+

+“I am ordered to write a memorandum explaining why we are not

+advancing.”

+

+“And why is it?”

+

+Prince Andrew shrugged his shoulders.

+

+“Any news from Mack?”

+

+“No.”

+

+“If it were true that he has been beaten, news would have come.”

+

+“Probably,” said Prince Andrew moving toward the outer door.

+

+But at that instant a tall Austrian general in a greatcoat, with the

+order of Maria Theresa on his neck and a black bandage round his head,

+who had evidently just arrived, entered quickly, slamming the door.

+Prince Andrew stopped short.

+

+“Commander in Chief Kutúzov?” said the newly arrived general

+speaking quickly with a harsh German accent, looking to both sides and

+advancing straight toward the inner door.

+

+“The commander in chief is engaged,” said Kozlóvski, going

+hurriedly up to the unknown general and blocking his way to the door.

+“Whom shall I announce?”

+

+The unknown general looked disdainfully down at Kozlóvski, who was

+rather short, as if surprised that anyone should not know him.

+

+“The commander in chief is engaged,” repeated Kozlóvski calmly.

+

+The general’s face clouded, his lips quivered and trembled. He took

+out a notebook, hurriedly scribbled something in pencil, tore out the

+leaf, gave it to Kozlóvski, stepped quickly to the window, and threw

+himself into a chair, gazing at those in the room as if asking, “Why

+do they look at me?” Then he lifted his head, stretched his neck as

+if he intended to say something, but immediately, with affected

+indifference, began to hum to himself, producing a queer sound which

+immediately broke off. The door of the private room opened and Kutúzov

+appeared in the doorway. The general with the bandaged head bent forward

+as though running away from some danger, and, making long, quick strides

+with his thin legs, went up to Kutúzov.

+

+“Vous voyez le malheureux Mack,” he uttered in a broken voice.

+

+Kutúzov’s face as he stood in the open doorway remained perfectly

+immobile for a few moments. Then wrinkles ran over his face like a wave

+and his forehead became smooth again, he bowed his head respectfully,

+closed his eyes, silently let Mack enter his room before him, and closed

+the door himself behind him.

+

+The report which had been circulated that the Austrians had been beaten

+and that the whole army had surrendered at Ulm proved to be correct.

+Within half an hour adjutants had been sent in various directions with

+orders which showed that the Russian troops, who had hitherto been

+inactive, would also soon have to meet the enemy.

+

+Prince Andrew was one of those rare staff officers whose chief interest

+lay in the general progress of the war. When he saw Mack and heard the

+details of his disaster he understood that half the campaign was lost,

+understood all the difficulties of the Russian army’s position, and

+vividly imagined what awaited it and the part he would have to

+play. Involuntarily he felt a joyful agitation at the thought of the

+humiliation of arrogant Austria and that in a week’s time he might,

+perhaps, see and take part in the first Russian encounter with the

+French since Suvórov met them. He feared that Bonaparte’s genius

+might outweigh all the courage of the Russian troops, and at the same

+time could not admit the idea of his hero being disgraced.

+

+Excited and irritated by these thoughts Prince Andrew went toward his

+room to write to his father, to whom he wrote every day. In the corridor

+he met Nesvítski, with whom he shared a room, and the wag Zherkóv;

+they were as usual laughing.

+

+“Why are you so glum?” asked Nesvítski noticing Prince Andrew’s

+pale face and glittering eyes.

+

+“There’s nothing to be gay about,” answered Bolkónski.

+

+Just as Prince Andrew met Nesvítski and Zherkóv, there came toward

+them from the other end of the corridor, Strauch, an Austrian general

+who on Kutúzov’s staff in charge of the provisioning of the Russian

+army, and the member of the Hofkriegsrath who had arrived the previous

+evening. There was room enough in the wide corridor for the generals to

+pass the three officers quite easily, but Zherkóv, pushing Nesvítski

+aside with his arm, said in a breathless voice,

+

+“They’re coming!... they’re coming!... Stand aside, make way,

+please make way!”

+

+The generals were passing by, looking as if they wished to avoid

+embarrassing attentions. On the face of the wag Zherkóv there suddenly

+appeared a stupid smile of glee which he seemed unable to suppress.

+

+“Your excellency,” said he in German, stepping forward and

+addressing the Austrian general, “I have the honor to congratulate

+you.”

+

+He bowed his head and scraped first with one foot and then with the

+other, awkwardly, like a child at a dancing lesson.

+

+The member of the Hofkriegsrath looked at him severely but, seeing the

+seriousness of his stupid smile, could not but give him a moment’s

+attention. He screwed up his eyes showing that he was listening.

+

+“I have the honor to congratulate you. General Mack has arrived, quite

+well, only a little bruised just here,” he added, pointing with a

+beaming smile to his head.

+

+The general frowned, turned away, and went on.

+

+“Gott, wie naiv!” * said he angrily, after he had gone a few steps.

+

+     * “Good God, what simplicity!”

+

+

+Nesvítski with a laugh threw his arms round Prince Andrew, but

+Bolkónski, turning still paler, pushed him away with an angry look and

+turned to Zherkóv. The nervous irritation aroused by the appearance

+of Mack, the news of his defeat, and the thought of what lay before the

+Russian army found vent in anger at Zherkóv’s untimely jest.

+

+“If you, sir, choose to make a buffoon of yourself,” he said

+sharply, with a slight trembling of the lower jaw, “I can’t prevent

+your doing so; but I warn you that if you dare to play the fool in my

+presence, I will teach you to behave yourself.”

+

+Nesvítski and Zherkóv were so surprised by this outburst that they

+gazed at Bolkónski silently with wide-open eyes.

+

+“What’s the matter? I only congratulated them,” said Zherkóv.

+

+“I am not jesting with you; please be silent!” cried Bolkónski,

+and taking Nesvítski’s arm he left Zherkóv, who did not know what to

+say.

+

+“Come, what’s the matter, old fellow?” said Nesvítski trying to

+soothe him.

+

+“What’s the matter?” exclaimed Prince Andrew standing still in

+his excitement. “Don’t you understand that either we are officers

+serving our Tsar and our country, rejoicing in the successes and

+grieving at the misfortunes of our common cause, or we are merely

+lackeys who care nothing for their master’s business. Quarante mille

+hommes massacrés et l’armée de nos alliés détruite, et vous

+trouvez là le mot pour rire,” * he said, as if strengthening his

+views by this French sentence. “C’est bien pour un garçon de rien

+comme cet individu dont vous avez fait un ami, mais pas pour vous, pas

+pour vous. *(2) Only a hobbledehoy could amuse himself in this

+way,” he added in Russian—but pronouncing the word with a French

+accent—having noticed that Zherkóv could still hear him.

+

+     * “Forty thousand men massacred and the army of our allies

+     destroyed, and you find that a cause for jesting!”

+

+     * (2) “It is all very well for that good-for-nothing fellow

+     of whom you have made a friend, but not for you, not for

+     you.”

+

+

+He waited a moment to see whether the cornet would answer, but he turned

+and went out of the corridor.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER IV

+

+The Pávlograd Hussars were stationed two miles from Braunau. The

+squadron in which Nicholas Rostóv served as a cadet was quartered in

+the German village of Salzeneck. The best quarters in the village were

+assigned to cavalry-captain Denísov, the squadron commander, known

+throughout the whole cavalry division as Váska Denísov. Cadet Rostóv,

+ever since he had overtaken the regiment in Poland, had lived with the

+squadron commander.

+

+On October 11, the day when all was astir at headquarters over the news

+of Mack’s defeat, the camp life of the officers of this squadron was

+proceeding as usual. Denísov, who had been losing at cards all night,

+had not yet come home when Rostóv rode back early in the morning from

+a foraging expedition. Rostóv in his cadet uniform, with a jerk to his

+horse, rode up to the porch, swung his leg over the saddle with a supple

+youthful movement, stood for a moment in the stirrup as if loathe to

+part from his horse, and at last sprang down and called to his orderly.

+

+“Ah, Bondarénko, dear friend!” said he to the hussar who rushed up

+headlong to the horse. “Walk him up and down, my dear fellow,” he

+continued, with that gay brotherly cordiality which goodhearted young

+people show to everyone when they are happy.

+

+“Yes, your excellency,” answered the Ukrainian gaily, tossing his

+head.

+

+“Mind, walk him up and down well!”

+

+Another hussar also rushed toward the horse, but Bondarénko had already

+thrown the reins of the snaffle bridle over the horse’s head. It was

+evident that the cadet was liberal with his tips and that it paid to

+serve him. Rostóv patted the horse’s neck and then his flank, and

+lingered for a moment.

+

+“Splendid! What a horse he will be!” he thought with a smile, and

+holding up his saber, his spurs jingling, he ran up the steps of the

+porch. His landlord, who in a waistcoat and a pointed cap, pitchfork in

+hand, was clearing manure from the cowhouse, looked out, and his face

+immediately brightened on seeing Rostóv. “Schön gut Morgen! Schön

+gut Morgen!” * he said winking with a merry smile, evidently pleased

+to greet the young man.

+

+    * “A very good morning! A very good morning!”

+

+

+“Schon fleissig?” * said Rostóv with the same gay brotherly smile

+which did not leave his eager face. “Hoch Oestreicher! Hoch Russen!

+Kaiser Alexander hoch!” *(2) said he, quoting words often repeated by

+the German landlord.

+

+    * “Busy already?”

+

+    * (2) “Hurrah for the Austrians! Hurrah for the Russians!

+     Hurrah for Emperor Alexander!”

+

+

+The German laughed, came out of the cowshed, pulled off his cap, and

+waving it above his head cried:

+

+“Und die ganze Welt hoch!” *

+

+    * “And hurrah for the whole world!”

+

+

+Rostóv waved his cap above his head like the German and cried laughing,

+“Und vivat die ganze Welt!” Though neither the German cleaning his

+cowshed nor Rostóv back with his platoon from foraging for hay had any

+reason for rejoicing, they looked at each other with joyful delight and

+brotherly love, wagged their heads in token of their mutual affection,

+and parted smiling, the German returning to his cowshed and Rostóv

+going to the cottage he occupied with Denísov.

+

+“What about your master?” he asked Lavrúshka, Denísov’s orderly,

+whom all the regiment knew for a rogue.

+

+“Hasn’t been in since the evening. Must have been losing,”

+answered Lavrúshka. “I know by now, if he wins he comes back early to

+brag about it, but if he stays out till morning it means he’s lost and

+will come back in a rage. Will you have coffee?”

+

+“Yes, bring some.”

+

+Ten minutes later Lavrúshka brought the coffee. “He’s coming!”

+said he. “Now for trouble!” Rostóv looked out of the window and

+saw Denísov coming home. Denísov was a small man with a red face,

+sparkling black eyes, and black tousled mustache and hair. He wore an

+unfastened cloak, wide breeches hanging down in creases, and a crumpled

+shako on the back of his head. He came up to the porch gloomily, hanging

+his head.

+

+“Lavwúska!” he shouted loudly and angrily, “take it off,

+blockhead!”

+

+“Well, I am taking it off,” replied Lavrúshka’s voice.

+

+“Ah, you’re up already,” said Denísov, entering the room.

+

+“Long ago,” answered Rostóv, “I have already been for the hay,

+and have seen Fräulein Mathilde.”

+

+“Weally! And I’ve been losing, bwother. I lost yesterday like a

+damned fool!” cried Denísov, not pronouncing his r’s. “Such ill

+luck! Such ill luck. As soon as you left, it began and went on. Hullo

+there! Tea!”

+

+Puckering up his face though smiling, and showing his short strong

+teeth, he began with stubby fingers of both hands to ruffle up his thick

+tangled black hair.

+

+“And what devil made me go to that wat?” (an officer nicknamed

+“the rat”) he said, rubbing his forehead and whole face with both

+hands. “Just fancy, he didn’t let me win a single cahd, not one

+cahd.”

+

+He took the lighted pipe that was offered to him, gripped it in his

+fist, and tapped it on the floor, making the sparks fly, while he

+continued to shout.

+

+“He lets one win the singles and collahs it as soon as one doubles it;

+gives the singles and snatches the doubles!”

+

+He scattered the burning tobacco, smashed the pipe, and threw it away.

+Then he remained silent for a while, and all at once looked cheerfully

+with his glittering, black eyes at Rostóv.

+

+“If at least we had some women here; but there’s nothing foh one

+to do but dwink. If we could only get to fighting soon. Hullo, who’s

+there?” he said, turning to the door as he heard a tread of heavy

+boots and the clinking of spurs that came to a stop, and a respectful

+cough.

+

+“The squadron quartermaster!” said Lavrúshka.

+

+Denísov’s face puckered still more.

+

+“Wetched!” he muttered, throwing down a purse with some gold in it.

+“Wostóv, deah fellow, just see how much there is left and shove the

+purse undah the pillow,” he said, and went out to the quartermaster.

+

+Rostóv took the money and, mechanically arranging the old and new coins

+in separate piles, began counting them.

+

+“Ah! Telyánin! How d’ye do? They plucked me last night,” came

+Denísov’s voice from the next room.

+

+“Where? At Bykov’s, at the rat’s... I knew it,” replied a piping

+voice, and Lieutenant Telyánin, a small officer of the same squadron,

+entered the room.

+

+Rostóv thrust the purse under the pillow and shook the damp little hand

+which was offered him. Telyánin for some reason had been transferred

+from the Guards just before this campaign. He behaved very well in the

+regiment but was not liked; Rostóv especially detested him and was

+unable to overcome or conceal his groundless antipathy to the man.

+

+“Well, young cavalryman, how is my Rook behaving?” he asked. (Rook

+was a young horse Telyánin had sold to Rostóv.)

+

+The lieutenant never looked the man he was speaking to straight in the

+face; his eyes continually wandered from one object to another.

+

+“I saw you riding this morning...” he added.

+

+“Oh, he’s all right, a good horse,” answered Rostóv, though the

+horse for which he had paid seven hundred rubbles was not worth half

+that sum. “He’s begun to go a little lame on the left foreleg,” he

+added.

+

+“The hoof’s cracked! That’s nothing. I’ll teach you what to do

+and show you what kind of rivet to use.”

+

+“Yes, please do,” said Rostóv.

+

+“I’ll show you, I’ll show you! It’s not a secret. And it’s a

+horse you’ll thank me for.”

+

+“Then I’ll have it brought round,” said Rostóv wishing to avoid

+Telyánin, and he went out to give the order.

+

+In the passage Denísov, with a pipe, was squatting on the threshold

+facing the quartermaster who was reporting to him. On seeing Rostóv,

+Denísov screwed up his face and pointing over his shoulder with his

+thumb to the room where Telyánin was sitting, he frowned and gave a

+shudder of disgust.

+

+“Ugh! I don’t like that fellow,” he said, regardless of the

+quartermaster’s presence.

+

+Rostóv shrugged his shoulders as much as to say: “Nor do I, but

+what’s one to do?” and, having given his order, he returned to

+Telyánin.

+

+Telyánin was sitting in the same indolent pose in which Rostóv had

+left him, rubbing his small white hands.

+

+“Well there certainly are disgusting people,” thought Rostóv as he

+entered.

+

+“Have you told them to bring the horse?” asked Telyánin, getting up

+and looking carelessly about him.

+

+“I have.”

+

+“Let us go ourselves. I only came round to ask Denísov about

+yesterday’s order. Have you got it, Denísov?”

+

+“Not yet. But where are you off to?”

+

+“I want to teach this young man how to shoe a horse,” said

+Telyánin.

+

+They went through the porch and into the stable. The lieutenant

+explained how to rivet the hoof and went away to his own quarters.

+

+When Rostóv went back there was a bottle of vodka and a sausage on the

+table. Denísov was sitting there scratching with his pen on a sheet of

+paper. He looked gloomily in Rostóv’s face and said: “I am witing

+to her.”

+

+He leaned his elbows on the table with his pen in his hand and,

+evidently glad of a chance to say quicker in words what he wanted to

+write, told Rostóv the contents of his letter.

+

+“You see, my fwiend,” he said, “we sleep when we don’t love. We

+are childwen of the dust... but one falls in love and one is a God, one

+is pua’ as on the fihst day of cweation... Who’s that now? Send him

+to the devil, I’m busy!” he shouted to Lavrúshka, who went up to

+him not in the least abashed.

+

+“Who should it be? You yourself told him to come. It’s the

+quartermaster for the money.”

+

+Denísov frowned and was about to shout some reply but stopped.

+

+“Wetched business,” he muttered to himself. “How much is left in

+the puhse?” he asked, turning to Rostóv.

+

+“Seven new and three old imperials.”

+

+“Oh, it’s wetched! Well, what are you standing there for, you

+sca’cwow? Call the quahtehmasteh,” he shouted to Lavrúshka.

+

+“Please, Denísov, let me lend you some: I have some, you know,”

+said Rostóv, blushing.

+

+“Don’t like bowwowing from my own fellows, I don’t,” growled

+Denísov.

+

+“But if you won’t accept money from me like a comrade, you will

+offend me. Really I have some,” Rostóv repeated.

+

+“No, I tell you.”

+

+And Denísov went to the bed to get the purse from under the pillow.

+

+“Where have you put it, Wostóv?”

+

+“Under the lower pillow.”

+

+“It’s not there.”

+

+Denísov threw both pillows on the floor. The purse was not there.

+

+“That’s a miwacle.”

+

+“Wait, haven’t you dropped it?” said Rostóv, picking up the

+pillows one at a time and shaking them.

+

+He pulled off the quilt and shook it. The purse was not there.

+

+“Dear me, can I have forgotten? No, I remember thinking that you kept

+it under your head like a treasure,” said Rostóv. “I put it just

+here. Where is it?” he asked, turning to Lavrúshka.

+

+“I haven’t been in the room. It must be where you put it.”

+

+“But it isn’t?...”

+

+“You’re always like that; you thwow a thing down anywhere and forget

+it. Feel in your pockets.”

+

+“No, if I hadn’t thought of it being a treasure,” said Rostóv,

+“but I remember putting it there.”

+

+Lavrúshka turned all the bedding over, looked under the bed and under

+the table, searched everywhere, and stood still in the middle of the

+room. Denísov silently watched Lavrúshka’s movements, and when the

+latter threw up his arms in surprise saying it was nowhere to be found

+Denísov glanced at Rostóv.

+

+“Wostóv, you’ve not been playing schoolboy twicks...”

+

+Rostóv felt Denísov’s gaze fixed on him, raised his eyes, and

+instantly dropped them again. All the blood which had seemed congested

+somewhere below his throat rushed to his face and eyes. He could not

+draw breath.

+

+“And there hasn’t been anyone in the room except the lieutenant and

+yourselves. It must be here somewhere,” said Lavrúshka.

+

+“Now then, you devil’s puppet, look alive and hunt for it!”

+shouted Denísov, suddenly, turning purple and rushing at the man with

+a threatening gesture. “If the purse isn’t found I’ll flog you,

+I’ll flog you all.”

+

+Rostóv, his eyes avoiding Denísov, began buttoning his coat, buckled

+on his saber, and put on his cap.

+

+“I must have that purse, I tell you,” shouted Denísov, shaking his

+orderly by the shoulders and knocking him against the wall.

+

+“Denísov, let him alone, I know who has taken it,” said Rostóv,

+going toward the door without raising his eyes. Denísov paused, thought

+a moment, and, evidently understanding what Rostóv hinted at, seized

+his arm.

+

+“Nonsense!” he cried, and the veins on his forehead and neck stood

+out like cords. “You are mad, I tell you. I won’t allow it.

+The purse is here! I’ll flay this scoundwel alive, and it will be

+found.”

+

+“I know who has taken it,” repeated Rostóv in an unsteady voice,

+and went to the door.

+

+“And I tell you, don’t you dahe to do it!” shouted Denísov,

+rushing at the cadet to restrain him.

+

+But Rostóv pulled away his arm and, with as much anger as though

+Denísov were his worst enemy, firmly fixed his eyes directly on his

+face.

+

+“Do you understand what you’re saying?” he said in a trembling

+voice. “There was no one else in the room except myself. So that if it

+is not so, then...”

+

+He could not finish, and ran out of the room.

+

+“Ah, may the devil take you and evewybody,” were the last words

+Rostóv heard.

+

+Rostóv went to Telyánin’s quarters.

+

+“The master is not in, he’s gone to headquarters,” said

+Telyánin’s orderly. “Has something happened?” he added, surprised

+at the cadet’s troubled face.

+

+“No, nothing.”

+

+“You’ve only just missed him,” said the orderly.

+

+The headquarters were situated two miles away from Salzeneck, and

+Rostóv, without returning home, took a horse and rode there. There was

+an inn in the village which the officers frequented. Rostóv rode up to

+it and saw Telyánin’s horse at the porch.

+

+In the second room of the inn the lieutenant was sitting over a dish of

+sausages and a bottle of wine.

+

+“Ah, you’ve come here too, young man!” he said, smiling and

+raising his eyebrows.

+

+“Yes,” said Rostóv as if it cost him a great deal to utter the

+word; and he sat down at the nearest table.

+

+Both were silent. There were two Germans and a Russian officer in the

+room. No one spoke and the only sounds heard were the clatter of knives

+and the munching of the lieutenant.

+

+When Telyánin had finished his lunch he took out of his pocket a double

+purse and, drawing its rings aside with his small, white, turned-up

+fingers, drew out a gold imperial, and lifting his eyebrows gave it to

+the waiter.

+

+“Please be quick,” he said.

+

+The coin was a new one. Rostóv rose and went up to Telyánin.

+

+“Allow me to look at your purse,” he said in a low, almost

+inaudible, voice.

+

+With shifting eyes but eyebrows still raised, Telyánin handed him the

+purse.

+

+“Yes, it’s a nice purse. Yes, yes,” he said, growing suddenly

+pale, and added, “Look at it, young man.”

+

+Rostóv took the purse in his hand, examined it and the money in it, and

+looked at Telyánin. The lieutenant was looking about in his usual way

+and suddenly seemed to grow very merry.

+

+“If we get to Vienna I’ll get rid of it there but in these wretched

+little towns there’s nowhere to spend it,” said he. “Well, let me

+have it, young man, I’m going.”

+

+Rostóv did not speak.

+

+“And you? Are you going to have lunch too? They feed you quite

+decently here,” continued Telyánin. “Now then, let me have it.”

+

+He stretched out his hand to take hold of the purse. Rostóv let go of

+it. Telyánin took the purse and began carelessly slipping it into the

+pocket of his riding breeches, with his eyebrows lifted and his mouth

+slightly open, as if to say, “Yes, yes, I am putting my purse in my

+pocket and that’s quite simple and is no one else’s business.”

+

+“Well, young man?” he said with a sigh, and from under his lifted

+brows he glanced into Rostóv’s eyes.

+

+Some flash as of an electric spark shot from Telyánin’s eyes to

+Rostóv’s and back, and back again and again in an instant.

+

+“Come here,” said Rostóv, catching hold of Telyánin’s arm and

+almost dragging him to the window. “That money is Denísov’s; you

+took it...” he whispered just above Telyánin’s ear.

+

+“What? What? How dare you? What?” said Telyánin.

+

+But these words came like a piteous, despairing cry and an entreaty for

+pardon. As soon as Rostóv heard them, an enormous load of doubt

+fell from him. He was glad, and at the same instant began to pity the

+miserable man who stood before him, but the task he had begun had to be

+completed.

+

+“Heaven only knows what the people here may imagine,” muttered

+Telyánin, taking up his cap and moving toward a small empty room. “We

+must have an explanation...”

+

+“I know it and shall prove it,” said Rostóv.

+

+“I...”

+

+Every muscle of Telyánin’s pale, terrified face began to quiver, his

+eyes still shifted from side to side but with a downward look not rising

+to Rostóv’s face, and his sobs were audible.

+

+“Count!... Don’t ruin a young fellow... here is this wretched money,

+take it...” He threw it on the table. “I have an old father and

+mother!...”

+

+Rostóv took the money, avoiding Telyánin’s eyes, and went out of the

+room without a word. But at the door he stopped and then retraced his

+steps. “O God,” he said with tears in his eyes, “how could you do

+it?”

+

+“Count...” said Telyánin drawing nearer to him.

+

+“Don’t touch me,” said Rostóv, drawing back. “If you need it,

+take the money,” and he threw the purse to him and ran out of the inn.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER V

+

+That same evening there was an animated discussion among the

+squadron’s officers in Denísov’s quarters.

+

+“And I tell you, Rostóv, that you must apologize to the colonel!”

+said a tall, grizzly-haired staff captain, with enormous mustaches and

+many wrinkles on his large features, to Rostóv who was crimson with

+excitement.

+

+The staff captain, Kírsten, had twice been reduced to the ranks for

+affairs of honor and had twice regained his commission.

+

+“I will allow no one to call me a liar!” cried Rostóv. “He told

+me I lied, and I told him he lied. And there it rests. He may keep me

+on duty every day, or may place me under arrest, but no one can make

+me apologize, because if he, as commander of this regiment, thinks it

+beneath his dignity to give me satisfaction, then...”

+

+“You just wait a moment, my dear fellow, and listen,” interrupted

+the staff captain in his deep bass, calmly stroking his long mustache.

+“You tell the colonel in the presence of other officers that an

+officer has stolen...”

+

+“I’m not to blame that the conversation began in the presence of

+other officers. Perhaps I ought not to have spoken before them, but I am

+not a diplomatist. That’s why I joined the hussars, thinking that here

+one would not need finesse; and he tells me that I am lying—so let him

+give me satisfaction...”

+

+“That’s all right. No one thinks you a coward, but that’s not the

+point. Ask Denísov whether it is not out of the question for a cadet to

+demand satisfaction of his regimental commander?”

+

+Denísov sat gloomily biting his mustache and listening to the

+conversation, evidently with no wish to take part in it. He answered the

+staff captain’s question by a disapproving shake of his head.

+

+“You speak to the colonel about this nasty business before other

+officers,” continued the staff captain, “and Bogdánich” (the

+colonel was called Bogdánich) “shuts you up.”

+

+“He did not shut me up, he said I was telling an untruth.”

+

+“Well, have it so, and you talked a lot of nonsense to him and must

+apologize.”

+

+“Not on any account!” exclaimed Rostóv.

+

+“I did not expect this of you,” said the staff captain seriously and

+severely. “You don’t wish to apologize, but, man, it’s not only to

+him but to the whole regiment—all of us—you’re to blame all round.

+The case is this: you ought to have thought the matter over and

+taken advice; but no, you go and blurt it all straight out before the

+officers. Now what was the colonel to do? Have the officer tried and

+disgrace the whole regiment? Disgrace the whole regiment because of one

+scoundrel? Is that how you look at it? We don’t see it like that. And

+Bogdánich was a brick: he told you you were saying what was not true.

+It’s not pleasant, but what’s to be done, my dear fellow? You landed

+yourself in it. And now, when one wants to smooth the thing over, some

+conceit prevents your apologizing, and you wish to make the whole

+affair public. You are offended at being put on duty a bit, but why not

+apologize to an old and honorable officer? Whatever Bogdánich may

+be, anyway he is an honorable and brave old colonel! You’re quick at

+taking offense, but you don’t mind disgracing the whole regiment!”

+The staff captain’s voice began to tremble. “You have been in the

+regiment next to no time, my lad, you’re here today and tomorrow

+you’ll be appointed adjutant somewhere and can snap your fingers when

+it is said ‘There are thieves among the Pávlograd officers!’ But

+it’s not all the same to us! Am I not right, Denísov? It’s not the

+same!”

+

+Denísov remained silent and did not move, but occasionally looked with

+his glittering black eyes at Rostóv.

+

+“You value your own pride and don’t wish to apologize,” continued

+the staff captain, “but we old fellows, who have grown up in and, God

+willing, are going to die in the regiment, we prize the honor of the

+regiment, and Bogdánich knows it. Oh, we do prize it, old fellow! And

+all this is not right, it’s not right! You may take offense or not but

+I always stick to mother truth. It’s not right!”

+

+And the staff captain rose and turned away from Rostóv.

+

+“That’s twue, devil take it!” shouted Denísov, jumping up. “Now

+then, Wostóv, now then!”

+

+Rostóv, growing red and pale alternately, looked first at one officer

+and then at the other.

+

+“No, gentlemen, no... you mustn’t think... I quite understand.

+You’re wrong to think that of me... I... for me... for the honor of

+the regiment I’d... Ah well, I’ll show that in action, and for me

+the honor of the flag... Well, never mind, it’s true I’m to blame,

+to blame all round. Well, what else do you want?...”

+

+“Come, that’s right, Count!” cried the staff captain, turning

+round and clapping Rostóv on the shoulder with his big hand.

+

+“I tell you,” shouted Denísov, “he’s a fine fellow.”

+

+“That’s better, Count,” said the staff captain, beginning to

+address Rostóv by his title, as if in recognition of his confession.

+“Go and apologize, your excellency. Yes, go!”

+

+“Gentlemen, I’ll do anything. No one shall hear a word from me,”

+said Rostóv in an imploring voice, “but I can’t apologize, by God I

+can’t, do what you will! How can I go and apologize like a little boy

+asking forgiveness?”

+

+Denísov began to laugh.

+

+“It’ll be worse for you. Bogdánich is vindictive and you’ll pay

+for your obstinacy,” said Kírsten.

+

+“No, on my word it’s not obstinacy! I can’t describe the feeling.

+I can’t...”

+

+“Well, it’s as you like,” said the staff captain. “And what has

+become of that scoundrel?” he asked Denísov.

+

+“He has weported himself sick, he’s to be stwuck off the list

+tomowwow,” muttered Denísov.

+

+“It is an illness, there’s no other way of explaining it,” said

+the staff captain.

+

+“Illness or not, he’d better not cwoss my path. I’d kill him!”

+shouted Denísov in a bloodthirsty tone.

+

+Just then Zherkóv entered the room.

+

+“What brings you here?” cried the officers turning to the newcomer.

+

+“We’re to go into action, gentlemen! Mack has surrendered with his

+whole army.”

+

+“It’s not true!”

+

+“I’ve seen him myself!”

+

+“What? Saw the real Mack? With hands and feet?”

+

+“Into action! Into action! Bring him a bottle for such news! But how

+did you come here?”

+

+“I’ve been sent back to the regiment all on account of that devil,

+Mack. An Austrian general complained of me. I congratulated him on

+Mack’s arrival... What’s the matter, Rostóv? You look as if you’d

+just come out of a hot bath.”

+

+“Oh, my dear fellow, we’re in such a stew here these last two

+days.”

+

+The regimental adjutant came in and confirmed the news brought by

+Zherkóv. They were under orders to advance next day.

+

+“We’re going into action, gentlemen!”

+

+“Well, thank God! We’ve been sitting here too long!”

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER VI

+

+Kutúzov fell back toward Vienna, destroying behind him the bridges over

+the rivers Inn (at Braunau) and Traun (near Linz). On October 23 the

+Russian troops were crossing the river Enns. At midday the Russian

+baggage train, the artillery, and columns of troops were defiling

+through the town of Enns on both sides of the bridge.

+

+It was a warm, rainy, autumnal day. The wide expanse that opened out

+before the heights on which the Russian batteries stood guarding the

+bridge was at times veiled by a diaphanous curtain of slanting rain, and

+then, suddenly spread out in the sunlight, far-distant objects could

+be clearly seen glittering as though freshly varnished. Down below,

+the little town could be seen with its white, red-roofed houses, its

+cathedral, and its bridge, on both sides of which streamed jostling

+masses of Russian troops. At the bend of the Danube, vessels, an island,

+and a castle with a park surrounded by the waters of the confluence of

+the Enns and the Danube became visible, and the rocky left bank of the

+Danube covered with pine forests, with a mystic background of green

+treetops and bluish gorges. The turrets of a convent stood out beyond a

+wild virgin pine forest, and far away on the other side of the Enns the

+enemy’s horse patrols could be discerned.

+

+Among the field guns on the brow of the hill the general in command of

+the rearguard stood with a staff officer, scanning the country through

+his fieldglass. A little behind them Nesvítski, who had been sent to

+the rearguard by the commander in chief, was sitting on the trail of a

+gun carriage. A Cossack who accompanied him had handed him a knapsack

+and a flask, and Nesvítski was treating some officers to pies and real

+doppelkümmel. The officers gladly gathered round him, some on their

+knees, some squatting Turkish fashion on the wet grass.

+

+“Yes, the Austrian prince who built that castle was no fool. It’s

+a fine place! Why are you not eating anything, gentlemen?” Nesvítski

+was saying.

+

+“Thank you very much, Prince,” answered one of the officers, pleased

+to be talking to a staff officer of such importance. “It’s a lovely

+place! We passed close to the park and saw two deer... and what a

+splendid house!”

+

+“Look, Prince,” said another, who would have dearly liked to take

+another pie but felt shy, and therefore pretended to be examining the

+countryside—“See, our infantrymen have already got there. Look there

+in the meadow behind the village, three of them are dragging something.

+They’ll ransack that castle,” he remarked with evident approval.

+

+“So they will,” said Nesvítski. “No, but what I should like,”

+added he, munching a pie in his moist-lipped handsome mouth, “would be

+to slip in over there.”

+

+He pointed with a smile to a turreted nunnery, and his eyes narrowed and

+gleamed.

+

+“That would be fine, gentlemen!”

+

+The officers laughed.

+

+“Just to flutter the nuns a bit. They say there are Italian girls

+among them. On my word I’d give five years of my life for it!”

+

+“They must be feeling dull, too,” said one of the bolder officers,

+laughing.

+

+Meanwhile the staff officer standing in front pointed out something to

+the general, who looked through his field glass.

+

+“Yes, so it is, so it is,” said the general angrily, lowering the

+field glass and shrugging his shoulders, “so it is! They’ll be fired

+on at the crossing. And why are they dawdling there?”

+

+On the opposite side the enemy could be seen by the naked eye, and from

+their battery a milk-white cloud arose. Then came the distant report of

+a shot, and our troops could be seen hurrying to the crossing.

+

+Nesvítski rose, puffing, and went up to the general, smiling.

+

+“Would not your excellency like a little refreshment?” he said.

+

+“It’s a bad business,” said the general without answering him,

+“our men have been wasting time.”

+

+“Hadn’t I better ride over, your excellency?” asked Nesvítski.

+

+“Yes, please do,” answered the general, and he repeated the order

+that had already once been given in detail: “and tell the hussars

+that they are to cross last and to fire the bridge as I ordered; and the

+inflammable material on the bridge must be reinspected.”

+

+“Very good,” answered Nesvítski.

+

+He called the Cossack with his horse, told him to put away the knapsack

+and flask, and swung his heavy person easily into the saddle.

+

+“I’ll really call in on the nuns,” he said to the officers who

+watched him smilingly, and he rode off by the winding path down the

+hill.

+

+“Now then, let’s see how far it will carry, Captain. Just try!”

+said the general, turning to an artillery officer. “Have a little fun

+to pass the time.”

+

+“Crew, to your guns!” commanded the officer.

+

+In a moment the men came running gaily from their campfires and began

+loading.

+

+“One!” came the command.

+

+Number one jumped briskly aside. The gun rang out with a deafening

+metallic roar, and a whistling grenade flew above the heads of our

+troops below the hill and fell far short of the enemy, a little smoke

+showing the spot where it burst.

+

+The faces of officers and men brightened up at the sound. Everyone got

+up and began watching the movements of our troops below, as plainly

+visible as if but a stone’s throw away, and the movements of the

+approaching enemy farther off. At the same instant the sun came fully

+out from behind the clouds, and the clear sound of the solitary shot

+and the brilliance of the bright sunshine merged in a single joyous and

+spirited impression.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER VII

+

+Two of the enemy’s shots had already flown across the bridge, where

+there was a crush. Halfway across stood Prince Nesvítski, who had

+alighted from his horse and whose big body was jammed against the

+railings. He looked back laughing to the Cossack who stood a few

+steps behind him holding two horses by their bridles. Each time Prince

+Nesvítski tried to move on, soldiers and carts pushed him back again

+and pressed him against the railings, and all he could do was to smile.

+

+“What a fine fellow you are, friend!” said the Cossack to a convoy

+soldier with a wagon, who was pressing onto the infantrymen who were

+crowded together close to his wheels and his horses. “What a fellow!

+You can’t wait a moment! Don’t you see the general wants to pass?”

+

+But the convoyman took no notice of the word “general” and shouted

+at the soldiers who were blocking his way. “Hi there, boys! Keep to

+the left! Wait a bit.” But the soldiers, crowded together shoulder to

+shoulder, their bayonets interlocking, moved over the bridge in a dense

+mass. Looking down over the rails Prince Nesvítski saw the rapid, noisy

+little waves of the Enns, which rippling and eddying round the piles of

+the bridge chased each other along. Looking on the bridge he saw equally

+uniform living waves of soldiers, shoulder straps, covered shakos,

+knapsacks, bayonets, long muskets, and, under the shakos, faces with

+broad cheekbones, sunken cheeks, and listless tired expressions, and

+feet that moved through the sticky mud that covered the planks of the

+bridge. Sometimes through the monotonous waves of men, like a fleck of

+white foam on the waves of the Enns, an officer, in a cloak and with

+a type of face different from that of the men, squeezed his way along;

+sometimes like a chip of wood whirling in the river, an hussar on foot,

+an orderly, or a townsman was carried through the waves of infantry;

+and sometimes like a log floating down the river, an officers’ or

+company’s baggage wagon, piled high, leather covered, and hemmed in on

+all sides, moved across the bridge.

+

+“It’s as if a dam had burst,” said the Cossack hopelessly. “Are

+there many more of you to come?”

+

+“A million all but one!” replied a waggish soldier in a torn coat,

+with a wink, and passed on followed by another, an old man.

+

+“If he” (he meant the enemy) “begins popping at the bridge now,”

+said the old soldier dismally to a comrade, “you’ll forget to

+scratch yourself.”

+

+That soldier passed on, and after him came another sitting on a cart.

+

+“Where the devil have the leg bands been shoved to?” said an

+orderly, running behind the cart and fumbling in the back of it.

+

+And he also passed on with the wagon. Then came some merry soldiers who

+had evidently been drinking.

+

+“And then, old fellow, he gives him one in the teeth with the butt

+end of his gun...” a soldier whose greatcoat was well tucked up said

+gaily, with a wide swing of his arm.

+

+“Yes, the ham was just delicious...” answered another with a loud

+laugh. And they, too, passed on, so that Nesvítski did not learn who

+had been struck on the teeth, or what the ham had to do with it.

+

+“Bah! How they scurry. He just sends a ball and they think they’ll

+all be killed,” a sergeant was saying angrily and reproachfully.

+

+“As it flies past me, Daddy, the ball I mean,” said a young soldier

+with an enormous mouth, hardly refraining from laughing, “I felt like

+dying of fright. I did, ‘pon my word, I got that frightened!” said

+he, as if bragging of having been frightened.

+

+That one also passed. Then followed a cart unlike any that had gone

+before. It was a German cart with a pair of horses led by a German, and

+seemed loaded with a whole houseful of effects. A fine brindled cow with

+a large udder was attached to the cart behind. A woman with an unweaned

+baby, an old woman, and a healthy German girl with bright red cheeks

+were sitting on some feather beds. Evidently these fugitives were

+allowed to pass by special permission. The eyes of all the soldiers

+turned toward the women, and while the vehicle was passing at foot pace

+all the soldiers’ remarks related to the two young ones. Every face

+bore almost the same smile, expressing unseemly thoughts about the

+women.

+

+“Just see, the German sausage is making tracks, too!”

+

+“Sell me the missis,” said another soldier, addressing the German,

+who, angry and frightened, strode energetically along with downcast

+eyes.

+

+“See how smart she’s made herself! Oh, the devils!”

+

+“There, Fedótov, you should be quartered on them!”

+

+“I have seen as much before now, mate!”

+

+“Where are you going?” asked an infantry officer who was eating an

+apple, also half smiling as he looked at the handsome girl.

+

+The German closed his eyes, signifying that he did not understand.

+

+“Take it if you like,” said the officer, giving the girl an apple.

+

+The girl smiled and took it. Nesvítski like the rest of the men on the

+bridge did not take his eyes off the women till they had passed. When

+they had gone by, the same stream of soldiers followed, with the same

+kind of talk, and at last all stopped. As often happens, the horses of

+a convoy wagon became restive at the end of the bridge, and the whole

+crowd had to wait.

+

+“And why are they stopping? There’s no proper order!” said the

+soldiers. “Where are you shoving to? Devil take you! Can’t you wait?

+It’ll be worse if he fires the bridge. See, here’s an officer jammed

+in too”—different voices were saying in the crowd, as the men looked

+at one another, and all pressed toward the exit from the bridge.

+

+Looking down at the waters of the Enns under the bridge, Nesvítski

+suddenly heard a sound new to him, of something swiftly approaching...

+something big, that splashed into the water.

+

+“Just see where it carries to!” a soldier near by said sternly,

+looking round at the sound.

+

+“Encouraging us to get along quicker,” said another uneasily.

+

+The crowd moved on again. Nesvítski realized that it was a cannon ball.

+

+“Hey, Cossack, my horse!” he said. “Now, then, you there! get out

+of the way! Make way!”

+

+With great difficulty he managed to get to his horse, and shouting

+continually he moved on. The soldiers squeezed themselves to make way

+for him, but again pressed on him so that they jammed his leg, and those

+nearest him were not to blame for they were themselves pressed still

+harder from behind.

+

+“Nesvítski, Nesvítski! you numskull!” came a hoarse voice from

+behind him.

+

+Nesvítski looked round and saw, some fifteen paces away but separated

+by the living mass of moving infantry, Váska Denísov, red and shaggy,

+with his cap on the back of his black head and a cloak hanging jauntily

+over his shoulder.

+

+“Tell these devils, these fiends, to let me pass!” shouted Denísov

+evidently in a fit of rage, his coal-black eyes with their bloodshot

+whites glittering and rolling as he waved his sheathed saber in a small

+bare hand as red as his face.

+

+“Ah, Váska!” joyfully replied Nesvítski. “What’s up with

+you?”

+

+“The squadwon can’t pass,” shouted Váska Denísov, showing his

+white teeth fiercely and spurring his black thoroughbred Arab, which

+twitched its ears as the bayonets touched it, and snorted, spurting

+white foam from his bit, tramping the planks of the bridge with his

+hoofs, and apparently ready to jump over the railings had his rider let

+him. “What is this? They’re like sheep! Just like sheep! Out of the

+way!... Let us pass!... Stop there, you devil with the cart! I’ll hack

+you with my saber!” he shouted, actually drawing his saber from its

+scabbard and flourishing it.

+

+The soldiers crowded against one another with terrified faces, and

+Denísov joined Nesvítski.

+

+“How’s it you’re not drunk today?” said Nesvítski when the

+other had ridden up to him.

+

+“They don’t even give one time to dwink!” answered Váska

+Denísov. “They keep dwagging the wegiment to and fwo all day. If they

+mean to fight, let’s fight. But the devil knows what this is.”

+

+“What a dandy you are today!” said Nesvítski, looking at

+Denísov’s new cloak and saddlecloth.

+

+Denísov smiled, took out of his sabretache a handkerchief that diffused

+a smell of perfume, and put it to Nesvítski’s nose.

+

+“Of course. I’m going into action! I’ve shaved, bwushed my teeth,

+and scented myself.”

+

+The imposing figure of Nesvítski followed by his Cossack, and

+the determination of Denísov who flourished his sword and shouted

+frantically, had such an effect that they managed to squeeze through

+to the farther side of the bridge and stopped the infantry. Beside the

+bridge Nesvítski found the colonel to whom he had to deliver the order,

+and having done this he rode back.

+

+Having cleared the way Denísov stopped at the end of the bridge.

+Carelessly holding in his stallion that was neighing and pawing the

+ground, eager to rejoin its fellows, he watched his squadron draw

+nearer. Then the clang of hoofs, as of several horses galloping,

+resounded on the planks of the bridge, and the squadron, officers in

+front and men four abreast, spread across the bridge and began to emerge

+on his side of it.

+

+The infantry who had been stopped crowded near the bridge in the

+trampled mud and gazed with that particular feeling of ill-will,

+estrangement, and ridicule with which troops of different arms usually

+encounter one another at the clean, smart hussars who moved past them in

+regular order.

+

+“Smart lads! Only fit for a fair!” said one.

+

+“What good are they? They’re led about just for show!” remarked

+another.

+

+“Don’t kick up the dust, you infantry!” jested an hussar whose

+prancing horse had splashed mud over some foot soldiers.

+

+“I’d like to put you on a two days’ march with a knapsack! Your

+fine cords would soon get a bit rubbed,” said an infantryman, wiping

+the mud off his face with his sleeve. “Perched up there, you’re more

+like a bird than a man.”

+

+“There now, Zíkin, they ought to put you on a horse. You’d look

+fine,” said a corporal, chaffing a thin little soldier who bent under

+the weight of his knapsack.

+

+“Take a stick between your legs, that’ll suit you for a horse!”

+the hussar shouted back.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER VIII

+

+The last of the infantry hurriedly crossed the bridge, squeezing

+together as they approached it as if passing through a funnel. At last

+the baggage wagons had all crossed, the crush was less, and the last

+battalion came onto the bridge. Only Denísov’s squadron of hussars

+remained on the farther side of the bridge facing the enemy, who could

+be seen from the hill on the opposite bank but was not yet visible from

+the bridge, for the horizon as seen from the valley through which the

+river flowed was formed by the rising ground only half a mile away.

+At the foot of the hill lay wasteland over which a few groups of our

+Cossack scouts were moving. Suddenly on the road at the top of the high

+ground, artillery and troops in blue uniform were seen. These were the

+French. A group of Cossack scouts retired down the hill at a trot. All

+the officers and men of Denísov’s squadron, though they tried to talk

+of other things and to look in other directions, thought only of what

+was there on the hilltop, and kept constantly looking at the patches

+appearing on the skyline, which they knew to be the enemy’s troops.

+The weather had cleared again since noon and the sun was descending

+brightly upon the Danube and the dark hills around it. It was calm, and

+at intervals the bugle calls and the shouts of the enemy could be heard

+from the hill. There was no one now between the squadron and the enemy

+except a few scattered skirmishers. An empty space of some seven hundred

+yards was all that separated them. The enemy ceased firing, and that

+stern, threatening, inaccessible, and intangible line which separates

+two hostile armies was all the more clearly felt.

+

+“One step beyond that boundary line which resembles the line dividing

+the living from the dead lies uncertainty, suffering, and death. And

+what is there? Who is there?—there beyond that field, that tree, that

+roof lit up by the sun? No one knows, but one wants to know. You fear

+and yet long to cross that line, and know that sooner or later it must

+be crossed and you will have to find out what is there, just as you will

+inevitably have to learn what lies the other side of death. But you are

+strong, healthy, cheerful, and excited, and are surrounded by other such

+excitedly animated and healthy men.” So thinks, or at any rate

+feels, anyone who comes in sight of the enemy, and that feeling gives

+a particular glamour and glad keenness of impression to everything that

+takes place at such moments.

+

+On the high ground where the enemy was, the smoke of a cannon rose,

+and a ball flew whistling over the heads of the hussar squadron. The

+officers who had been standing together rode off to their places. The

+hussars began carefully aligning their horses. Silence fell on the whole

+squadron. All were looking at the enemy in front and at the squadron

+commander, awaiting the word of command. A second and a third cannon

+ball flew past. Evidently they were firing at the hussars, but the balls

+with rapid rhythmic whistle flew over the heads of the horsemen and fell

+somewhere beyond them. The hussars did not look round, but at the sound

+of each shot, as at the word of command, the whole squadron with its

+rows of faces so alike yet so different, holding its breath while the

+ball flew past, rose in the stirrups and sank back again. The soldiers

+without turning their heads glanced at one another, curious to see their

+comrades’ impression. Every face, from Denísov’s to that of the

+bugler, showed one common expression of conflict, irritation, and

+excitement, around chin and mouth. The quartermaster frowned, looking

+at the soldiers as if threatening to punish them. Cadet Mirónov ducked

+every time a ball flew past. Rostóv on the left flank, mounted on his

+Rook—a handsome horse despite its game leg—had the happy air of a

+schoolboy called up before a large audience for an examination in which

+he feels sure he will distinguish himself. He was glancing at everyone

+with a clear, bright expression, as if asking them to notice how calmly

+he sat under fire. But despite himself, on his face too that same

+indication of something new and stern showed round the mouth.

+

+“Who’s that curtseying there? Cadet Miwónov! That’s not wight!

+Look at me,” cried Denísov who, unable to keep still on one spot,

+kept turning his horse in front of the squadron.

+

+The black, hairy, snub-nosed face of Váska Denísov, and his whole

+short sturdy figure with the sinewy hairy hand and stumpy fingers in

+which he held the hilt of his naked saber, looked just as it usually

+did, especially toward evening when he had emptied his second bottle; he

+was only redder than usual. With his shaggy head thrown back like birds

+when they drink, pressing his spurs mercilessly into the sides of his

+good horse, Bedouin, and sitting as though falling backwards in the

+saddle, he galloped to the other flank of the squadron and shouted in

+a hoarse voice to the men to look to their pistols. He rode up to

+Kírsten. The staff captain on his broad-backed, steady mare came at a

+walk to meet him. His face with its long mustache was serious as always,

+only his eyes were brighter than usual.

+

+“Well, what about it?” said he to Denísov. “It won’t come to a

+fight. You’ll see—we shall retire.”

+

+“The devil only knows what they’re about!” muttered Denísov.

+“Ah, Wostóv,” he cried noticing the cadet’s bright face,

+“you’ve got it at last.”

+

+And he smiled approvingly, evidently pleased with the cadet. Rostóv

+felt perfectly happy. Just then the commander appeared on the bridge.

+Denísov galloped up to him.

+

+“Your excellency! Let us attack them! I’ll dwive them off.”

+

+“Attack indeed!” said the colonel in a bored voice, puckering up his

+face as if driving off a troublesome fly. “And why are you stopping

+here? Don’t you see the skirmishers are retreating? Lead the squadron

+back.”

+

+The squadron crossed the bridge and drew out of range of fire without

+having lost a single man. The second squadron that had been in the front

+line followed them across and the last Cossacks quitted the farther side

+of the river.

+

+The two Pávlograd squadrons, having crossed the bridge, retired up the

+hill one after the other. Their colonel, Karl Bogdánich Schubert, came

+up to Denísov’s squadron and rode at a footpace not far from Rostóv,

+without taking any notice of him although they were now meeting for the

+first time since their encounter concerning Telyánin. Rostóv, feeling

+that he was at the front and in the power of a man toward whom he now

+admitted that he had been to blame, did not lift his eyes from the

+colonel’s athletic back, his nape covered with light hair, and his red

+neck. It seemed to Rostóv that Bogdánich was only pretending not

+to notice him, and that his whole aim now was to test the cadet’s

+courage, so he drew himself up and looked around him merrily; then it

+seemed to him that Bogdánich rode so near in order to show him his

+courage. Next he thought that his enemy would send the squadron on a

+desperate attack just to punish him—Rostóv. Then he imagined how,

+after the attack, Bogdánich would come up to him as he lay wounded and

+would magnanimously extend the hand of reconciliation.

+

+The high-shouldered figure of Zherkóv, familiar to the Pávlograds as

+he had but recently left their regiment, rode up to the colonel.

+After his dismissal from headquarters Zherkóv had not remained in the

+regiment, saying he was not such a fool as to slave at the front when he

+could get more rewards by doing nothing on the staff, and had succeeded

+in attaching himself as an orderly officer to Prince Bagratión. He now

+came to his former chief with an order from the commander of the rear

+guard.

+

+“Colonel,” he said, addressing Rostóv’s enemy with an air of

+gloomy gravity and glancing round at his comrades, “there is an order

+to stop and fire the bridge.”

+

+“An order to who?” asked the colonel morosely.

+

+“I don’t myself know ‘to who,’” replied the cornet in a

+serious tone, “but the prince told me to ‘go and tell the colonel

+that the hussars must return quickly and fire the bridge.’”

+

+Zherkóv was followed by an officer of the suite who rode up to the

+colonel of hussars with the same order. After him the stout Nesvítski

+came galloping up on a Cossack horse that could scarcely carry his

+weight.

+

+“How’s this, Colonel?” he shouted as he approached. “I told you

+to fire the bridge, and now someone has gone and blundered; they are all

+beside themselves over there and one can’t make anything out.”

+

+The colonel deliberately stopped the regiment and turned to Nesvítski.

+

+“You spoke to me of inflammable material,” said he, “but you said

+nothing about firing it.”

+

+“But, my dear sir,” said Nesvítski as he drew up, taking off his

+cap and smoothing his hair wet with perspiration with his plump hand,

+“wasn’t I telling you to fire the bridge, when inflammable material

+had been put in position?”

+

+“I am not your ‘dear sir,’ Mr. Staff Officer, and you did not tell

+me to burn the bridge! I know the service, and it is my habit orders

+strictly to obey. You said the bridge would be burned, but who would it

+burn, I could not know by the holy spirit!”

+

+“Ah, that’s always the way!” said Nesvítski with a wave of the

+hand. “How did you get here?” said he, turning to Zherkóv.

+

+“On the same business. But you are damp! Let me wring you out!”

+

+“You were saying, Mr. Staff Officer...” continued the colonel in an

+offended tone.

+

+“Colonel,” interrupted the officer of the suite, “You must be

+quick or the enemy will bring up his guns to use grapeshot.”

+

+The colonel looked silently at the officer of the suite, at the stout

+staff officer, and at Zherkóv, and he frowned.

+

+“I will the bridge fire,” he said in a solemn tone as if to announce

+that in spite of all the unpleasantness he had to endure he would still

+do the right thing.

+

+Striking his horse with his long muscular legs as if it were to blame

+for everything, the colonel moved forward and ordered the second

+squadron, that in which Rostóv was serving under Denísov, to return to

+the bridge.

+

+“There, it’s just as I thought,” said Rostóv to himself. “He

+wishes to test me!” His heart contracted and the blood rushed to his

+face. “Let him see whether I am a coward!” he thought.

+

+Again on all the bright faces of the squadron the serious expression

+appeared that they had worn when under fire. Rostóv watched his enemy,

+the colonel, closely—to find in his face confirmation of his own

+conjecture, but the colonel did not once glance at Rostóv, and looked

+as he always did when at the front, solemn and stern. Then came the word

+of command.

+

+“Look sharp! Look sharp!” several voices repeated around him.

+

+Their sabers catching in the bridles and their spurs jingling, the

+hussars hastily dismounted, not knowing what they were to do. The men

+were crossing themselves. Rostóv no longer looked at the colonel, he

+had no time. He was afraid of falling behind the hussars, so much afraid

+that his heart stood still. His hand trembled as he gave his horse into

+an orderly’s charge, and he felt the blood rush to his heart with

+a thud. Denísov rode past him, leaning back and shouting something.

+Rostóv saw nothing but the hussars running all around him, their spurs

+catching and their sabers clattering.

+

+“Stretchers!” shouted someone behind him.

+

+Rostóv did not think what this call for stretchers meant; he ran on,

+trying only to be ahead of the others; but just at the bridge, not

+looking at the ground, he came on some sticky, trodden mud, stumbled,

+and fell on his hands. The others outstripped him.

+

+“At boss zides, Captain,” he heard the voice of the colonel, who,

+having ridden ahead, had pulled up his horse near the bridge, with a

+triumphant, cheerful face.

+

+Rostóv wiping his muddy hands on his breeches looked at his enemy and

+was about to run on, thinking that the farther he went to the front

+the better. But Bogdánich, without looking at or recognizing Rostóv,

+shouted to him:

+

+“Who’s that running on the middle of the bridge? To the right! Come

+back, Cadet!” he cried angrily; and turning to Denísov, who, showing

+off his courage, had ridden on to the planks of the bridge:

+

+“Why run risks, Captain? You should dismount,” he said.

+

+“Oh, every bullet has its billet,” answered Váska Denísov, turning

+in his saddle.

+

+

+Meanwhile Nesvítski, Zherkóv, and the officer of the suite were

+standing together out of range of the shots, watching, now the small

+group of men with yellow shakos, dark-green jackets braided with cord,

+and blue riding breeches, who were swarming near the bridge, and then at

+what was approaching in the distance from the opposite side—the blue

+uniforms and groups with horses, easily recognizable as artillery.

+

+“Will they burn the bridge or not? Who’ll get there first? Will they

+get there and fire the bridge or will the French get within grapeshot

+range and wipe them out?” These were the questions each man of the

+troops on the high ground above the bridge involuntarily asked himself

+with a sinking heart—watching the bridge and the hussars in the bright

+evening light and the blue tunics advancing from the other side with

+their bayonets and guns.

+

+“Ugh. The hussars will get it hot!” said Nesvítski; “they are

+within grapeshot range now.”

+

+“He shouldn’t have taken so many men,” said the officer of the

+suite.

+

+“True enough,” answered Nesvítski; “two smart fellows could have

+done the job just as well.”

+

+“Ah, your excellency,” put in Zherkóv, his eyes fixed on the

+hussars, but still with that naïve air that made it impossible to know

+whether he was speaking in jest or in earnest. “Ah, your excellency!

+How you look at things! Send two men? And who then would give us the

+Vladímir medal and ribbon? But now, even if they do get peppered, the

+squadron may be recommended for honors and he may get a ribbon. Our

+Bogdánich knows how things are done.”

+

+“There now!” said the officer of the suite, “that’s

+grapeshot.”

+

+He pointed to the French guns, the limbers of which were being detached

+and hurriedly removed.

+

+On the French side, amid the groups with cannon, a cloud of smoke

+appeared, then a second and a third almost simultaneously, and at the

+moment when the first report was heard a fourth was seen. Then two

+reports one after another, and a third.

+

+“Oh! Oh!” groaned Nesvítski as if in fierce pain, seizing the

+officer of the suite by the arm. “Look! A man has fallen! Fallen,

+fallen!”

+

+“Two, I think.”

+

+“If I were Tsar I would never go to war,” said Nesvítski, turning

+away.

+

+The French guns were hastily reloaded. The infantry in their blue

+uniforms advanced toward the bridge at a run. Smoke appeared again

+but at irregular intervals, and grapeshot cracked and rattled onto the

+bridge. But this time Nesvítski could not see what was happening there,

+as a dense cloud of smoke arose from it. The hussars had succeeded in

+setting it on fire and the French batteries were now firing at them, no

+longer to hinder them but because the guns were trained and there was

+someone to fire at.

+

+The French had time to fire three rounds of grapeshot before the hussars

+got back to their horses. Two were misdirected and the shot went too

+high, but the last round fell in the midst of a group of hussars and

+knocked three of them over.

+

+Rostóv, absorbed by his relations with Bogdánich, had paused on the

+bridge not knowing what to do. There was no one to hew down (as he

+had always imagined battles to himself), nor could he help to fire the

+bridge because he had not brought any burning straw with him like the

+other soldiers. He stood looking about him, when suddenly he heard a

+rattle on the bridge as if nuts were being spilt, and the hussar nearest

+to him fell against the rails with a groan. Rostóv ran up to him with

+the others. Again someone shouted, “Stretchers!” Four men seized the

+hussar and began lifting him.

+

+“Oooh! For Christ’s sake let me alone!” cried the wounded man, but

+still he was lifted and laid on the stretcher.

+

+Nicholas Rostóv turned away and, as if searching for something, gazed

+into the distance, at the waters of the Danube, at the sky, and at the

+sun. How beautiful the sky looked; how blue, how calm, and how deep!

+How bright and glorious was the setting sun! With what soft glitter the

+waters of the distant Danube shone. And fairer still were the faraway

+blue mountains beyond the river, the nunnery, the mysterious gorges, and

+the pine forests veiled in the mist of their summits... There was peace

+and happiness... “I should wish for nothing else, nothing, if only I

+were there,” thought Rostóv. “In myself alone and in that sunshine

+there is so much happiness; but here... groans, suffering, fear, and

+this uncertainty and hurry... There—they are shouting again, and

+again are all running back somewhere, and I shall run with them, and it,

+death, is here above me and around... Another instant and I shall never

+again see the sun, this water, that gorge!...”

+

+At that instant the sun began to hide behind the clouds, and other

+stretchers came into view before Rostóv. And the fear of death and of

+the stretchers, and love of the sun and of life, all merged into one

+feeling of sickening agitation.

+

+“O Lord God! Thou who art in that heaven, save, forgive, and protect

+me!” Rostóv whispered.

+

+The hussars ran back to the men who held their horses; their voices

+sounded louder and calmer, the stretchers disappeared from sight.

+

+“Well, fwiend? So you’ve smelt powdah!” shouted Váska Denísov

+just above his ear.

+

+“It’s all over; but I am a coward—yes, a coward!” thought

+Rostóv, and sighing deeply he took Rook, his horse, which stood resting

+one foot, from the orderly and began to mount.

+

+“Was that grapeshot?” he asked Denísov.

+

+“Yes and no mistake!” cried Denísov. “You worked like wegular

+bwicks and it’s nasty work! An attack’s pleasant work! Hacking

+away at the dogs! But this sort of thing is the very devil, with them

+shooting at you like a target.”

+

+And Denísov rode up to a group that had stopped near Rostóv, composed

+of the colonel, Nesvítski, Zherkóv, and the officer from the suite.

+

+“Well, it seems that no one has noticed,” thought Rostóv. And this

+was true. No one had taken any notice, for everyone knew the sensation

+which the cadet under fire for the first time had experienced.

+

+“Here’s something for you to report,” said Zherkóv. “See if I

+don’t get promoted to a sublieutenancy.”

+

+“Inform the prince that I the bridge fired!” said the colonel

+triumphantly and gaily.

+

+“And if he asks about the losses?”

+

+“A trifle,” said the colonel in his bass voice: “two hussars

+wounded, and one knocked out,” he added, unable to restrain a happy

+smile, and pronouncing the phrase “knocked out” with ringing

+distinctness.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER IX

+

+Pursued by the French army of a hundred thousand men under the command

+of Bonaparte, encountering a population that was unfriendly to it,

+losing confidence in its allies, suffering from shortness of supplies,

+and compelled to act under conditions of war unlike anything that had

+been foreseen, the Russian army of thirty-five thousand men commanded

+by Kutúzov was hurriedly retreating along the Danube, stopping where

+overtaken by the enemy and fighting rearguard actions only as far as

+necessary to enable it to retreat without losing its heavy equipment.

+There had been actions at Lambach, Amstetten, and Melk; but despite the

+courage and endurance—acknowledged even by the enemy—with which the

+Russians fought, the only consequence of these actions was a yet more

+rapid retreat. Austrian troops that had escaped capture at Ulm and had

+joined Kutúzov at Braunau now separated from the Russian army, and

+Kutúzov was left with only his own weak and exhausted forces. The

+defense of Vienna was no longer to be thought of. Instead of an

+offensive, the plan of which, carefully prepared in accord with the

+modern science of strategics, had been handed to Kutúzov when he was in

+Vienna by the Austrian Hofkriegsrath, the sole and almost unattainable

+aim remaining for him was to effect a junction with the forces that were

+advancing from Russia, without losing his army as Mack had done at Ulm.

+

+On the twenty-eighth of October Kutúzov with his army crossed to the

+left bank of the Danube and took up a position for the first time

+with the river between himself and the main body of the French. On the

+thirtieth he attacked Mortier’s division, which was on the left bank,

+and broke it up. In this action for the first time trophies were taken:

+banners, cannon, and two enemy generals. For the first time, after a

+fortnight’s retreat, the Russian troops had halted and after a fight

+had not only held the field but had repulsed the French. Though the

+troops were ill-clad, exhausted, and had lost a third of their number

+in killed, wounded, sick, and stragglers; though a number of sick and

+wounded had been abandoned on the other side of the Danube with a letter

+in which Kutúzov entrusted them to the humanity of the enemy; and

+though the big hospitals and the houses in Krems converted into military

+hospitals could no longer accommodate all the sick and wounded, yet the

+stand made at Krems and the victory over Mortier raised the spirits of

+the army considerably. Throughout the whole army and at headquarters

+most joyful though erroneous rumors were rife of the imaginary approach

+of columns from Russia, of some victory gained by the Austrians, and of

+the retreat of the frightened Bonaparte.

+

+Prince Andrew during the battle had been in attendance on the Austrian

+General Schmidt, who was killed in the action. His horse had been

+wounded under him and his own arm slightly grazed by a bullet. As a mark

+of the commander in chief’s special favor he was sent with the news of

+this victory to the Austrian court, now no longer at Vienna (which was

+threatened by the French) but at Brünn. Despite his apparently delicate

+build Prince Andrew could endure physical fatigue far better than many

+very muscular men, and on the night of the battle, having arrived

+at Krems excited but not weary, with dispatches from Dokhtúrov to

+Kutúzov, he was sent immediately with a special dispatch to Brünn.

+To be so sent meant not only a reward but an important step toward

+promotion.

+

+The night was dark but starry, the road showed black in the snow that

+had fallen the previous day—the day of the battle. Reviewing his

+impressions of the recent battle, picturing pleasantly to himself the

+impression his news of a victory would create, or recalling the send-off

+given him by the commander in chief and his fellow officers, Prince

+Andrew was galloping along in a post chaise enjoying the feelings of a

+man who has at length begun to attain a long-desired happiness. As soon

+as he closed his eyes his ears seemed filled with the rattle of the

+wheels and the sensation of victory. Then he began to imagine that

+the Russians were running away and that he himself was killed, but he

+quickly roused himself with a feeling of joy, as if learning afresh that

+this was not so but that on the contrary the French had run away. He

+again recalled all the details of the victory and his own calm courage

+during the battle, and feeling reassured he dozed off.... The dark

+starry night was followed by a bright cheerful morning. The snow was

+thawing in the sunshine, the horses galloped quickly, and on both sides

+of the road were forests of different kinds, fields, and villages.

+

+At one of the post stations he overtook a convoy of Russian wounded.

+The Russian officer in charge of the transport lolled back in the front

+cart, shouting and scolding a soldier with coarse abuse. In each of

+the long German carts six or more pale, dirty, bandaged men were being

+jolted over the stony road. Some of them were talking (he heard Russian

+words), others were eating bread; the more severely wounded looked

+silently, with the languid interest of sick children, at the envoy

+hurrying past them.

+

+Prince Andrew told his driver to stop, and asked a soldier in what

+action they had been wounded. “Day before yesterday, on the Danube,”

+answered the soldier. Prince Andrew took out his purse and gave the

+soldier three gold pieces.

+

+“That’s for them all,” he said to the officer who came up.

+

+“Get well soon, lads!” he continued, turning to the soldiers.

+“There’s plenty to do still.”

+

+“What news, sir?” asked the officer, evidently anxious to start a

+conversation.

+

+“Good news!... Go on!” he shouted to the driver, and they galloped

+on.

+

+It was already quite dark when Prince Andrew rattled over the paved

+streets of Brünn and found himself surrounded by high buildings, the

+lights of shops, houses, and street lamps, fine carriages, and all that

+atmosphere of a large and active town which is always so attractive to a

+soldier after camp life. Despite his rapid journey and sleepless night,

+Prince Andrew when he drove up to the palace felt even more vigorous and

+alert than he had done the day before. Only his eyes gleamed feverishly

+and his thoughts followed one another with extraordinary clearness and

+rapidity. He again vividly recalled the details of the battle, no longer

+dim, but definite and in the concise form in which he imagined himself

+stating them to the Emperor Francis. He vividly imagined the casual

+questions that might be put to him and the answers he would give. He

+expected to be at once presented to the Emperor. At the chief entrance

+to the palace, however, an official came running out to meet him, and

+learning that he was a special messenger led him to another entrance.

+

+“To the right from the corridor, Euer Hochgeboren! There you will find

+the adjutant on duty,” said the official. “He will conduct you to

+the Minister of War.”

+

+The adjutant on duty, meeting Prince Andrew, asked him to wait, and went

+in to the Minister of War. Five minutes later he returned and bowing

+with particular courtesy ushered Prince Andrew before him along a

+corridor to the cabinet where the Minister of War was at work. The

+adjutant by his elaborate courtesy appeared to wish to ward off any

+attempt at familiarity on the part of the Russian messenger.

+

+Prince Andrew’s joyous feeling was considerably weakened as he

+approached the door of the minister’s room. He felt offended, and

+without his noticing it the feeling of offense immediately turned into

+one of disdain which was quite uncalled for. His fertile mind instantly

+suggested to him a point of view which gave him a right to despise

+the adjutant and the minister. “Away from the smell of powder, they

+probably think it easy to gain victories!” he thought. His eyes

+narrowed disdainfully, he entered the room of the Minister of War with

+peculiarly deliberate steps. This feeling of disdain was heightened

+when he saw the minister seated at a large table reading some papers

+and making pencil notes on them, and for the first two or three minutes

+taking no notice of his arrival. A wax candle stood at each side of the

+minister’s bent bald head with its gray temples. He went on reading

+to the end, without raising his eyes at the opening of the door and the

+sound of footsteps.

+

+“Take this and deliver it,” said he to his adjutant, handing him the

+papers and still taking no notice of the special messenger.

+

+Prince Andrew felt that either the actions of Kutúzov’s army

+interested the Minister of War less than any of the other matters he was

+concerned with, or he wanted to give the Russian special messenger that

+impression. “But that is a matter of perfect indifference to me,” he

+thought. The minister drew the remaining papers together, arranged them

+evenly, and then raised his head. He had an intellectual and distinctive

+head, but the instant he turned to Prince Andrew the firm, intelligent

+expression on his face changed in a way evidently deliberate and

+habitual to him. His face took on the stupid artificial smile (which

+does not even attempt to hide its artificiality) of a man who is

+continually receiving many petitioners one after another.

+

+“From General Field Marshal Kutúzov?” he asked. “I hope it is

+good news? There has been an encounter with Mortier? A victory? It was

+high time!”

+

+He took the dispatch which was addressed to him and began to read it

+with a mournful expression.

+

+“Oh, my God! My God! Schmidt!” he exclaimed in German. “What a

+calamity! What a calamity!”

+

+Having glanced through the dispatch he laid it on the table and looked

+at Prince Andrew, evidently considering something.

+

+“Ah what a calamity! You say the affair was decisive? But Mortier is

+not captured.” Again he pondered. “I am very glad you have brought

+good news, though Schmidt’s death is a heavy price to pay for the

+victory. His Majesty will no doubt wish to see you, but not today. I

+thank you! You must have a rest. Be at the levee tomorrow after the

+parade. However, I will let you know.”

+

+The stupid smile, which had left his face while he was speaking,

+reappeared.

+

+“Au revoir! Thank you very much. His Majesty will probably desire to

+see you,” he added, bowing his head.

+

+When Prince Andrew left the palace he felt that all the interest

+and happiness the victory had afforded him had been now left in the

+indifferent hands of the Minister of War and the polite adjutant. The

+whole tenor of his thoughts instantaneously changed; the battle seemed

+the memory of a remote event long past.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER X

+

+Prince Andrew stayed at Brünn with Bilíbin, a Russian acquaintance of

+his in the diplomatic service.

+

+“Ah, my dear prince! I could not have a more welcome visitor,”

+said Bilíbin as he came out to meet Prince Andrew. “Franz, put the

+prince’s things in my bedroom,” said he to the servant who was

+ushering Bolkónski in. “So you’re a messenger of victory, eh?

+Splendid! And I am sitting here ill, as you see.”

+

+After washing and dressing, Prince Andrew came into the diplomat’s

+luxurious study and sat down to the dinner prepared for him. Bilíbin

+settled down comfortably beside the fire.

+

+After his journey and the campaign during which he had been deprived of

+all the comforts of cleanliness and all the refinements of life, Prince

+Andrew felt a pleasant sense of repose among luxurious surroundings such

+as he had been accustomed to from childhood. Besides it was pleasant,

+after his reception by the Austrians, to speak if not in Russian

+(for they were speaking French) at least with a Russian who would, he

+supposed, share the general Russian antipathy to the Austrians which was

+then particularly strong.

+

+Bilíbin was a man of thirty-five, a bachelor, and of the same circle as

+Prince Andrew. They had known each other previously in Petersburg, but

+had become more intimate when Prince Andrew was in Vienna with Kutúzov.

+Just as Prince Andrew was a young man who gave promise of rising high

+in the military profession, so to an even greater extent Bilíbin gave

+promise of rising in his diplomatic career. He still a young man but

+no longer a young diplomat, as he had entered the service at the age

+of sixteen, had been in Paris and Copenhagen, and now held a rather

+important post in Vienna. Both the foreign minister and our ambassador

+in Vienna knew him and valued him. He was not one of those many

+diplomats who are esteemed because they have certain negative qualities,

+avoid doing certain things, and speak French. He was one of those,

+who, liking work, knew how to do it, and despite his indolence would

+sometimes spend a whole night at his writing table. He worked well

+whatever the import of his work. It was not the question “What for?”

+but the question “How?” that interested him. What the diplomatic

+matter might be he did not care, but it gave him great pleasure to

+prepare a circular, memorandum, or report, skillfully, pointedly, and

+elegantly. Bilíbin’s services were valued not only for what he wrote,

+but also for his skill in dealing and conversing with those in the

+highest spheres.

+

+Bilíbin liked conversation as he liked work, only when it could be

+made elegantly witty. In society he always awaited an opportunity to say

+something striking and took part in a conversation only when that was

+possible. His conversation was always sprinkled with wittily original,

+finished phrases of general interest. These sayings were prepared in the

+inner laboratory of his mind in a portable form as if intentionally, so

+that insignificant society people might carry them from drawing room to

+drawing room. And, in fact, Bilíbin’s witticisms were hawked about

+in the Viennese drawing rooms and often had an influence on matters

+considered important.

+

+His thin, worn, sallow face was covered with deep wrinkles, which always

+looked as clean and well washed as the tips of one’s fingers after a

+Russian bath. The movement of these wrinkles formed the principal play

+of expression on his face. Now his forehead would pucker into deep folds

+and his eyebrows were lifted, then his eyebrows would descend and

+deep wrinkles would crease his cheeks. His small, deep-set eyes always

+twinkled and looked out straight.

+

+“Well, now tell me about your exploits,” said he.

+

+Bolkónski, very modestly without once mentioning himself, described the

+engagement and his reception by the Minister of War.

+

+“They received me and my news as one receives a dog in a game of

+skittles,” said he in conclusion.

+

+Bilíbin smiled and the wrinkles on his face disappeared.

+

+“Cependant, mon cher,” he remarked, examining his nails from a

+distance and puckering the skin above his left eye, “malgré la haute

+estime que je professe pour the Orthodox Russian army, j’avoue que

+votre victoire n’est pas des plus victorieuses.” *

+

+     * “But my dear fellow, with all my respect for the Orthodox

+     Russian army, I must say that your victory was not

+     particularly victorious.”

+

+

+He went on talking in this way in French, uttering only those words in

+Russian on which he wished to put a contemptuous emphasis.

+

+“Come now! You with all your forces fall on the unfortunate Mortier

+and his one division, and even then Mortier slips through your fingers!

+Where’s the victory?”

+

+“But seriously,” said Prince Andrew, “we can at any rate say

+without boasting that it was a little better than at Ulm...”

+

+“Why didn’t you capture one, just one, marshal for us?”

+

+“Because not everything happens as one expects or with the smoothness

+of a parade. We had expected, as I told you, to get at their rear by

+seven in the morning but had not reached it by five in the afternoon.”

+

+“And why didn’t you do it at seven in the morning? You ought to have

+been there at seven in the morning,” returned Bilíbin with a smile.

+“You ought to have been there at seven in the morning.”

+

+“Why did you not succeed in impressing on Bonaparte by diplomatic

+methods that he had better leave Genoa alone?” retorted Prince Andrew

+in the same tone.

+

+“I know,” interrupted Bilíbin, “you’re thinking it’s very

+easy to take marshals, sitting on a sofa by the fire! That is true, but

+still why didn’t you capture him? So don’t be surprised if not only

+the Minister of War but also his Most August Majesty the Emperor and

+King Francis is not much delighted by your victory. Even I, a poor

+secretary of the Russian Embassy, do not feel any need in token of my

+joy to give my Franz a thaler, or let him go with his Liebchen to the

+Prater... True, we have no Prater here...”

+

+He looked straight at Prince Andrew and suddenly unwrinkled his

+forehead.

+

+“It is now my turn to ask you ‘why?’ mon cher,” said Bolkónski.

+“I confess I do not understand: perhaps there are diplomatic

+subtleties here beyond my feeble intelligence, but I can’t make it

+out. Mack loses a whole army, the Archduke Ferdinand and the Archduke

+Karl give no signs of life and make blunder after blunder. Kutúzov

+alone at last gains a real victory, destroying the spell of the

+invincibility of the French, and the Minister of War does not even care

+to hear the details.”

+

+“That’s just it, my dear fellow. You see it’s hurrah for the Tsar,

+for Russia, for the Orthodox Greek faith! All that is beautiful, but

+what do we, I mean the Austrian court, care for your victories? Bring

+us nice news of a victory by the Archduke Karl or Ferdinand (one

+archduke’s as good as another, as you know) and even if it is only

+over a fire brigade of Bonaparte’s, that will be another story and

+we’ll fire off some cannon! But this sort of thing seems done

+on purpose to vex us. The Archduke Karl does nothing, the Archduke

+Ferdinand disgraces himself. You abandon Vienna, give up its

+defense—as much as to say: ‘Heaven is with us, but heaven help you

+and your capital!’ The one general whom we all loved, Schmidt, you

+expose to a bullet, and then you congratulate us on the victory! Admit

+that more irritating news than yours could not have been conceived.

+It’s as if it had been done on purpose, on purpose. Besides, suppose

+you did gain a brilliant victory, if even the Archduke Karl gained a

+victory, what effect would that have on the general course of events?

+It’s too late now when Vienna is occupied by the French army!”

+

+“What? Occupied? Vienna occupied?”

+

+“Not only occupied, but Bonaparte is at Schönbrunn, and the count,

+our dear Count Vrbna, goes to him for orders.”

+

+After the fatigues and impressions of the journey, his reception, and

+especially after having dined, Bolkónski felt that he could not take in

+the full significance of the words he heard.

+

+“Count Lichtenfels was here this morning,” Bilíbin continued,

+“and showed me a letter in which the parade of the French in Vienna

+was fully described: Prince Murat et tout le tremblement... You see that

+your victory is not a matter for great rejoicing and that you can’t be

+received as a savior.”

+

+“Really I don’t care about that, I don’t care at all,” said

+Prince Andrew, beginning to understand that his news of the battle

+before Krems was really of small importance in view of such events as

+the fall of Austria’s capital. “How is it Vienna was taken? What of

+the bridge and its celebrated bridgehead and Prince Auersperg? We heard

+reports that Prince Auersperg was defending Vienna?” he said.

+

+“Prince Auersperg is on this, on our side of the river, and is

+defending us—doing it very badly, I think, but still he is defending

+us. But Vienna is on the other side. No, the bridge has not yet been

+taken and I hope it will not be, for it is mined and orders have been

+given to blow it up. Otherwise we should long ago have been in the

+mountains of Bohemia, and you and your army would have spent a bad

+quarter of an hour between two fires.”

+

+“But still this does not mean that the campaign is over,” said

+Prince Andrew.

+

+“Well, I think it is. The bigwigs here think so too, but they

+daren’t say so. It will be as I said at the beginning of the campaign,

+it won’t be your skirmishing at Dürrenstein, or gunpowder at all,

+that will decide the matter, but those who devised it,” said Bilíbin

+quoting one of his own mots, releasing the wrinkles on his forehead, and

+pausing. “The only question is what will come of the meeting between

+the Emperor Alexander and the King of Prussia in Berlin? If Prussia

+joins the Allies, Austria’s hand will be forced and there will be war.

+If not it is merely a question of settling where the preliminaries of

+the new Campo Formio are to be drawn up.”

+

+“What an extraordinary genius!” Prince Andrew suddenly exclaimed,

+clenching his small hand and striking the table with it, “and what

+luck the man has!”

+

+“Buonaparte?” said Bilíbin inquiringly, puckering up his forehead

+to indicate that he was about to say something witty. “Buonaparte?”

+he repeated, accentuating the u: “I think, however, now that he lays

+down laws for Austria at Schönbrunn, il faut lui faire grâce de

+l’u! * I shall certainly adopt an innovation and call him simply

+Bonaparte!”

+

+    * “We must let him off the u!”

+

+

+“But joking apart,” said Prince Andrew, “do you really think the

+campaign is over?”

+

+“This is what I think. Austria has been made a fool of, and she is

+not used to it. She will retaliate. And she has been fooled in the

+first place because her provinces have been pillaged—they say the Holy

+Russian army loots terribly—her army is destroyed, her capital

+taken, and all this for the beaux yeux * of His Sardinian Majesty. And

+therefore—this is between ourselves—I instinctively feel that we

+are being deceived, my instinct tells me of negotiations with France and

+projects for peace, a secret peace concluded separately.”

+

+    * Fine eyes.

+

+“Impossible!” cried Prince Andrew. “That would be too base.”

+

+“If we live we shall see,” replied Bilíbin, his face again becoming

+smooth as a sign that the conversation was at an end.

+

+When Prince Andrew reached the room prepared for him and lay down in a

+clean shirt on the feather bed with its warmed and fragrant pillows, he

+felt that the battle of which he had brought tidings was far, far

+away from him. The alliance with Prussia, Austria’s treachery,

+Bonaparte’s new triumph, tomorrow’s levee and parade, and the

+audience with the Emperor Francis occupied his thoughts.

+

+He closed his eyes, and immediately a sound of cannonading, of musketry

+and the rattling of carriage wheels seemed to fill his ears, and now

+again drawn out in a thin line the musketeers were descending the hill,

+the French were firing, and he felt his heart palpitating as he rode

+forward beside Schmidt with the bullets merrily whistling all around,

+and he experienced tenfold the joy of living, as he had not done since

+childhood.

+

+He woke up...

+

+“Yes, that all happened!” he said, and, smiling happily to himself

+like a child, he fell into a deep, youthful slumber.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XI

+

+Next day he woke late. Recalling his recent impressions, the first

+thought that came into his mind was that today he had to be presented

+to the Emperor Francis; he remembered the Minister of War, the polite

+Austrian adjutant, Bilíbin, and last night’s conversation. Having

+dressed for his attendance at court in full parade uniform, which he

+had not worn for a long time, he went into Bilíbin’s study fresh,

+animated, and handsome, with his hand bandaged. In the study were four

+gentlemen of the diplomatic corps. With Prince Hippolyte Kurágin,

+who was a secretary to the embassy, Bolkónski was already acquainted.

+Bilíbin introduced him to the others.

+

+The gentlemen assembled at Bilíbin’s were young, wealthy, gay society

+men, who here, as in Vienna, formed a special set which Bilíbin, their

+leader, called les nôtres. * This set, consisting almost exclusively of

+diplomats, evidently had its own interests which had nothing to do with

+war or politics but related to high society, to certain women, and to

+the official side of the service. These gentlemen received Prince

+Andrew as one of themselves, an honor they did not extend to many. From

+politeness and to start conversation, they asked him a few questions

+about the army and the battle, and then the talk went off into merry

+jests and gossip.

+

+    * Ours.

+

+“But the best of it was,” said one, telling of the misfortune of

+a fellow diplomat, “that the Chancellor told him flatly that his

+appointment to London was a promotion and that he was so to regard it.

+Can you fancy the figure he cut?...”

+

+“But the worst of it, gentlemen—I am giving Kurágin away to

+you—is that that man suffers, and this Don Juan, wicked fellow, is

+taking advantage of it!”

+

+Prince Hippolyte was lolling in a lounge chair with his legs over its

+arm. He began to laugh.

+

+“Tell me about that!” he said.

+

+“Oh, you Don Juan! You serpent!” cried several voices.

+

+“You, Bolkónski, don’t know,” said Bilíbin turning to Prince

+Andrew, “that all the atrocities of the French army (I nearly said of

+the Russian army) are nothing compared to what this man has been doing

+among the women!”

+

+“La femme est la compagne de l’homme,” * announced Prince

+Hippolyte, and began looking through a lorgnette at his elevated legs.

+

+    * “Woman is man’s companion.”

+

+

+Bilíbin and the rest of “ours” burst out laughing in Hippolyte’s

+face, and Prince Andrew saw that Hippolyte, of whom—he had to

+admit—he had almost been jealous on his wife’s account, was the butt

+of this set.

+

+“Oh, I must give you a treat,” Bilíbin whispered to Bolkónski.

+“Kurágin is exquisite when he discusses politics—you should see his

+gravity!”

+

+He sat down beside Hippolyte and wrinkling his forehead began talking

+to him about politics. Prince Andrew and the others gathered round these

+two.

+

+“The Berlin cabinet cannot express a feeling of alliance,” began

+Hippolyte gazing round with importance at the others, “without

+expressing... as in its last note... you understand... Besides, unless

+His Majesty the Emperor derogates from the principle of our alliance...

+

+“Wait, I have not finished...” he said to Prince Andrew, seizing

+him by the arm, “I believe that intervention will be stronger than

+nonintervention. And...” he paused. “Finally one cannot impute the

+nonreceipt of our dispatch of November 18. That is how it will end.”

+And he released Bolkónski’s arm to indicate that he had now quite

+finished.

+

+“Demosthenes, I know thee by the pebble thou secretest in thy golden

+mouth!” said Bilíbin, and the mop of hair on his head moved with

+satisfaction.

+

+Everybody laughed, and Hippolyte louder than anyone. He was evidently

+distressed, and breathed painfully, but could not restrain the wild

+laughter that convulsed his usually impassive features.

+

+“Well now, gentlemen,” said Bilíbin, “Bolkónski is my guest in

+this house and in Brünn itself. I want to entertain him as far as I

+can, with all the pleasures of life here. If we were in Vienna it would

+be easy, but here, in this wretched Moravian hole, it is more difficult,

+and I beg you all to help me. Brünn’s attractions must be shown him.

+You can undertake the theater, I society, and you, Hippolyte, of course

+the women.”

+

+“We must let him see Amelie, she’s exquisite!” said one of

+“ours,” kissing his finger tips.

+

+“In general we must turn this bloodthirsty soldier to more humane

+interests,” said Bilíbin.

+

+“I shall scarcely be able to avail myself of your hospitality,

+gentlemen, it is already time for me to go,” replied Prince Andrew

+looking at his watch.

+

+“Where to?”

+

+“To the Emperor.”

+

+“Oh! Oh! Oh!”

+

+“Well, au revoir, Bolkónski! Au revoir, Prince! Come back early to

+dinner,” cried several voices. “We’ll take you in hand.”

+

+“When speaking to the Emperor, try as far as you can to praise the way

+that provisions are supplied and the routes indicated,” said Bilíbin,

+accompanying him to the hall.

+

+“I should like to speak well of them, but as far as I know the facts,

+I can’t,” replied Bolkónski, smiling.

+

+“Well, talk as much as you can, anyway. He has a passion for giving

+audiences, but he does not like talking himself and can’t do it, as

+you will see.”

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XII

+

+At the levee Prince Andrew stood among the Austrian officers as he had

+been told to, and the Emperor Francis merely looked fixedly into his

+face and just nodded to him with his long head. But after it was

+over, the adjutant he had seen the previous day ceremoniously informed

+Bolkónski that the Emperor desired to give him an audience. The Emperor

+Francis received him standing in the middle of the room. Before the

+conversation began Prince Andrew was struck by the fact that the Emperor

+seemed confused and blushed as if not knowing what to say.

+

+“Tell me, when did the battle begin?” he asked hurriedly.

+

+Prince Andrew replied. Then followed other questions just as simple:

+“Was Kutúzov well? When had he left Krems?” and so on. The Emperor

+spoke as if his sole aim were to put a given number of questions—the

+answers to these questions, as was only too evident, did not interest

+him.

+

+“At what o’clock did the battle begin?” asked the Emperor.

+

+“I cannot inform Your Majesty at what o’clock the battle began at

+the front, but at Dürrenstein, where I was, our attack began after

+five in the afternoon,” replied Bolkónski growing more animated and

+expecting that he would have a chance to give a reliable account, which

+he had ready in his mind, of all he knew and had seen. But the Emperor

+smiled and interrupted him.

+

+“How many miles?”

+

+“From where to where, Your Majesty?”

+

+“From Dürrenstein to Krems.”

+

+“Three and a half miles, Your Majesty.”

+

+“The French have abandoned the left bank?”

+

+“According to the scouts the last of them crossed on rafts during the

+night.”

+

+“Is there sufficient forage in Krems?”

+

+“Forage has not been supplied to the extent...”

+

+The Emperor interrupted him.

+

+“At what o’clock was General Schmidt killed?”

+

+“At seven o’clock, I believe.”

+

+“At seven o’clock? It’s very sad, very sad!”

+

+The Emperor thanked Prince Andrew and bowed. Prince Andrew withdrew and

+was immediately surrounded by courtiers on all sides. Everywhere he

+saw friendly looks and heard friendly words. Yesterday’s adjutant

+reproached him for not having stayed at the palace, and offered him

+his own house. The Minister of War came up and congratulated him on the

+Maria Theresa Order of the third grade, which the Emperor was conferring

+on him. The Empress’ chamberlain invited him to see Her Majesty. The

+archduchess also wished to see him. He did not know whom to answer, and

+for a few seconds collected his thoughts. Then the Russian ambassador

+took him by the shoulder, led him to the window, and began to talk to

+him.

+

+Contrary to Bilíbin’s forecast the news he had brought was joyfully

+received. A thanksgiving service was arranged, Kutúzov was awarded

+the Grand Cross of Maria Theresa, and the whole army received rewards.

+Bolkónski was invited everywhere, and had to spend the whole morning

+calling on the principal Austrian dignitaries. Between four and five

+in the afternoon, having made all his calls, he was returning to

+Bilíbin’s house thinking out a letter to his father about the battle

+and his visit to Brünn. At the door he found a vehicle half full of

+luggage. Franz, Bilíbin’s man, was dragging a portmanteau with some

+difficulty out of the front door.

+

+Before returning to Bilíbin’s Prince Andrew had gone to a bookshop

+to provide himself with some books for the campaign, and had spent some

+time in the shop.

+

+“What is it?” he asked.

+

+“Oh, your excellency!” said Franz, with difficulty rolling the

+portmanteau into the vehicle, “we are to move on still farther. The

+scoundrel is again at our heels!”

+

+“Eh? What?” asked Prince Andrew.

+

+Bilíbin came out to meet him. His usually calm face showed excitement.

+

+“There now! Confess that this is delightful,” said he. “This

+affair of the Thabor Bridge, at Vienna.... They have crossed without

+striking a blow!”

+

+Prince Andrew could not understand.

+

+“But where do you come from not to know what every coachman in the

+town knows?”

+

+“I come from the archduchess’. I heard nothing there.”

+

+“And you didn’t see that everybody is packing up?”

+

+“I did not... What is it all about?” inquired Prince Andrew

+impatiently.

+

+“What’s it all about? Why, the French have crossed the bridge that

+Auersperg was defending, and the bridge was not blown up: so Murat

+is now rushing along the road to Brünn and will be here in a day or

+two.”

+

+“What? Here? But why did they not blow up the bridge, if it was

+mined?”

+

+“That is what I ask you. No one, not even Bonaparte, knows why.”

+

+Bolkónski shrugged his shoulders.

+

+“But if the bridge is crossed it means that the army too is lost? It

+will be cut off,” said he.

+

+“That’s just it,” answered Bilíbin. “Listen! The French entered

+Vienna as I told you. Very well. Next day, which was yesterday, those

+gentlemen, messieurs les maréchaux, * Murat, Lannes, and Belliard,

+mount and ride to the bridge. (Observe that all three are Gascons.)

+‘Gentlemen,’ says one of them, ‘you know the Thabor Bridge is

+mined and doubly mined and that there are menacing fortifications at its

+head and an army of fifteen thousand men has been ordered to blow up

+the bridge and not let us cross? But it will please our sovereign the

+Emperor Napoleon if we take this bridge, so let us three go and take

+it!’ ‘Yes, let’s!’ say the others. And off they go and take the

+bridge, cross it, and now with their whole army are on this side of the

+Danube, marching on us, you, and your lines of communication.”

+

+    * The marshalls.

+

+“Stop jesting,” said Prince Andrew sadly and seriously. This news

+grieved him and yet he was pleased.

+

+As soon as he learned that the Russian army was in such a hopeless

+situation it occurred to him that it was he who was destined to lead it

+out of this position; that here was the Toulon that would lift him from

+the ranks of obscure officers and offer him the first step to fame!

+Listening to Bilíbin he was already imagining how on reaching the army

+he would give an opinion at the war council which would be the only one

+that could save the army, and how he alone would be entrusted with the

+executing of the plan.

+

+“Stop this jesting,” he said.

+

+“I am not jesting,” Bilíbin went on. “Nothing is truer or sadder.

+These gentlemen ride onto the bridge alone and wave white handkerchiefs;

+they assure the officer on duty that they, the marshals, are on

+their way to negotiate with Prince Auersperg. He lets them enter the

+tête-de-pont. * They spin him a thousand gasconades, saying that

+the war is over, that the Emperor Francis is arranging a meeting with

+Bonaparte, that they desire to see Prince Auersperg, and so on. The

+officer sends for Auersperg; these gentlemen embrace the officers, crack

+jokes, sit on the cannon, and meanwhile a French battalion gets to

+the bridge unobserved, flings the bags of incendiary material into

+the water, and approaches the tête-de-pont. At length appears the

+lieutenant general, our dear Prince Auersperg von Mautern himself.

+‘Dearest foe! Flower of the Austrian army, hero of the Turkish wars!

+Hostilities are ended, we can shake one another’s hand.... The

+Emperor Napoleon burns with impatience to make Prince Auersperg’s

+acquaintance.’ In a word, those gentlemen, Gascons indeed, so

+bewildered him with fine words, and he is so flattered by his rapidly

+established intimacy with the French marshals, and so dazzled by the

+sight of Murat’s mantle and ostrich plumes, qu’il n’y voit que du

+feu, et oublie celui qu’il devait faire faire sur l’ennemi!” *(2)

+In spite of the animation of his speech, Bilíbin did not forget to

+pause after this mot to give time for its due appreciation. “The

+French battalion rushes to the bridgehead, spikes the guns, and the

+bridge is taken! But what is best of all,” he went on, his excitement

+subsiding under the delightful interest of his own story, “is that the

+sergeant in charge of the cannon which was to give the signal to fire

+the mines and blow up the bridge, this sergeant, seeing that the French

+troops were running onto the bridge, was about to fire, but Lannes

+stayed his hand. The sergeant, who was evidently wiser than his general,

+goes up to Auersperg and says: ‘Prince, you are being deceived, here

+are the French!’ Murat, seeing that all is lost if the sergeant is

+allowed to speak, turns to Auersperg with feigned astonishment (he is a

+true Gascon) and says: ‘I don’t recognize the world-famous Austrian

+discipline, if you allow a subordinate to address you like that!’ It

+was a stroke of genius. Prince Auersperg feels his dignity at stake and

+orders the sergeant to be arrested. Come, you must own that this affair

+of the Thabor Bridge is delightful! It is not exactly stupidity, nor

+rascality....”

+

+     * Bridgehead.

+

+     * (2) That their fire gets into his eyes and he forgets that

+     he ought to be firing at the enemy.

+

+“It may be treachery,” said Prince Andrew, vividly imagining the

+gray overcoats, wounds, the smoke of gunpowder, the sounds of firing,

+and the glory that awaited him.

+

+“Not that either. That puts the court in too bad a light,” replied

+Bilíbin. “It’s not treachery nor rascality nor stupidity: it is

+just as at Ulm... it is...”—he seemed to be trying to find the right

+expression. “C’est... c’est du Mack. Nous sommes mackés (It is...

+it is a bit of Mack. We are Macked),” he concluded, feeling that he

+had produced a good epigram, a fresh one that would be repeated. His

+hitherto puckered brow became smooth as a sign of pleasure, and with a

+slight smile he began to examine his nails.

+

+“Where are you off to?” he said suddenly to Prince Andrew who had

+risen and was going toward his room.

+

+“I am going away.”

+

+“Where to?”

+

+“To the army.”

+

+“But you meant to stay another two days?”

+

+“But now I am off at once.”

+

+And Prince Andrew after giving directions about his departure went to

+his room.

+

+“Do you know, mon cher,” said Bilíbin following him, “I have been

+thinking about you. Why are you going?”

+

+And in proof of the conclusiveness of his opinion all the wrinkles

+vanished from his face.

+

+Prince Andrew looked inquiringly at him and gave no reply.

+

+“Why are you going? I know you think it your duty to gallop back to

+the army now that it is in danger. I understand that. Mon cher, it is

+heroism!”

+

+“Not at all,” said Prince Andrew.

+

+“But as you are a philosopher, be a consistent one, look at the other

+side of the question and you will see that your duty, on the contrary,

+is to take care of yourself. Leave it to those who are no longer fit for

+anything else.... You have not been ordered to return and have not been

+dismissed from here; therefore, you can stay and go with us wherever our

+ill luck takes us. They say we are going to Olmütz, and Olmütz is a

+very decent town. You and I will travel comfortably in my calèche.”

+

+“Do stop joking, Bilíbin,” cried Bolkónski.

+

+“I am speaking sincerely as a friend! Consider! Where and why are

+you going, when you might remain here? You are faced by one of two

+things,” and the skin over his left temple puckered, “either you

+will not reach your regiment before peace is concluded, or you will

+share defeat and disgrace with Kutúzov’s whole army.”

+

+And Bilíbin unwrinkled his temple, feeling that the dilemma was

+insoluble.

+

+“I cannot argue about it,” replied Prince Andrew coldly, but he

+thought: “I am going to save the army.”

+

+“My dear fellow, you are a hero!” said Bilíbin.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XIII

+

+That same night, having taken leave of the Minister of War, Bolkónski

+set off to rejoin the army, not knowing where he would find it and

+fearing to be captured by the French on the way to Krems.

+

+In Brünn everybody attached to the court was packing up, and the heavy

+baggage was already being dispatched to Olmütz. Near Hetzelsdorf Prince

+Andrew struck the high road along which the Russian army was moving with

+great haste and in the greatest disorder. The road was so obstructed

+with carts that it was impossible to get by in a carriage. Prince Andrew

+took a horse and a Cossack from a Cossack commander, and hungry and

+weary, making his way past the baggage wagons, rode in search of the

+commander in chief and of his own luggage. Very sinister reports of the

+position of the army reached him as he went along, and the appearance of

+the troops in their disorderly flight confirmed these rumors.

+

+“Cette armée russe que l’or de l’Angleterre a transportée des

+extrémités de l’univers, nous allons lui faire éprouver le même

+sort—(le sort de l’armée d’Ulm).” * He remembered these words

+in Bonaparte’s address to his army at the beginning of the campaign,

+and they awoke in him astonishment at the genius of his hero, a feeling

+of wounded pride, and a hope of glory. “And should there be nothing

+left but to die?” he thought. “Well, if need be, I shall do it no

+worse than others.”

+

+     * “That Russian army which has been brought from the ends of

+     the earth by English gold, we shall cause to share the same

+     fate—(the fate of the army at Ulm).”

+

+

+He looked with disdain at the endless confused mass of detachments,

+carts, guns, artillery, and again baggage wagons and vehicles of all

+kinds overtaking one another and blocking the muddy road, three and

+sometimes four abreast. From all sides, behind and before, as far as ear

+could reach, there were the rattle of wheels, the creaking of carts

+and gun carriages, the tramp of horses, the crack of whips, shouts, the

+urging of horses, and the swearing of soldiers, orderlies, and officers.

+All along the sides of the road fallen horses were to be seen, some

+flayed, some not, and broken-down carts beside which solitary soldiers

+sat waiting for something, and again soldiers straggling from their

+companies, crowds of whom set off to the neighboring villages, or

+returned from them dragging sheep, fowls, hay, and bulging sacks. At

+each ascent or descent of the road the crowds were yet denser and the

+din of shouting more incessant. Soldiers floundering knee-deep in mud

+pushed the guns and wagons themselves. Whips cracked, hoofs slipped,

+traces broke, and lungs were strained with shouting. The officers

+directing the march rode backward and forward between the carts. Their

+voices were but feebly heard amid the uproar and one saw by their faces

+that they despaired of the possibility of checking this disorder.

+

+“Here is our dear Orthodox Russian army,” thought Bolkónski,

+recalling Bilíbin’s words.

+

+Wishing to find out where the commander in chief was, he rode up to

+a convoy. Directly opposite to him came a strange one-horse vehicle,

+evidently rigged up by soldiers out of any available materials and

+looking like something between a cart, a cabriolet, and a calèche.

+A soldier was driving, and a woman enveloped in shawls sat behind the

+apron under the leather hood of the vehicle. Prince Andrew rode up

+and was just putting his question to a soldier when his attention

+was diverted by the desperate shrieks of the woman in the vehicle. An

+officer in charge of transport was beating the soldier who was driving

+the woman’s vehicle for trying to get ahead of others, and the strokes

+of his whip fell on the apron of the equipage. The woman screamed

+piercingly. Seeing Prince Andrew she leaned out from behind the apron

+and, waving her thin arms from under the woolen shawl, cried:

+

+“Mr. Aide-de-camp! Mr. Aide-de-camp!... For heaven’s sake... Protect

+me! What will become of us? I am the wife of the doctor of the Seventh

+Chasseurs.... They won’t let us pass, we are left behind and have lost

+our people...”

+

+“I’ll flatten you into a pancake!” shouted the angry officer to

+the soldier. “Turn back with your slut!”

+

+“Mr. Aide-de-camp! Help me!... What does it all mean?” screamed the

+doctor’s wife.

+

+“Kindly let this cart pass. Don’t you see it’s a woman?” said

+Prince Andrew riding up to the officer.

+

+The officer glanced at him, and without replying turned again to the

+soldier. “I’ll teach you to push on!... Back!”

+

+“Let them pass, I tell you!” repeated Prince Andrew, compressing his

+lips.

+

+“And who are you?” cried the officer, turning on him with tipsy

+rage, “who are you? Are you in command here? Eh? I am commander here,

+not you! Go back or I’ll flatten you into a pancake,” repeated he.

+This expression evidently pleased him.

+

+“That was a nice snub for the little aide-de-camp,” came a voice

+from behind.

+

+Prince Andrew saw that the officer was in that state of senseless,

+tipsy rage when a man does not know what he is saying. He saw that his

+championship of the doctor’s wife in her queer trap might expose him

+to what he dreaded more than anything in the world—to ridicule; but

+his instinct urged him on. Before the officer finished his sentence

+Prince Andrew, his face distorted with fury, rode up to him and raised

+his riding whip.

+

+“Kind...ly let—them—pass!”

+

+The officer flourished his arm and hastily rode away.

+

+“It’s all the fault of these fellows on the staff that there’s

+this disorder,” he muttered. “Do as you like.”

+

+Prince Andrew without lifting his eyes rode hastily away from the

+doctor’s wife, who was calling him her deliverer, and recalling with

+a sense of disgust the minutest details of this humiliating scene he

+galloped on to the village where he was told that the commander in chief

+was.

+

+On reaching the village he dismounted and went to the nearest house,

+intending to rest if but for a moment, eat something, and try to sort

+out the stinging and tormenting thoughts that confused his mind. “This

+is a mob of scoundrels and not an army,” he was thinking as he went

+up to the window of the first house, when a familiar voice called him by

+name.

+

+He turned round. Nesvítski’s handsome face looked out of the little

+window. Nesvítski, moving his moist lips as he chewed something, and

+flourishing his arm, called him to enter.

+

+“Bolkónski! Bolkónski!... Don’t you hear? Eh? Come quick...” he

+shouted.

+

+Entering the house, Prince Andrew saw Nesvítski and another adjutant

+having something to eat. They hastily turned round to him asking if he

+had any news. On their familiar faces he read agitation and alarm.

+This was particularly noticeable on Nesvítski’s usually laughing

+countenance.

+

+“Where is the commander in chief?” asked Bolkónski.

+

+“Here, in that house,” answered the adjutant.

+

+“Well, is it true that it’s peace and capitulation?” asked

+Nesvítski.

+

+“I was going to ask you. I know nothing except that it was all I could

+do to get here.”

+

+“And we, my dear boy! It’s terrible! I was wrong to laugh at Mack,

+we’re getting it still worse,” said Nesvítski. “But sit down and

+have something to eat.”

+

+“You won’t be able to find either your baggage or anything else now,

+Prince. And God only knows where your man Peter is,” said the other

+adjutant.

+

+“Where are headquarters?”

+

+“We are to spend the night in Znaim.”

+

+“Well, I have got all I need into packs for two horses,” said

+Nesvítski. “They’ve made up splendid packs for me—fit to cross

+the Bohemian mountains with. It’s a bad lookout, old fellow! But

+what’s the matter with you? You must be ill to shiver like that,” he

+added, noticing that Prince Andrew winced as at an electric shock.

+

+“It’s nothing,” replied Prince Andrew.

+

+He had just remembered his recent encounter with the doctor’s wife and

+the convoy officer.

+

+“What is the commander in chief doing here?” he asked.

+

+“I can’t make out at all,” said Nesvítski.

+

+“Well, all I can make out is that everything is abominable,

+abominable, quite abominable!” said Prince Andrew, and he went off to

+the house where the commander in chief was.

+

+Passing by Kutúzov’s carriage and the exhausted saddle horses of

+his suite, with their Cossacks who were talking loudly together, Prince

+Andrew entered the passage. Kutúzov himself, he was told, was in the

+house with Prince Bagratión and Weyrother. Weyrother was the Austrian

+general who had succeeded Schmidt. In the passage little Kozlóvski was

+squatting on his heels in front of a clerk. The clerk, with cuffs turned

+up, was hastily writing at a tub turned bottom upwards. Kozlóvski’s

+face looked worn—he too had evidently not slept all night. He glanced

+at Prince Andrew and did not even nod to him.

+

+“Second line... have you written it?” he continued dictating to the

+clerk. “The Kiev Grenadiers, Podolian...”

+

+“One can’t write so fast, your honor,” said the clerk, glancing

+angrily and disrespectfully at Kozlóvski.

+

+Through the door came the sounds of Kutúzov’s voice, excited and

+dissatisfied, interrupted by another, an unfamiliar voice. From the

+sound of these voices, the inattentive way Kozlóvski looked at him, the

+disrespectful manner of the exhausted clerk, the fact that the clerk and

+Kozlóvski were squatting on the floor by a tub so near to the commander

+in chief, and from the noisy laughter of the Cossacks holding the

+horses near the window, Prince Andrew felt that something important and

+disastrous was about to happen.

+

+He turned to Kozlóvski with urgent questions.

+

+“Immediately, Prince,” said Kozlóvski. “Dispositions for

+Bagratión.”

+

+“What about capitulation?”

+

+“Nothing of the sort. Orders are issued for a battle.”

+

+Prince Andrew moved toward the door from whence voices were heard.

+Just as he was going to open it the sounds ceased, the door opened, and

+Kutúzov with his eagle nose and puffy face appeared in the doorway.

+Prince Andrew stood right in front of Kutúzov but the expression of

+the commander in chief’s one sound eye showed him to be so preoccupied

+with thoughts and anxieties as to be oblivious of his presence. He

+looked straight at his adjutant’s face without recognizing him.

+

+“Well, have you finished?” said he to Kozlóvski.

+

+“One moment, your excellency.”

+

+Bagratión, a gaunt middle-aged man of medium height with a firm,

+impassive face of Oriental type, came out after the commander in chief.

+

+“I have the honor to present myself,” repeated Prince Andrew rather

+loudly, handing Kutúzov an envelope.

+

+“Ah, from Vienna? Very good. Later, later!”

+

+Kutúzov went out into the porch with Bagratión.

+

+“Well, good-by, Prince,” said he to Bagratión. “My blessing, and

+may Christ be with you in your great endeavor!”

+

+His face suddenly softened and tears came into his eyes. With his left

+hand he drew Bagratión toward him, and with his right, on which he wore

+a ring, he made the sign of the cross over him with a gesture evidently

+habitual, offering his puffy cheek, but Bagratión kissed him on the

+neck instead.

+

+“Christ be with you!” Kutúzov repeated and went toward his

+carriage. “Get in with me,” said he to Bolkónski.

+

+“Your excellency, I should like to be of use here. Allow me to remain

+with Prince Bagratión’s detachment.”

+

+“Get in,” said Kutúzov, and noticing that Bolkónski still delayed,

+he added: “I need good officers myself, need them myself!”

+

+They got into the carriage and drove for a few minutes in silence.

+

+“There is still much, much before us,” he said, as if with an old

+man’s penetration he understood all that was passing in Bolkónski’s

+mind. “If a tenth part of his detachment returns I shall thank God,”

+he added as if speaking to himself.

+

+Prince Andrew glanced at Kutúzov’s face only a foot distant from him

+and involuntarily noticed the carefully washed seams of the scar near

+his temple, where an Ismail bullet had pierced his skull, and the empty

+eye socket. “Yes, he has a right to speak so calmly of those men’s

+death,” thought Bolkónski.

+

+“That is why I beg to be sent to that detachment,” he said.

+

+Kutúzov did not reply. He seemed to have forgotten what he had been

+saying, and sat plunged in thought. Five minutes later, gently swaying

+on the soft springs of the carriage, he turned to Prince Andrew.

+There was not a trace of agitation on his face. With delicate irony he

+questioned Prince Andrew about the details of his interview with the

+Emperor, about the remarks he had heard at court concerning the Krems

+affair, and about some ladies they both knew.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XIV

+

+On November 1 Kutúzov had received, through a spy, news that the army

+he commanded was in an almost hopeless position. The spy reported that

+the French, after crossing the bridge at Vienna, were advancing in

+immense force upon Kutúzov’s line of communication with the troops

+that were arriving from Russia. If Kutúzov decided to remain at Krems,

+Napoleon’s army of one hundred and fifty thousand men would cut him

+off completely and surround his exhausted army of forty thousand, and he

+would find himself in the position of Mack at Ulm. If Kutúzov decided

+to abandon the road connecting him with the troops arriving from Russia,

+he would have to march with no road into unknown parts of the Bohemian

+mountains, defending himself against superior forces of the enemy and

+abandoning all hope of a junction with Buxhöwden. If Kutúzov decided

+to retreat along the road from Krems to Olmütz, to unite with the

+troops arriving from Russia, he risked being forestalled on that road

+by the French who had crossed the Vienna bridge, and encumbered by his

+baggage and transport, having to accept battle on the march against an

+enemy three times as strong, who would hem him in from two sides.

+

+Kutúzov chose this latter course.

+

+The French, the spy reported, having crossed the Vienna bridge, were

+advancing by forced marches toward Znaim, which lay sixty-six miles

+off on the line of Kutúzov’s retreat. If he reached Znaim before the

+French, there would be great hope of saving the army; to let the

+French forestall him at Znaim meant the exposure of his whole army to a

+disgrace such as that of Ulm, or to utter destruction. But to forestall

+the French with his whole army was impossible. The road for the French

+from Vienna to Znaim was shorter and better than the road for the

+Russians from Krems to Znaim.

+

+The night he received the news, Kutúzov sent Bagratión’s vanguard,

+four thousand strong, to the right across the hills from the Krems-Znaim

+to the Vienna-Znaim road. Bagratión was to make this march without

+resting, and to halt facing Vienna with Znaim to his rear, and if he

+succeeded in forestalling the French he was to delay them as long as

+possible. Kutúzov himself with all his transport took the road to

+Znaim.

+

+Marching thirty miles that stormy night across roadless hills, with his

+hungry, ill-shod soldiers, and losing a third of his men as stragglers

+by the way, Bagratión came out on the Vienna-Znaim road at Hollabrünn

+a few hours ahead of the French who were approaching Hollabrünn from

+Vienna. Kutúzov with his transport had still to march for some days

+before he could reach Znaim. Hence Bagratión with his four thousand

+hungry, exhausted men would have to detain for days the whole enemy army

+that came upon him at Hollabrünn, which was clearly impossible. But

+a freak of fate made the impossible possible. The success of the trick

+that had placed the Vienna bridge in the hands of the French without

+a fight led Murat to try to deceive Kutúzov in a similar way. Meeting

+Bagratión’s weak detachment on the Znaim road he supposed it to be

+Kutúzov’s whole army. To be able to crush it absolutely he awaited

+the arrival of the rest of the troops who were on their way from Vienna,

+and with this object offered a three days’ truce on condition that

+both armies should remain in position without moving. Murat declared

+that negotiations for peace were already proceeding, and that he

+therefore offered this truce to avoid unnecessary bloodshed. Count

+Nostitz, the Austrian general occupying the advanced posts, believed

+Murat’s emissary and retired, leaving Bagratión’s division

+exposed. Another emissary rode to the Russian line to announce the peace

+negotiations and to offer the Russian army the three days’ truce.

+Bagratión replied that he was not authorized either to accept or refuse

+a truce and sent his adjutant to Kutúzov to report the offer he had

+received.

+

+A truce was Kutúzov’s sole chance of gaining time, giving

+Bagratión’s exhausted troops some rest, and letting the transport and

+heavy convoys (whose movements were concealed from the French) advance

+if but one stage nearer Znaim. The offer of a truce gave the only, and

+a quite unexpected, chance of saving the army. On receiving the news

+he immediately dispatched Adjutant General Wintzingerode, who was in

+attendance on him, to the enemy camp. Wintzingerode was not merely

+to agree to the truce but also to offer terms of capitulation, and

+meanwhile Kutúzov sent his adjutants back to hasten to the utmost the

+movements of the baggage trains of the entire army along the Krems-Znaim

+road. Bagratión’s exhausted and hungry detachment, which alone

+covered this movement of the transport and of the whole army, had to

+remain stationary in face of an enemy eight times as strong as itself.

+

+Kutúzov’s expectations that the proposals of capitulation (which were

+in no way binding) might give time for part of the transport to pass,

+and also that Murat’s mistake would very soon be discovered, proved

+correct. As soon as Bonaparte (who was at Schönbrunn, sixteen miles

+from Hollabrünn) received Murat’s dispatch with the proposal of a

+truce and a capitulation, he detected a ruse and wrote the following

+letter to Murat:

+

+Schönbrunn, 25th Brumaire, 1805,

+

+at eight o’clock in the morning

+

+To PRINCE MURAT,

+

+I cannot find words to express to you my displeasure. You command only

+my advance guard, and have no right to arrange an armistice without my

+order. You are causing me to lose the fruits of a campaign. Break

+the armistice immediately and march on the enemy. Inform him that the

+general who signed that capitulation had no right to do so, and that no

+one but the Emperor of Russia has that right.

+

+If, however, the Emperor of Russia ratifies that convention, I will

+ratify it; but it is only a trick. March on, destroy the Russian

+army.... You are in a position to seize its baggage and artillery.

+

+The Russian Emperor’s aide-de-camp is an impostor. Officers are

+nothing when they have no powers; this one had none.... The Austrians

+let themselves be tricked at the crossing of the Vienna bridge, you are

+letting yourself be tricked by an aide-de-camp of the Emperor.

+

+NAPOLEON

+

+Bonaparte’s adjutant rode full gallop with this menacing letter to

+Murat. Bonaparte himself, not trusting to his generals, moved with all

+the Guards to the field of battle, afraid of letting a ready victim

+escape, and Bagratión’s four thousand men merrily lighted campfires,

+dried and warmed themselves, cooked their porridge for the first time

+for three days, and not one of them knew or imagined what was in store

+for him.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XV

+

+Between three and four o’clock in the afternoon Prince Andrew, who

+had persisted in his request to Kutúzov, arrived at Grunth and reported

+himself to Bagratión. Bonaparte’s adjutant had not yet reached

+Murat’s detachment and the battle had not yet begun. In Bagratión’s

+detachment no one knew anything of the general position of affairs. They

+talked of peace but did not believe in its possibility; others talked

+of a battle but also disbelieved in the nearness of an engagement.

+Bagratión, knowing Bolkónski to be a favorite and trusted adjutant,

+received him with distinction and special marks of favor, explaining to

+him that there would probably be an engagement that day or the next, and

+giving him full liberty to remain with him during the battle or to join

+the rearguard and have an eye on the order of retreat, “which is also

+very important.”

+

+“However, there will hardly be an engagement today,” said Bagratión

+as if to reassure Prince Andrew.

+

+“If he is one of the ordinary little staff dandies sent to earn a

+medal he can get his reward just as well in the rearguard, but if he

+wishes to stay with me, let him... he’ll be of use here if he’s a

+brave officer,” thought Bagratión. Prince Andrew, without replying,

+asked the prince’s permission to ride round the position to see the

+disposition of the forces, so as to know his bearings should he be sent

+to execute an order. The officer on duty, a handsome, elegantly dressed

+man with a diamond ring on his forefinger, who was fond of speaking

+French though he spoke it badly, offered to conduct Prince Andrew.

+

+On all sides they saw rain-soaked officers with dejected faces who

+seemed to be seeking something, and soldiers dragging doors, benches,

+and fencing from the village.

+

+“There now, Prince! We can’t stop those fellows,” said the staff

+officer pointing to the soldiers. “The officers don’t keep them in

+hand. And there,” he pointed to a sutler’s tent, “they crowd in

+and sit. This morning I turned them all out and now look, it’s full

+again. I must go there, Prince, and scare them a bit. It won’t take a

+moment.”

+

+“Yes, let’s go in and I will get myself a roll and some cheese,”

+said Prince Andrew who had not yet had time to eat anything.

+

+“Why didn’t you mention it, Prince? I would have offered you

+something.”

+

+They dismounted and entered the tent. Several officers, with flushed and

+weary faces, were sitting at the table eating and drinking.

+

+“Now what does this mean, gentlemen?” said the staff officer, in

+the reproachful tone of a man who has repeated the same thing more

+than once. “You know it won’t do to leave your posts like this.

+The prince gave orders that no one should leave his post. Now you,

+Captain,” and he turned to a thin, dirty little artillery officer who

+without his boots (he had given them to the canteen keeper to dry),

+in only his stockings, rose when they entered, smiling not altogether

+comfortably.

+

+“Well, aren’t you ashamed of yourself, Captain Túshin?” he

+continued. “One would think that as an artillery officer you would set

+a good example, yet here you are without your boots! The alarm will be

+sounded and you’ll be in a pretty position without your boots!” (The

+staff officer smiled.) “Kindly return to your posts, gentlemen, all of

+you, all!” he added in a tone of command.

+

+Prince Andrew smiled involuntarily as he looked at the artillery officer

+Túshin, who silent and smiling, shifting from one stockinged foot to

+the other, glanced inquiringly with his large, intelligent, kindly eyes

+from Prince Andrew to the staff officer.

+

+“The soldiers say it feels easier without boots,” said Captain

+Túshin smiling shyly in his uncomfortable position, evidently wishing

+to adopt a jocular tone. But before he had finished he felt that his

+jest was unacceptable and had not come off. He grew confused.

+

+“Kindly return to your posts,” said the staff officer trying to

+preserve his gravity.

+

+Prince Andrew glanced again at the artillery officer’s small figure.

+There was something peculiar about it, quite unsoldierly, rather comic,

+but extremely attractive.

+

+The staff officer and Prince Andrew mounted their horses and rode on.

+

+Having ridden beyond the village, continually meeting and overtaking

+soldiers and officers of various regiments, they saw on their left some

+entrenchments being thrown up, the freshly dug clay of which showed up

+red. Several battalions of soldiers, in their shirt sleeves despite

+the cold wind, swarmed in these earthworks like a host of white ants;

+spadefuls of red clay were continually being thrown up from behind the

+bank by unseen hands. Prince Andrew and the officer rode up, looked at

+the entrenchment, and went on again. Just behind it they came upon some

+dozens of soldiers, continually replaced by others, who ran from the

+entrenchment. They had to hold their noses and put their horses to a

+trot to escape from the poisoned atmosphere of these latrines.

+

+“Voilà l’agrément des camps, monsieur le prince,” * said the

+staff officer.

+

+    * “This is a pleasure one gets in camp, Prince.”

+

+

+They rode up the opposite hill. From there the French could already be

+seen. Prince Andrew stopped and began examining the position.

+

+“That’s our battery,” said the staff officer indicating the

+highest point. “It’s in charge of the queer fellow we saw without

+his boots. You can see everything from there; let’s go there,

+Prince.”

+

+“Thank you very much, I will go on alone,” said Prince Andrew,

+wishing to rid himself of this staff officer’s company, “please

+don’t trouble yourself further.”

+

+The staff officer remained behind and Prince Andrew rode on alone.

+

+The farther forward and nearer the enemy he went, the more orderly and

+cheerful were the troops. The greatest disorder and depression had been

+in the baggage train he had passed that morning on the Znaim road seven

+miles away from the French. At Grunth also some apprehension and alarm

+could be felt, but the nearer Prince Andrew came to the French lines the

+more confident was the appearance of our troops. The soldiers in

+their greatcoats were ranged in lines, the sergeants major and company

+officers were counting the men, poking the last man in each section in

+the ribs and telling him to hold his hand up. Soldiers scattered over

+the whole place were dragging logs and brushwood and were building

+shelters with merry chatter and laughter; around the fires sat others,

+dressed and undressed, drying their shirts and leg bands or mending

+boots or overcoats and crowding round the boilers and porridge cookers.

+In one company dinner was ready, and the soldiers were gazing eagerly

+at the steaming boiler, waiting till the sample, which a quartermaster

+sergeant was carrying in a wooden bowl to an officer who sat on a log

+before his shelter, had been tasted.

+

+Another company, a lucky one for not all the companies had vodka,

+crowded round a pockmarked, broad-shouldered sergeant major who, tilting

+a keg, filled one after another the canteen lids held out to him. The

+soldiers lifted the canteen lids to their lips with reverential faces,

+emptied them, rolling the vodka in their mouths, and walked away from

+the sergeant major with brightened expressions, licking their lips and

+wiping them on the sleeves of their greatcoats. All their faces were

+as serene as if all this were happening at home awaiting peaceful

+encampment, and not within sight of the enemy before an action in

+which at least half of them would be left on the field. After passing a

+chasseur regiment and in the lines of the Kiev grenadiers—fine fellows

+busy with similar peaceful affairs—near the shelter of the regimental

+commander, higher than and different from the others, Prince Andrew came

+out in front of a platoon of grenadiers before whom lay a naked man. Two

+soldiers held him while two others were flourishing their switches and

+striking him regularly on his bare back. The man shrieked unnaturally.

+A stout major was pacing up and down the line, and regardless of the

+screams kept repeating:

+

+“It’s a shame for a soldier to steal; a soldier must be honest,

+honorable, and brave, but if he robs his fellows there is no honor in

+him, he’s a scoundrel. Go on! Go on!”

+

+So the swishing sound of the strokes, and the desperate but unnatural

+screams, continued.

+

+“Go on, go on!” said the major.

+

+A young officer with a bewildered and pained expression on his face

+stepped away from the man and looked round inquiringly at the adjutant

+as he rode by.

+

+Prince Andrew, having reached the front line, rode along it. Our front

+line and that of the enemy were far apart on the right and left flanks,

+but in the center where the men with a flag of truce had passed that

+morning, the lines were so near together that the men could see one

+another’s faces and speak to one another. Besides the soldiers who

+formed the picket line on either side, there were many curious onlookers

+who, jesting and laughing, stared at their strange foreign enemies.

+

+Since early morning—despite an injunction not to approach the picket

+line—the officers had been unable to keep sight-seers away. The

+soldiers forming the picket line, like showmen exhibiting a curiosity,

+no longer looked at the French but paid attention to the sight-seers and

+grew weary waiting to be relieved. Prince Andrew halted to have a look

+at the French.

+

+“Look! Look there!” one soldier was saying to another, pointing to a

+Russian musketeer who had gone up to the picket line with an officer and

+was rapidly and excitedly talking to a French grenadier. “Hark to him

+jabbering! Fine, isn’t it? It’s all the Frenchy can do to keep up

+with him. There now, Sídorov!”

+

+“Wait a bit and listen. It’s fine!” answered Sídorov, who was

+considered an adept at French.

+

+The soldier to whom the laughers referred was Dólokhov. Prince Andrew

+recognized him and stopped to listen to what he was saying. Dólokhov

+had come from the left flank where their regiment was stationed, with

+his captain.

+

+“Now then, go on, go on!” incited the officer, bending forward and

+trying not to lose a word of the speech which was incomprehensible to

+him. “More, please: more! What’s he saying?”

+

+Dólokhov did not answer the captain; he had been drawn into a hot

+dispute with the French grenadier. They were naturally talking about the

+campaign. The Frenchman, confusing the Austrians with the Russians, was

+trying to prove that the Russians had surrendered and had fled all

+the way from Ulm, while Dólokhov maintained that the Russians had not

+surrendered but had beaten the French.

+

+“We have orders to drive you off here, and we shall drive you off,”

+said Dólokhov.

+

+“Only take care you and your Cossacks are not all captured!” said

+the French grenadier.

+

+The French onlookers and listeners laughed.

+

+“We’ll make you dance as we did under Suvórov...,” * said

+Dólokhov.

+

+    * “On vous fera danser.”

+

+

+“Qu’ est-ce qu’il chante?” * asked a Frenchman.

+

+    * “What’s he singing about?”

+

+

+“It’s ancient history,” said another, guessing that it referred to

+a former war. “The Emperor will teach your Suvara as he has taught the

+others...”

+

+“Bonaparte...” began Dólokhov, but the Frenchman interrupted him.

+

+“Not Bonaparte. He is the Emperor! Sacré nom...!” cried he angrily.

+

+“The devil skin your Emperor.”

+

+And Dólokhov swore at him in coarse soldier’s Russian and shouldering

+his musket walked away.

+

+“Let us go, Iván Lukích,” he said to the captain.

+

+“Ah, that’s the way to talk French,” said the picket soldiers.

+“Now, Sídorov, you have a try!”

+

+Sídorov, turning to the French, winked, and began to jabber meaningless

+sounds very fast: “Kari, mala, tafa, safi, muter, Kaská,” he said,

+trying to give an expressive intonation to his voice.

+

+“Ho! ho! ho! Ha! ha! ha! ha! Ouh! ouh!” came peals of such healthy

+and good-humored laughter from the soldiers that it infected the French

+involuntarily, so much so that the only thing left to do seemed to be

+to unload the muskets, explode the ammunition, and all return home as

+quickly as possible.

+

+But the guns remained loaded, the loopholes in blockhouses and

+entrenchments looked out just as menacingly, and the unlimbered cannon

+confronted one another as before.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XVI

+

+Having ridden round the whole line from right flank to left, Prince

+Andrew made his way up to the battery from which the staff officer had

+told him the whole field could be seen. Here he dismounted, and stopped

+beside the farthest of the four unlimbered cannon. Before the guns an

+artillery sentry was pacing up and down; he stood at attention when the

+officer arrived, but at a sign resumed his measured, monotonous pacing.

+Behind the guns were their limbers and still farther back picket ropes

+and artillerymen’s bonfires. To the left, not far from the farthest

+cannon, was a small, newly constructed wattle shed from which came the

+sound of officers’ voices in eager conversation.

+

+It was true that a view over nearly the whole Russian position and the

+greater part of the enemy’s opened out from this battery. Just facing

+it, on the crest of the opposite hill, the village of Schön Grabern

+could be seen, and in three places to left and right the French troops

+amid the smoke of their campfires, the greater part of whom were

+evidently in the village itself and behind the hill. To the left from

+that village, amid the smoke, was something resembling a battery, but it

+was impossible to see it clearly with the naked eye. Our right flank was

+posted on a rather steep incline which dominated the French position.

+Our infantry were stationed there, and at the farthest point the

+dragoons. In the center, where Túshin’s battery stood and from which

+Prince Andrew was surveying the position, was the easiest and most

+direct descent and ascent to the brook separating us from Schön

+Grabern. On the left our troops were close to a copse, in which smoked

+the bonfires of our infantry who were felling wood. The French line was

+wider than ours, and it was plain that they could easily outflank us

+on both sides. Behind our position was a steep and deep dip, making it

+difficult for artillery and cavalry to retire. Prince Andrew took

+out his notebook and, leaning on the cannon, sketched a plan of the

+position. He made some notes on two points, intending to mention them to

+Bagratión. His idea was, first, to concentrate all the artillery in the

+center, and secondly, to withdraw the cavalry to the other side of the

+dip. Prince Andrew, being always near the commander in chief, closely

+following the mass movements and general orders, and constantly studying

+historical accounts of battles, involuntarily pictured to himself the

+course of events in the forthcoming action in broad outline. He

+imagined only important possibilities: “If the enemy attacks the right

+flank,” he said to himself, “the Kiev grenadiers and the Podólsk

+chasseurs must hold their position till reserves from the center

+come up. In that case the dragoons could successfully make a flank

+counterattack. If they attack our center we, having the center battery

+on this high ground, shall withdraw the left flank under its cover, and

+retreat to the dip by echelons.” So he reasoned.... All the time

+he had been beside the gun, he had heard the voices of the officers

+distinctly, but as often happens had not understood a word of what they

+were saying. Suddenly, however, he was struck by a voice coming from the

+shed, and its tone was so sincere that he could not but listen.

+

+“No, friend,” said a pleasant and, as it seemed to Prince Andrew, a

+familiar voice, “what I say is that if it were possible to know

+what is beyond death, none of us would be afraid of it. That’s so,

+friend.”

+

+Another, a younger voice, interrupted him: “Afraid or not, you can’t

+escape it anyhow.”

+

+“All the same, one is afraid! Oh, you clever people,” said a third

+manly voice interrupting them both. “Of course you artillery men are

+very wise, because you can take everything along with you—vodka and

+snacks.”

+

+And the owner of the manly voice, evidently an infantry officer,

+laughed.

+

+“Yes, one is afraid,” continued the first speaker, he of the

+familiar voice. “One is afraid of the unknown, that’s what it is.

+Whatever we may say about the soul going to the sky... we know there is

+no sky but only an atmosphere.”

+

+The manly voice again interrupted the artillery officer.

+

+“Well, stand us some of your herb vodka, Túshin,” it said.

+

+“Why,” thought Prince Andrew, “that’s the captain who stood up

+in the sutler’s hut without his boots.” He recognized the agreeable,

+philosophizing voice with pleasure.

+

+“Some herb vodka? Certainly!” said Túshin. “But still, to

+conceive a future life...”

+

+He did not finish. Just then there was a whistle in the air; nearer and

+nearer, faster and louder, louder and faster, a cannon ball, as if it

+had not finished saying what was necessary, thudded into the ground near

+the shed with super human force, throwing up a mass of earth. The ground

+seemed to groan at the terrible impact.

+

+And immediately Túshin, with a short pipe in the corner of his mouth

+and his kind, intelligent face rather pale, rushed out of the shed

+followed by the owner of the manly voice, a dashing infantry officer who

+hurried off to his company, buttoning up his coat as he ran.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XVII

+

+Mounting his horse again Prince Andrew lingered with the battery,

+looking at the puff from the gun that had sent the ball. His eyes

+ran rapidly over the wide space, but he only saw that the hitherto

+motionless masses of the French now swayed and that there really was

+a battery to their left. The smoke above it had not yet dispersed. Two

+mounted Frenchmen, probably adjutants, were galloping up the hill. A

+small but distinctly visible enemy column was moving down the hill,

+probably to strengthen the front line. The smoke of the first shot had

+not yet dispersed before another puff appeared, followed by a report.

+The battle had begun! Prince Andrew turned his horse and galloped back

+to Grunth to find Prince Bagratión. He heard the cannonade behind him

+growing louder and more frequent. Evidently our guns had begun to reply.

+From the bottom of the slope, where the parleys had taken place, came

+the report of musketry.

+

+Lemarrois had just arrived at a gallop with Bonaparte’s stern letter,

+and Murat, humiliated and anxious to expiate his fault, had at once

+moved his forces to attack the center and outflank both the Russian

+wings, hoping before evening and before the arrival of the Emperor to

+crush the contemptible detachment that stood before him.

+

+“It has begun. Here it is!” thought Prince Andrew, feeling the

+blood rush to his heart. “But where and how will my Toulon present

+itself?”

+

+Passing between the companies that had been eating porridge and drinking

+vodka a quarter of an hour before, he saw everywhere the same rapid

+movement of soldiers forming ranks and getting their muskets ready,

+and on all their faces he recognized the same eagerness that filled his

+heart. “It has begun! Here it is, dreadful but enjoyable!” was what

+the face of each soldier and each officer seemed to say.

+

+Before he had reached the embankments that were being thrown up, he saw,

+in the light of the dull autumn evening, mounted men coming toward him.

+The foremost, wearing a Cossack cloak and lambskin cap and riding a

+white horse, was Prince Bagratión. Prince Andrew stopped, waiting for

+him to come up; Prince Bagratión reined in his horse and recognizing

+Prince Andrew nodded to him. He still looked ahead while Prince Andrew

+told him what he had seen.

+

+The feeling, “It has begun! Here it is!” was seen even on Prince

+Bagratión’s hard brown face with its half-closed, dull, sleepy eyes.

+Prince Andrew gazed with anxious curiosity at that impassive face

+and wished he could tell what, if anything, this man was thinking

+and feeling at that moment. “Is there anything at all behind that

+impassive face?” Prince Andrew asked himself as he looked. Prince

+Bagratión bent his head in sign of agreement with what Prince Andrew

+told him, and said, “Very good!” in a tone that seemed to imply that

+everything that took place and was reported to him was exactly what he

+had foreseen. Prince Andrew, out of breath with his rapid ride, spoke

+quickly. Prince Bagratión, uttering his words with an Oriental accent,

+spoke particularly slowly, as if to impress the fact that there was no

+need to hurry. However, he put his horse to a trot in the direction

+of Túshin’s battery. Prince Andrew followed with the suite. Behind

+Prince Bagratión rode an officer of the suite, the prince’s personal

+adjutant, Zherkóv, an orderly officer, the staff officer on duty,

+riding a fine bobtailed horse, and a civilian—an accountant who had

+asked permission to be present at the battle out of curiosity. The

+accountant, a stout, full-faced man, looked around him with a naïve

+smile of satisfaction and presented a strange appearance among the

+hussars, Cossacks, and adjutants, in his camlet coat, as he jolted on

+his horse with a convoy officer’s saddle.

+

+“He wants to see a battle,” said Zherkóv to Bolkónski, pointing

+to the accountant, “but he feels a pain in the pit of his stomach

+already.”

+

+“Oh, leave off!” said the accountant with a beaming but rather

+cunning smile, as if flattered at being made the subject of Zherkóv’s

+joke, and purposely trying to appear stupider than he really was.

+

+“It is very strange, mon Monsieur Prince,” said the staff officer.

+(He remembered that in French there is some peculiar way of addressing a

+prince, but could not get it quite right.)

+

+By this time they were all approaching Túshin’s battery, and a ball

+struck the ground in front of them.

+

+“What’s that that has fallen?” asked the accountant with a naïve

+smile.

+

+“A French pancake,” answered Zherkóv.

+

+“So that’s what they hit with?” asked the accountant. “How

+awful!”

+

+He seemed to swell with satisfaction. He had hardly finished speaking

+when they again heard an unexpectedly violent whistling which suddenly

+ended with a thud into something soft... f-f-flop! and a Cossack, riding

+a little to their right and behind the accountant, crashed to earth with

+his horse. Zherkóv and the staff officer bent over their saddles and

+turned their horses away. The accountant stopped, facing the Cossack,

+and examined him with attentive curiosity. The Cossack was dead, but the

+horse still struggled.

+

+Prince Bagratión screwed up his eyes, looked round, and, seeing the

+cause of the confusion, turned away with indifference, as if to say,

+“Is it worth while noticing trifles?” He reined in his horse with

+the care of a skillful rider and, slightly bending over, disengaged his

+saber which had caught in his cloak. It was an old-fashioned saber of

+a kind no longer in general use. Prince Andrew remembered the story of

+Suvórov giving his saber to Bagratión in Italy, and the recollection

+was particularly pleasant at that moment. They had reached the battery

+at which Prince Andrew had been when he examined the battlefield.

+

+“Whose company?” asked Prince Bagratión of an artilleryman standing

+by the ammunition wagon.

+

+He asked, “Whose company?” but he really meant, “Are you

+frightened here?” and the artilleryman understood him.

+

+“Captain Túshin’s, your excellency!” shouted the red-haired,

+freckled gunner in a merry voice, standing to attention.

+

+“Yes, yes,” muttered Bagratión as if considering something, and he

+rode past the limbers to the farthest cannon.

+

+As he approached, a ringing shot issued from it deafening him and his

+suite, and in the smoke that suddenly surrounded the gun they could see

+the gunners who had seized it straining to roll it quickly back to its

+former position. A huge, broad-shouldered gunner, Number One, holding

+a mop, his legs far apart, sprang to the wheel; while Number Two with

+a trembling hand placed a charge in the cannon’s mouth. The short,

+round-shouldered Captain Túshin, stumbling over the tail of the gun

+carriage, moved forward and, not noticing the general, looked out

+shading his eyes with his small hand.

+

+“Lift it two lines more and it will be just right,” cried he in a

+feeble voice to which he tried to impart a dashing note, ill-suited to

+his weak figure. “Number Two!” he squeaked. “Fire, Medvédev!”

+

+Bagratión called to him, and Túshin, raising three fingers to his cap

+with a bashful and awkward gesture not at all like a military salute

+but like a priest’s benediction, approached the general. Though

+Túshin’s guns had been intended to cannonade the valley, he was

+firing incendiary balls at the village of Schön Grabern visible just

+opposite, in front of which large masses of French were advancing.

+

+No one had given Túshin orders where and at what to fire, but after

+consulting his sergeant major, Zakharchénko, for whom he had great

+respect, he had decided that it would be a good thing to set fire to the

+village. “Very good!” said Bagratión in reply to the officer’s

+report, and began deliberately to examine the whole battlefield extended

+before him. The French had advanced nearest on our right. Below the

+height on which the Kiev regiment was stationed, in the hollow where the

+rivulet flowed, the soul-stirring rolling and crackling of musketry was

+heard, and much farther to the right beyond the dragoons, the officer of

+the suite pointed out to Bagratión a French column that was outflanking

+us. To the left the horizon bounded by the adjacent wood. Prince

+Bagratión ordered two battalions from the center to be sent to

+reinforce the right flank. The officer of the suite ventured to remark

+to the prince that if these battalions went away, the guns would remain

+without support. Prince Bagratión turned to the officer and with his

+dull eyes looked at him in silence. It seemed to Prince Andrew that the

+officer’s remark was just and that really no answer could be made to

+it. But at that moment an adjutant galloped up with a message from the

+commander of the regiment in the hollow and news that immense masses

+of the French were coming down upon them and that his regiment was in

+disorder and was retreating upon the Kiev grenadiers. Prince Bagratión

+bowed his head in sign of assent and approval. He rode off at a walk to

+the right and sent an adjutant to the dragoons with orders to attack the

+French. But this adjutant returned half an hour later with the news that

+the commander of the dragoons had already retreated beyond the dip in

+the ground, as a heavy fire had been opened on him and he was losing

+men uselessly, and so had hastened to throw some sharpshooters into the

+wood.

+

+“Very good!” said Bagratión.

+

+As he was leaving the battery, firing was heard on the left also, and

+as it was too far to the left flank for him to have time to go there

+himself, Prince Bagratión sent Zherkóv to tell the general in command

+(the one who had paraded his regiment before Kutúzov at Braunau) that

+he must retreat as quickly as possible behind the hollow in the rear,

+as the right flank would probably not be able to withstand the enemy’s

+attack very long. About Túshin and the battalion that had been in

+support of his battery all was forgotten. Prince Andrew listened

+attentively to Bagratión’s colloquies with the commanding officers

+and the orders he gave them and, to his surprise, found that no orders

+were really given, but that Prince Bagratión tried to make it appear

+that everything done by necessity, by accident, or by the will of

+subordinate commanders was done, if not by his direct command, at least

+in accord with his intentions. Prince Andrew noticed, however, that

+though what happened was due to chance and was independent of the

+commander’s will, owing to the tact Bagratión showed, his presence

+was very valuable. Officers who approached him with disturbed

+countenances became calm; soldiers and officers greeted him gaily, grew

+more cheerful in his presence, and were evidently anxious to display

+their courage before him.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XVIII

+

+Prince Bagratión, having reached the highest point of our right flank,

+began riding downhill to where the roll of musketry was heard but where

+on account of the smoke nothing could be seen. The nearer they got to

+the hollow the less they could see but the more they felt the nearness

+of the actual battlefield. They began to meet wounded men. One with a

+bleeding head and no cap was being dragged along by two soldiers who

+supported him under the arms. There was a gurgle in his throat and he

+was spitting blood. A bullet had evidently hit him in the throat or

+mouth. Another was walking sturdily by himself but without his musket,

+groaning aloud and swinging his arm which had just been hurt, while

+blood from it was streaming over his greatcoat as from a bottle. He had

+that moment been wounded and his face showed fear rather than suffering.

+Crossing a road they descended a steep incline and saw several men

+lying on the ground; they also met a crowd of soldiers some of whom were

+unwounded. The soldiers were ascending the hill breathing heavily, and

+despite the general’s presence were talking loudly and gesticulating.

+In front of them rows of gray cloaks were already visible through the

+smoke, and an officer catching sight of Bagratión rushed shouting after

+the crowd of retreating soldiers, ordering them back. Bagratión rode up

+to the ranks along which shots crackled now here and now there, drowning

+the sound of voices and the shouts of command. The whole air reeked with

+smoke. The excited faces of the soldiers were blackened with it. Some

+were using their ramrods, others putting powder on the touchpans or

+taking charges from their pouches, while others were firing, though who

+they were firing at could not be seen for the smoke which there was no

+wind to carry away. A pleasant humming and whistling of bullets were

+often heard. “What is this?” thought Prince Andrew approaching the

+crowd of soldiers. “It can’t be an attack, for they are not moving;

+it can’t be a square—for they are not drawn up for that.”

+

+The commander of the regiment, a thin, feeble-looking old man with a

+pleasant smile—his eyelids drooping more than half over his old eyes,

+giving him a mild expression, rode up to Bagratión and welcomed him as

+a host welcomes an honored guest. He reported that his regiment had

+been attacked by French cavalry and that, though the attack had been

+repulsed, he had lost more than half his men. He said the attack

+had been repulsed, employing this military term to describe what had

+occurred to his regiment, but in reality he did not himself know what

+had happened during that half-hour to the troops entrusted to him, and

+could not say with certainty whether the attack had been repulsed or his

+regiment had been broken up. All he knew was that at the commencement

+of the action balls and shells began flying all over his regiment and

+hitting men and that afterwards someone had shouted “Cavalry!” and

+our men had begun firing. They were still firing, not at the cavalry

+which had disappeared, but at French infantry who had come into the

+hollow and were firing at our men. Prince Bagratión bowed his head as a

+sign that this was exactly what he had desired and expected. Turning

+to his adjutant he ordered him to bring down the two battalions of the

+Sixth Chasseurs whom they had just passed. Prince Andrew was struck by

+the changed expression on Prince Bagratión’s face at this moment. It

+expressed the concentrated and happy resolution you see on the face of

+a man who on a hot day takes a final run before plunging into the water.

+The dull, sleepy expression was no longer there, nor the affectation

+of profound thought. The round, steady, hawk’s eyes looked before him

+eagerly and rather disdainfully, not resting on anything although his

+movements were still slow and measured.

+

+The commander of the regiment turned to Prince Bagratión, entreating

+him to go back as it was too dangerous to remain where they were.

+“Please, your excellency, for God’s sake!” he kept saying,

+glancing for support at an officer of the suite who turned away

+from him. “There, you see!” and he drew attention to the bullets

+whistling, singing, and hissing continually around them. He spoke in the

+tone of entreaty and reproach that a carpenter uses to a gentleman who

+has picked up an ax: “We are used to it, but you, sir, will blister

+your hands.” He spoke as if those bullets could not kill him, and his

+half-closed eyes gave still more persuasiveness to his words. The staff

+officer joined in the colonel’s appeals, but Bagratión did not reply;

+he only gave an order to cease firing and re-form, so as to give room

+for the two approaching battalions. While he was speaking, the curtain

+of smoke that had concealed the hollow, driven by a rising wind, began

+to move from right to left as if drawn by an invisible hand, and the

+hill opposite, with the French moving about on it, opened out before

+them. All eyes fastened involuntarily on this French column advancing

+against them and winding down over the uneven ground. One could already

+see the soldiers’ shaggy caps, distinguish the officers from the men,

+and see the standard flapping against its staff.

+

+“They march splendidly,” remarked someone in Bagratión’s suite.

+

+The head of the column had already descended into the hollow. The clash

+would take place on this side of it...

+

+The remains of our regiment which had been in action rapidly formed up

+and moved to the right; from behind it, dispersing the laggards, came

+two battalions of the Sixth Chasseurs in fine order. Before they had

+reached Bagratión, the weighty tread of the mass of men marching in

+step could be heard. On their left flank, nearest to Bagratión, marched

+a company commander, a fine round-faced man, with a stupid and happy

+expression—the same man who had rushed out of the wattle shed. At that

+moment he was clearly thinking of nothing but how dashing a fellow he

+would appear as he passed the commander.

+

+With the self-satisfaction of a man on parade, he stepped lightly with

+his muscular legs as if sailing along, stretching himself to his full

+height without the smallest effort, his ease contrasting with the heavy

+tread of the soldiers who were keeping step with him. He carried close

+to his leg a narrow unsheathed sword (small, curved, and not like a real

+weapon) and looked now at the superior officers and now back at the men

+without losing step, his whole powerful body turning flexibly. It was as

+if all the powers of his soul were concentrated on passing the commander

+in the best possible manner, and feeling that he was doing it well he

+was happy. “Left... left... left...” he seemed to repeat to himself

+at each alternate step; and in time to this, with stern but varied

+faces, the wall of soldiers burdened with knapsacks and muskets marched

+in step, and each one of these hundreds of soldiers seemed to be

+repeating to himself at each alternate step, “Left... left...

+left...” A fat major skirted a bush, puffing and falling out of

+step; a soldier who had fallen behind, his face showing alarm at his

+defection, ran at a trot, panting to catch up with his company. A cannon

+ball, cleaving the air, flew over the heads of Bagratión and his suite,

+and fell into the column to the measure of “Left... left!” “Close

+up!” came the company commander’s voice in jaunty tones. The

+soldiers passed in a semicircle round something where the ball had

+fallen, and an old trooper on the flank, a noncommissioned officer who

+had stopped beside the dead men, ran to catch up his line and, falling

+into step with a hop, looked back angrily, and through the ominous

+silence and the regular tramp of feet beating the ground in unison, one

+seemed to hear left... left... left.

+

+“Well done, lads!” said Prince Bagratión.

+

+“Glad to do our best, your ex’len-lency!” came a confused shout

+from the ranks. A morose soldier marching on the left turned his eyes on

+Bagratión as he shouted, with an expression that seemed to say: “We

+know that ourselves!” Another, without looking round, as though

+fearing to relax, shouted with his mouth wide open and passed on.

+

+The order was given to halt and down knapsacks.

+

+Bagratión rode round the ranks that had marched past him and

+dismounted. He gave the reins to a Cossack, took off and handed over his

+felt coat, stretched his legs, and set his cap straight. The head of the

+French column, with its officers leading, appeared from below the hill.

+

+“Forward, with God!” said Bagratión, in a resolute, sonorous voice,

+turning for a moment to the front line, and slightly swinging his arms,

+he went forward uneasily over the rough field with the awkward gait of

+a cavalryman. Prince Andrew felt that an invisible power was leading him

+forward, and experienced great happiness.

+

+The French were already near. Prince Andrew, walking beside Bagratión,

+could clearly distinguish their bandoliers, red epaulets, and even their

+faces. (He distinctly saw an old French officer who, with gaitered

+legs and turned-out toes, climbed the hill with difficulty.) Prince

+Bagratión gave no further orders and silently continued to walk on in

+front of the ranks. Suddenly one shot after another rang out from the

+French, smoke appeared all along their uneven ranks, and musket shots

+sounded. Several of our men fell, among them the round-faced officer

+who had marched so gaily and complacently. But at the moment the first

+report was heard, Bagratión looked round and shouted, “Hurrah!”

+

+“Hurrah—ah!—ah!” rang a long-drawn shout from our ranks, and

+passing Bagratión and racing one another they rushed in an irregular

+but joyous and eager crowd down the hill at their disordered foe.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XIX

+

+The attack of the Sixth Chasseurs secured the retreat of our right

+flank. In the center Túshin’s forgotten battery, which had managed to

+set fire to the Schön Grabern village, delayed the French advance. The

+French were putting out the fire which the wind was spreading, and thus

+gave us time to retreat. The retirement of the center to the other side

+of the dip in the ground at the rear was hurried and noisy, but the

+different companies did not get mixed. But our left—which consisted

+of the Azóv and Podólsk infantry and the Pávlograd hussars—was

+simultaneously attacked and outflanked by superior French forces under

+Lannes and was thrown into confusion. Bagratión had sent Zherkóv

+to the general commanding that left flank with orders to retreat

+immediately.

+

+Zherkóv, not removing his hand from his cap, turned his horse about

+and galloped off. But no sooner had he left Bagratión than his courage

+failed him. He was seized by panic and could not go where it was

+dangerous.

+

+Having reached the left flank, instead of going to the front where the

+firing was, he began to look for the general and his staff where they

+could not possibly be, and so did not deliver the order.

+

+The command of the left flank belonged by seniority to the commander of

+the regiment Kutúzov had reviewed at Braunau and in which Dólokhov was

+serving as a private. But the command of the extreme left flank had been

+assigned to the commander of the Pávlograd regiment in which Rostóv

+was serving, and a misunderstanding arose. The two commanders were much

+exasperated with one another and, long after the action had begun on

+the right flank and the French were already advancing, were engaged

+in discussion with the sole object of offending one another. But the

+regiments, both cavalry and infantry, were by no means ready for the

+impending action. From privates to general they were not expecting a

+battle and were engaged in peaceful occupations, the cavalry feeding the

+horses and the infantry collecting wood.

+

+“He higher iss dan I in rank,” said the German colonel of the

+hussars, flushing and addressing an adjutant who had ridden up, “so

+let him do what he vill, but I cannot sacrifice my hussars... Bugler,

+sount ze retreat!”

+

+But haste was becoming imperative. Cannon and musketry, mingling

+together, thundered on the right and in the center, while the capotes

+of Lannes’ sharpshooters were already seen crossing the milldam and

+forming up within twice the range of a musket shot. The general in

+command of the infantry went toward his horse with jerky steps, and

+having mounted drew himself up very straight and tall and rode to the

+Pávlograd commander. The commanders met with polite bows but with

+secret malevolence in their hearts.

+

+“Once again, Colonel,” said the general, “I can’t leave half

+my men in the wood. I beg of you, I beg of you,” he repeated, “to

+occupy the position and prepare for an attack.”

+

+“I peg of you yourself not to mix in vot is not your business!”

+suddenly replied the irate colonel. “If you vere in the cavalry...”

+

+“I am not in the cavalry, Colonel, but I am a Russian general and if

+you are not aware of the fact...”

+

+“Quite avare, your excellency,” suddenly shouted the colonel,

+touching his horse and turning purple in the face. “Vill you be so

+goot to come to ze front and see dat zis position iss no goot? I don’t

+vish to destroy my men for your pleasure!”

+

+“You forget yourself, Colonel. I am not considering my own pleasure

+and I won’t allow it to be said!”

+

+Taking the colonel’s outburst as a challenge to his courage, the

+general expanded his chest and rode, frowning, beside him to the

+front line, as if their differences would be settled there amongst the

+bullets. They reached the front, several bullets sped over them, and

+they halted in silence. There was nothing fresh to be seen from the

+line, for from where they had been before it had been evident that it

+was impossible for cavalry to act among the bushes and broken ground,

+as well as that the French were outflanking our left. The general

+and colonel looked sternly and significantly at one another like two

+fighting cocks preparing for battle, each vainly trying to detect signs

+of cowardice in the other. Both passed the examination successfully. As

+there was nothing to be said, and neither wished to give occasion for

+it to be alleged that he had been the first to leave the range of fire,

+they would have remained there for a long time testing each other’s

+courage had it not been that just then they heard the rattle of musketry

+and a muffled shout almost behind them in the wood. The French had

+attacked the men collecting wood in the copse. It was no longer possible

+for the hussars to retreat with the infantry. They were cut off from

+the line of retreat on the left by the French. However inconvenient the

+position, it was now necessary to attack in order to cut a way through

+for themselves.

+

+The squadron in which Rostóv was serving had scarcely time to mount

+before it was halted facing the enemy. Again, as at the Enns bridge,

+there was nothing between the squadron and the enemy, and again that

+terrible dividing line of uncertainty and fear—resembling the line

+separating the living from the dead—lay between them. All were

+conscious of this unseen line, and the question whether they would cross

+it or not, and how they would cross it, agitated them all.

+

+The colonel rode to the front, angrily gave some reply to questions put

+to him by the officers, and, like a man desperately insisting on having

+his own way, gave an order. No one said anything definite, but the rumor

+of an attack spread through the squadron. The command to form up rang

+out and the sabers whizzed as they were drawn from their scabbards.

+Still no one moved. The troops of the left flank, infantry and hussars

+alike, felt that the commander did not himself know what to do, and this

+irresolution communicated itself to the men.

+

+“If only they would be quick!” thought Rostóv, feeling that at last

+the time had come to experience the joy of an attack of which he had so

+often heard from his fellow hussars.

+

+“Fo’ward, with God, lads!” rang out Denísov’s voice. “At a

+twot fo’ward!”

+

+The horses’ croups began to sway in the front line. Rook pulled at the

+reins and started of his own accord.

+

+Before him, on the right, Rostóv saw the front lines of his hussars and

+still farther ahead a dark line which he could not see distinctly but

+took to be the enemy. Shots could be heard, but some way off.

+

+“Faster!” came the word of command, and Rostóv felt Rook’s flanks

+drooping as he broke into a gallop.

+

+Rostóv anticipated his horse’s movements and became more and more

+elated. He had noticed a solitary tree ahead of him. This tree had been

+in the middle of the line that had seemed so terrible—and now he

+had crossed that line and not only was there nothing terrible, but

+everything was becoming more and more happy and animated. “Oh, how I

+will slash at him!” thought Rostóv, gripping the hilt of his saber.

+

+“Hur-a-a-a-ah!” came a roar of voices. “Let anyone come my way

+now,” thought Rostóv driving his spurs into Rook and letting him go

+at a full gallop so that he outstripped the others. Ahead, the enemy was

+already visible. Suddenly something like a birch broom seemed to sweep

+over the squadron. Rostóv raised his saber, ready to strike, but at

+that instant the trooper Nikítenko, who was galloping ahead, shot away

+from him, and Rostóv felt as in a dream that he continued to be carried

+forward with unnatural speed but yet stayed on the same spot. From

+behind him Bondarchúk, an hussar he knew, jolted against him and looked

+angrily at him. Bondarchúk’s horse swerved and galloped past.

+

+“How is it I am not moving? I have fallen, I am killed!” Rostóv

+asked and answered at the same instant. He was alone in the middle of a

+field. Instead of the moving horses and hussars’ backs, he saw nothing

+before him but the motionless earth and the stubble around him. There

+was warm blood under his arm. “No, I am wounded and the horse is

+killed.” Rook tried to rise on his forelegs but fell back, pinning his

+rider’s leg. Blood was flowing from his head; he struggled but could

+not rise. Rostóv also tried to rise but fell back, his sabretache

+having become entangled in the saddle. Where our men were, and where the

+French, he did not know. There was no one near.

+

+Having disentangled his leg, he rose. “Where, on which side, was now

+the line that had so sharply divided the two armies?” he asked himself

+and could not answer. “Can something bad have happened to me?”

+he wondered as he got up: and at that moment he felt that something

+superfluous was hanging on his benumbed left arm. The wrist felt as if

+it were not his. He examined his hand carefully, vainly trying to find

+blood on it. “Ah, here are people coming,” he thought joyfully,

+seeing some men running toward him. “They will help me!” In front

+came a man wearing a strange shako and a blue cloak, swarthy, sunburned,

+and with a hooked nose. Then came two more, and many more running

+behind. One of them said something strange, not in Russian. In among the

+hindmost of these men wearing similar shakos was a Russian hussar. He

+was being held by the arms and his horse was being led behind him.

+

+“It must be one of ours, a prisoner. Yes. Can it be that they will

+take me too? Who are these men?” thought Rostóv, scarcely believing

+his eyes. “Can they be French?” He looked at the approaching

+Frenchmen, and though but a moment before he had been galloping to get

+at them and hack them to pieces, their proximity now seemed so awful

+that he could not believe his eyes. “Who are they? Why are they

+running? Can they be coming at me? And why? To kill me? Me whom everyone

+is so fond of?” He remembered his mother’s love for him, and his

+family’s, and his friends’, and the enemy’s intention to kill him

+seemed impossible. “But perhaps they may do it!” For more than ten

+seconds he stood not moving from the spot or realizing the situation.

+The foremost Frenchman, the one with the hooked nose, was already so

+close that the expression of his face could be seen. And the excited,

+alien face of that man, his bayonet hanging down, holding his breath,

+and running so lightly, frightened Rostóv. He seized his pistol and,

+instead of firing it, flung it at the Frenchman and ran with all his

+might toward the bushes. He did not now run with the feeling of doubt

+and conflict with which he had trodden the Enns bridge, but with the

+feeling of a hare fleeing from the hounds. One single sentiment, that

+of fear for his young and happy life, possessed his whole being. Rapidly

+leaping the furrows, he fled across the field with the impetuosity he

+used to show at catchplay, now and then turning his good-natured, pale,

+young face to look back. A shudder of terror went through him: “No,

+better not look,” he thought, but having reached the bushes he glanced

+round once more. The French had fallen behind, and just as he looked

+round the first man changed his run to a walk and, turning, shouted

+something loudly to a comrade farther back. Rostóv paused. “No,

+there’s some mistake,” thought he. “They can’t have wanted to

+kill me.” But at the same time, his left arm felt as heavy as if

+a seventy-pound weight were tied to it. He could run no more. The

+Frenchman also stopped and took aim. Rostóv closed his eyes and stooped

+down. One bullet and then another whistled past him. He mustered his

+last remaining strength, took hold of his left hand with his right, and

+reached the bushes. Behind these were some Russian sharpshooters.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XX

+

+The infantry regiments that had been caught unawares in the outskirts

+of the wood ran out of it, the different companies getting mixed, and

+retreated as a disorderly crowd. One soldier, in his fear, uttered the

+senseless cry, “Cut off!” that is so terrible in battle, and that

+word infected the whole crowd with a feeling of panic.

+

+“Surrounded! Cut off? We’re lost!” shouted the fugitives.

+

+The moment he heard the firing and the cry from behind, the general

+realized that something dreadful had happened to his regiment, and the

+thought that he, an exemplary officer of many years’ service who

+had never been to blame, might be held responsible at headquarters

+for negligence or inefficiency so staggered him that, forgetting the

+recalcitrant cavalry colonel, his own dignity as a general, and above

+all quite forgetting the danger and all regard for self-preservation, he

+clutched the crupper of his saddle and, spurring his horse, galloped to

+the regiment under a hail of bullets which fell around, but fortunately

+missed him. His one desire was to know what was happening and at any

+cost correct, or remedy, the mistake if he had made one, so that he,

+an exemplary officer of twenty-two years’ service, who had never been

+censured, should not be held to blame.

+

+Having galloped safely through the French, he reached a field behind

+the copse across which our men, regardless of orders, were running and

+descending the valley. That moment of moral hesitation which decides

+the fate of battles had arrived. Would this disorderly crowd of soldiers

+attend to the voice of their commander, or would they, disregarding him,

+continue their flight? Despite his desperate shouts that used to seem

+so terrible to the soldiers, despite his furious purple countenance

+distorted out of all likeness to his former self, and the flourishing of

+his saber, the soldiers all continued to run, talking, firing into the

+air, and disobeying orders. The moral hesitation which decided the fate

+of battles was evidently culminating in a panic.

+

+The general had a fit of coughing as a result of shouting and of the

+powder smoke and stopped in despair. Everything seemed lost. But at that

+moment the French who were attacking, suddenly and without any apparent

+reason, ran back and disappeared from the outskirts, and Russian

+sharpshooters showed themselves in the copse. It was Timókhin’s

+company, which alone had maintained its order in the wood and, having

+lain in ambush in a ditch, now attacked the French unexpectedly.

+Timókhin, armed only with a sword, had rushed at the enemy with such

+a desperate cry and such mad, drunken determination that, taken by

+surprise, the French had thrown down their muskets and run. Dólokhov,

+running beside Timókhin, killed a Frenchman at close quarters and was

+the first to seize the surrendering French officer by his collar. Our

+fugitives returned, the battalions re-formed, and the French who had

+nearly cut our left flank in half were for the moment repulsed. Our

+reserve units were able to join up, and the fight was at an end. The

+regimental commander and Major Ekonómov had stopped beside a bridge,

+letting the retreating companies pass by them, when a soldier came up

+and took hold of the commander’s stirrup, almost leaning against him.

+The man was wearing a bluish coat of broadcloth, he had no knapsack

+or cap, his head was bandaged, and over his shoulder a French munition

+pouch was slung. He had an officer’s sword in his hand. The soldier

+was pale, his blue eyes looked impudently into the commander’s face,

+and his lips were smiling. Though the commander was occupied in giving

+instructions to Major Ekonómov, he could not help taking notice of the

+soldier.

+

+“Your excellency, here are two trophies,” said Dólokhov, pointing

+to the French sword and pouch. “I have taken an officer prisoner. I

+stopped the company.” Dólokhov breathed heavily from weariness and

+spoke in abrupt sentences. “The whole company can bear witness. I beg

+you will remember this, your excellency!”

+

+“All right, all right,” replied the commander, and turned to Major

+Ekonómov.

+

+But Dólokhov did not go away; he untied the handkerchief around his

+head, pulled it off, and showed the blood congealed on his hair.

+

+“A bayonet wound. I remained at the front. Remember, your

+excellency!”

+

+

+Túshin’s battery had been forgotten and only at the very end of the

+action did Prince Bagratión, still hearing the cannonade in the center,

+send his orderly staff officer, and later Prince Andrew also, to order

+the battery to retire as quickly as possible. When the supports attached

+to Túshin’s battery had been moved away in the middle of the action

+by someone’s order, the battery had continued firing and was only not

+captured by the French because the enemy could not surmise that anyone

+could have the effrontery to continue firing from four quite undefended

+guns. On the contrary, the energetic action of that battery led the

+French to suppose that here—in the center—the main Russian forces

+were concentrated. Twice they had attempted to attack this point, but on

+each occasion had been driven back by grapeshot from the four isolated

+guns on the hillock.

+

+Soon after Prince Bagratión had left him, Túshin had succeeded in

+setting fire to Schön Grabern.

+

+“Look at them scurrying! It’s burning! Just see the smoke! Fine!

+Grand! Look at the smoke, the smoke!” exclaimed the artillerymen,

+brightening up.

+

+All the guns, without waiting for orders, were being fired in the

+direction of the conflagration. As if urging each other on, the soldiers

+cried at each shot: “Fine! That’s good! Look at it... Grand!” The

+fire, fanned by the breeze, was rapidly spreading. The French columns

+that had advanced beyond the village went back; but as though in revenge

+for this failure, the enemy placed ten guns to the right of the village

+and began firing them at Túshin’s battery.

+

+In their childlike glee, aroused by the fire and their luck in

+successfully cannonading the French, our artillerymen only noticed this

+battery when two balls, and then four more, fell among our guns, one

+knocking over two horses and another tearing off a munition-wagon

+driver’s leg. Their spirits once roused were, however, not diminished,

+but only changed character. The horses were replaced by others from a

+reserve gun carriage, the wounded were carried away, and the four guns

+were turned against the ten-gun battery. Túshin’s companion officer

+had been killed at the beginning of the engagement and within an hour

+seventeen of the forty men of the guns’ crews had been disabled, but

+the artillerymen were still as merry and lively as ever. Twice they

+noticed the French appearing below them, and then they fired grapeshot

+at them.

+

+Little Túshin, moving feebly and awkwardly, kept telling his orderly to

+“refill my pipe for that one!” and then, scattering sparks from it,

+ran forward shading his eyes with his small hand to look at the French.

+

+“Smack at ‘em, lads!” he kept saying, seizing the guns by the

+wheels and working the screws himself.

+

+Amid the smoke, deafened by the incessant reports which always made him

+jump, Túshin not taking his pipe from his mouth ran from gun to gun,

+now aiming, now counting the charges, now giving orders about replacing

+dead or wounded horses and harnessing fresh ones, and shouting in his

+feeble voice, so high pitched and irresolute. His face grew more and

+more animated. Only when a man was killed or wounded did he frown and

+turn away from the sight, shouting angrily at the men who, as is always

+the case, hesitated about lifting the injured or dead. The soldiers,

+for the most part handsome fellows and, as is always the case in an

+artillery company, a head and shoulders taller and twice as broad

+as their officer—all looked at their commander like children in an

+embarrassing situation, and the expression on his face was invariably

+reflected on theirs.

+

+Owing to the terrible uproar and the necessity for concentration and

+activity, Túshin did not experience the slightest unpleasant sense of

+fear, and the thought that he might be killed or badly wounded never

+occurred to him. On the contrary, he became more and more elated. It

+seemed to him that it was a very long time ago, almost a day, since he

+had first seen the enemy and fired the first shot, and that the corner

+of the field he stood on was well-known and familiar ground. Though he

+thought of everything, considered everything, and did everything the

+best of officers could do in his position, he was in a state akin to

+feverish delirium or drunkenness.

+

+From the deafening sounds of his own guns around him, the whistle and

+thud of the enemy’s cannon balls, from the flushed and perspiring

+faces of the crew bustling round the guns, from the sight of the blood

+of men and horses, from the little puffs of smoke on the enemy’s side

+(always followed by a ball flying past and striking the earth, a man, a

+gun, a horse), from the sight of all these things a fantastic world of

+his own had taken possession of his brain and at that moment afforded

+him pleasure. The enemy’s guns were in his fancy not guns but pipes

+from which occasional puffs were blown by an invisible smoker.

+

+“There... he’s puffing again,” muttered Túshin to himself, as a

+small cloud rose from the hill and was borne in a streak to the left by

+the wind.

+

+“Now look out for the ball... we’ll throw it back.”

+

+“What do you want, your honor?” asked an artilleryman, standing

+close by, who heard him muttering.

+

+“Nothing... only a shell...” he answered.

+

+“Come along, our Matvévna!” he said to himself. “Matvévna” *

+was the name his fancy gave to the farthest gun of the battery, which

+was large and of an old pattern. The French swarming round their guns

+seemed to him like ants. In that world, the handsome drunkard Number One

+of the second gun’s crew was “uncle”; Túshin looked at him more

+often than at anyone else and took delight in his every movement.

+The sound of musketry at the foot of the hill, now diminishing, now

+increasing, seemed like someone’s breathing. He listened intently to

+the ebb and flow of these sounds.

+

+    * Daughter of Matthew.

+

+“Ah! Breathing again, breathing!” he muttered to himself.

+

+He imagined himself as an enormously tall, powerful man who was throwing

+cannon balls at the French with both hands.

+

+“Now then, Matvévna, dear old lady, don’t let me down!” he was

+saying as he moved from the gun, when a strange, unfamiliar voice called

+above his head: “Captain Túshin! Captain!”

+

+Túshin turned round in dismay. It was the staff officer who had turned

+him out of the booth at Grunth. He was shouting in a gasping voice:

+

+“Are you mad? You have twice been ordered to retreat, and you...”

+

+“Why are they down on me?” thought Túshin, looking in alarm at his

+superior.

+

+“I... don’t...” he muttered, holding up two fingers to his cap.

+“I...”

+

+But the staff officer did not finish what he wanted to say. A cannon

+ball, flying close to him, caused him to duck and bend over his horse.

+He paused, and just as he was about to say something more, another ball

+stopped him. He turned his horse and galloped off.

+

+“Retire! All to retire!” he shouted from a distance.

+

+The soldiers laughed. A moment later, an adjutant arrived with the same

+order.

+

+It was Prince Andrew. The first thing he saw on riding up to the space

+where Túshin’s guns were stationed was an unharnessed horse with a

+broken leg, that lay screaming piteously beside the harnessed horses.

+Blood was gushing from its leg as from a spring. Among the limbers lay

+several dead men. One ball after another passed over as he approached

+and he felt a nervous shudder run down his spine. But the mere thought

+of being afraid roused him again. “I cannot be afraid,” thought he,

+and dismounted slowly among the guns. He delivered the order and did

+not leave the battery. He decided to have the guns removed from their

+positions and withdrawn in his presence. Together with Túshin, stepping

+across the bodies and under a terrible fire from the French, he attended

+to the removal of the guns.

+

+“A staff officer was here a minute ago, but skipped off,” said an

+artilleryman to Prince Andrew. “Not like your honor!”

+

+Prince Andrew said nothing to Túshin. They were both so busy as to seem

+not to notice one another. When having limbered up the only two cannon

+that remained uninjured out of the four, they began moving down the hill

+(one shattered gun and one unicorn were left behind), Prince Andrew rode

+up to Túshin.

+

+“Well, till we meet again...” he said, holding out his hand to

+Túshin.

+

+“Good-by, my dear fellow,” said Túshin. “Dear soul! Good-by, my

+dear fellow!” and for some unknown reason tears suddenly filled his

+eyes.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XXI

+

+The wind had fallen and black clouds, merging with the powder smoke,

+hung low over the field of battle on the horizon. It was growing

+dark and the glow of two conflagrations was the more conspicuous. The

+cannonade was dying down, but the rattle of musketry behind and on the

+right sounded oftener and nearer. As soon as Túshin with his guns,

+continually driving round or coming upon wounded men, was out of range

+of fire and had descended into the dip, he was met by some of the staff,

+among them the staff officer and Zherkóv, who had been twice sent to

+Túshin’s battery but had never reached it. Interrupting one

+another, they all gave, and transmitted, orders as to how to proceed,

+reprimanding and reproaching him. Túshin gave no orders, and,

+silently—fearing to speak because at every word he felt ready to

+weep without knowing why—rode behind on his artillery nag. Though

+the orders were to abandon the wounded, many of them dragged themselves

+after troops and begged for seats on the gun carriages. The jaunty

+infantry officer who just before the battle had rushed out of

+Túshin’s wattle shed was laid, with a bullet in his stomach, on

+“Matvévna’s” carriage. At the foot of the hill, a pale hussar

+cadet, supporting one hand with the other, came up to Túshin and asked

+for a seat.

+

+“Captain, for God’s sake! I’ve hurt my arm,” he said timidly.

+“For God’s sake... I can’t walk. For God’s sake!”

+

+It was plain that this cadet had already repeatedly asked for a lift and

+been refused. He asked in a hesitating, piteous voice.

+

+“Tell them to give me a seat, for God’s sake!”

+

+“Give him a seat,” said Túshin. “Lay a cloak for him to sit on,

+lad,” he said, addressing his favorite soldier. “And where is the

+wounded officer?”

+

+“He has been set down. He died,” replied someone.

+

+“Help him up. Sit down, dear fellow, sit down! Spread out the cloak,

+Antónov.”

+

+The cadet was Rostóv. With one hand he supported the other; he was

+pale and his jaw trembled, shivering feverishly. He was placed on

+“Matvévna,” the gun from which they had removed the dead officer.

+The cloak they spread under him was wet with blood which stained his

+breeches and arm.

+

+“What, are you wounded, my lad?” said Túshin, approaching the gun

+on which Rostóv sat.

+

+“No, it’s a sprain.”

+

+“Then what is this blood on the gun carriage?” inquired Túshin.

+

+“It was the officer, your honor, stained it,” answered the

+artilleryman, wiping away the blood with his coat sleeve, as if

+apologizing for the state of his gun.

+

+It was all that they could do to get the guns up the rise aided by the

+infantry, and having reached the village of Gruntersdorf they halted. It

+had grown so dark that one could not distinguish the uniforms ten paces

+off, and the firing had begun to subside. Suddenly, near by on the

+right, shouting and firing were again heard. Flashes of shot gleamed in

+the darkness. This was the last French attack and was met by soldiers

+who had sheltered in the village houses. They all rushed out of

+the village again, but Túshin’s guns could not move, and the

+artillerymen, Túshin, and the cadet exchanged silent glances as they

+awaited their fate. The firing died down and soldiers, talking eagerly,

+streamed out of a side street.

+

+“Not hurt, Petróv?” asked one.

+

+“We’ve given it ‘em hot, mate! They won’t make another push

+now,” said another.

+

+“You couldn’t see a thing. How they shot at their own fellows!

+Nothing could be seen. Pitch-dark, brother! Isn’t there something to

+drink?”

+

+The French had been repulsed for the last time. And again and again in

+the complete darkness Túshin’s guns moved forward, surrounded by the

+humming infantry as by a frame.

+

+In the darkness, it seemed as though a gloomy unseen river was flowing

+always in one direction, humming with whispers and talk and the sound of

+hoofs and wheels. Amid the general rumble, the groans and voices of the

+wounded were more distinctly heard than any other sound in the darkness

+of the night. The gloom that enveloped the army was filled with their

+groans, which seemed to melt into one with the darkness of the night.

+After a while the moving mass became agitated, someone rode past on

+a white horse followed by his suite, and said something in passing:

+“What did he say? Where to, now? Halt, is it? Did he thank us?” came

+eager questions from all sides. The whole moving mass began pressing

+closer together and a report spread that they were ordered to halt:

+evidently those in front had halted. All remained where they were in the

+middle of the muddy road.

+

+Fires were lighted and the talk became more audible. Captain Túshin,

+having given orders to his company, sent a soldier to find a dressing

+station or a doctor for the cadet, and sat down by a bonfire the

+soldiers had kindled on the road. Rostóv, too, dragged himself to the

+fire. From pain, cold, and damp, a feverish shivering shook his whole

+body. Drowsiness was irresistibly mastering him, but he kept awake by

+an excruciating pain in his arm, for which he could find no satisfactory

+position. He kept closing his eyes and then again looking at the fire,

+which seemed to him dazzlingly red, and at the feeble, round-shouldered

+figure of Túshin who was sitting cross-legged like a Turk beside him.

+Túshin’s large, kind, intelligent eyes were fixed with sympathy and

+commiseration on Rostóv, who saw that Túshin with his whole heart

+wished to help him but could not.

+

+From all sides were heard the footsteps and talk of the infantry, who

+were walking, driving past, and settling down all around. The sound

+of voices, the tramping feet, the horses’ hoofs moving in mud, the

+crackling of wood fires near and afar, merged into one tremulous rumble.

+

+It was no longer, as before, a dark, unseen river flowing through the

+gloom, but a dark sea swelling and gradually subsiding after a storm.

+Rostóv looked at and listened listlessly to what passed before and

+around him. An infantryman came to the fire, squatted on his heels, held

+his hands to the blaze, and turned away his face.

+

+“You don’t mind your honor?” he asked Túshin. “I’ve lost my

+company, your honor. I don’t know where... such bad luck!”

+

+With the soldier, an infantry officer with a bandaged cheek came up to

+the bonfire, and addressing Túshin asked him to have the guns moved a

+trifle to let a wagon go past. After he had gone, two soldiers rushed to

+the campfire. They were quarreling and fighting desperately, each trying

+to snatch from the other a boot they were both holding on to.

+

+“You picked it up?... I dare say! You’re very smart!” one of them

+shouted hoarsely.

+

+Then a thin, pale soldier, his neck bandaged with a bloodstained leg

+band, came up and in angry tones asked the artillerymen for water.

+

+“Must one die like a dog?” said he.

+

+Túshin told them to give the man some water. Then a cheerful soldier

+ran up, begging a little fire for the infantry.

+

+“A nice little hot torch for the infantry! Good luck to you, fellow

+countrymen. Thanks for the fire—we’ll return it with interest,”

+said he, carrying away into the darkness a glowing stick.

+

+Next came four soldiers, carrying something heavy on a cloak, and passed

+by the fire. One of them stumbled.

+

+“Who the devil has put the logs on the road?” snarled he.

+

+“He’s dead—why carry him?” said another.

+

+“Shut up!”

+

+And they disappeared into the darkness with their load.

+

+“Still aching?” Túshin asked Rostóv in a whisper.

+

+“Yes.”

+

+“Your honor, you’re wanted by the general. He is in the hut here,”

+said a gunner, coming up to Túshin.

+

+“Coming, friend.”

+

+Túshin rose and, buttoning his greatcoat and pulling it straight,

+walked away from the fire.

+

+Not far from the artillery campfire, in a hut that had been prepared

+for him, Prince Bagratión sat at dinner, talking with some commanding

+officers who had gathered at his quarters. The little old man with

+the half-closed eyes was there greedily gnawing a mutton bone, and the

+general who had served blamelessly for twenty-two years, flushed by a

+glass of vodka and the dinner; and the staff officer with the signet

+ring, and Zherkóv, uneasily glancing at them all, and Prince Andrew,

+pale, with compressed lips and feverishly glittering eyes.

+

+In a corner of the hut stood a standard captured from the French, and

+the accountant with the naïve face was feeling its texture, shaking his

+head in perplexity—perhaps because the banner really interested him,

+perhaps because it was hard for him, hungry as he was, to look on at

+a dinner where there was no place for him. In the next hut there was a

+French colonel who had been taken prisoner by our dragoons. Our officers

+were flocking in to look at him. Prince Bagratión was thanking the

+individual commanders and inquiring into details of the action and our

+losses. The general whose regiment had been inspected at Braunau was

+informing the prince that as soon as the action began he had withdrawn

+from the wood, mustered the men who were woodcutting, and, allowing the

+French to pass him, had made a bayonet charge with two battalions and

+had broken up the French troops.

+

+“When I saw, your excellency, that their first battalion was

+disorganized, I stopped in the road and thought: ‘I’ll let them

+come on and will meet them with the fire of the whole battalion’—and

+that’s what I did.”

+

+The general had so wished to do this and was so sorry he had not managed

+to do it that it seemed to him as if it had really happened. Perhaps

+it might really have been so? Could one possibly make out amid all that

+confusion what did or did not happen?

+

+“By the way, your excellency, I should inform you,” he

+continued—remembering Dólokhov’s conversation with Kutúzov and his

+last interview with the gentleman-ranker—“that Private Dólokhov,

+who was reduced to the ranks, took a French officer prisoner in my

+presence and particularly distinguished himself.”

+

+“I saw the Pávlograd hussars attack there, your excellency,” chimed

+in Zherkóv, looking uneasily around. He had not seen the hussars all

+that day, but had heard about them from an infantry officer. “They

+broke up two squares, your excellency.”

+

+Several of those present smiled at Zherkóv’s words, expecting one of

+his usual jokes, but noticing that what he was saying redounded to

+the glory of our arms and of the day’s work, they assumed a serious

+expression, though many of them knew that what he was saying was a lie

+devoid of any foundation. Prince Bagratión turned to the old colonel:

+

+“Gentlemen, I thank you all; all arms have behaved heroically:

+infantry, cavalry, and artillery. How was it that two guns were

+abandoned in the center?” he inquired, searching with his eyes for

+someone. (Prince Bagratión did not ask about the guns on the left

+flank; he knew that all the guns there had been abandoned at the very

+beginning of the action.) “I think I sent you?” he added, turning to

+the staff officer on duty.

+

+“One was damaged,” answered the staff officer, “and the other I

+can’t understand. I was there all the time giving orders and had only

+just left.... It is true that it was hot there,” he added, modestly.

+

+Someone mentioned that Captain Túshin was bivouacking close to the

+village and had already been sent for.

+

+“Oh, but you were there?” said Prince Bagratión, addressing Prince

+Andrew.

+

+“Of course, we only just missed one another,” said the staff

+officer, with a smile to Bolkónski.

+

+“I had not the pleasure of seeing you,” said Prince Andrew, coldly

+and abruptly.

+

+All were silent. Túshin appeared at the threshold and made his way

+timidly from behind the backs of the generals. As he stepped past the

+generals in the crowded hut, feeling embarrassed as he always was by the

+sight of his superiors, he did not notice the staff of the banner and

+stumbled over it. Several of those present laughed.

+

+“How was it a gun was abandoned?” asked Bagratión, frowning, not so

+much at the captain as at those who were laughing, among whom Zherkóv

+laughed loudest.

+

+Only now, when he was confronted by the stern authorities, did his guilt

+and the disgrace of having lost two guns and yet remaining alive present

+themselves to Túshin in all their horror. He had been so excited that

+he had not thought about it until that moment. The officers’ laughter

+confused him still more. He stood before Bagratión with his lower

+jaw trembling and was hardly able to mutter: “I don’t know... your

+excellency... I had no men... your excellency.”

+

+“You might have taken some from the covering troops.”

+

+Túshin did not say that there were no covering troops, though that

+was perfectly true. He was afraid of getting some other officer into

+trouble, and silently fixed his eyes on Bagratión as a schoolboy who

+has blundered looks at an examiner.

+

+The silence lasted some time. Prince Bagratión, apparently not wishing

+to be severe, found nothing to say; the others did not venture to

+intervene. Prince Andrew looked at Túshin from under his brows and his

+fingers twitched nervously.

+

+“Your excellency!” Prince Andrew broke the silence with his abrupt

+voice, “you were pleased to send me to Captain Túshin’s battery. I

+went there and found two thirds of the men and horses knocked out, two

+guns smashed, and no supports at all.”

+

+Prince Bagratión and Túshin looked with equal intentness at

+Bolkónski, who spoke with suppressed agitation.

+

+“And, if your excellency will allow me to express my opinion,” he

+continued, “we owe today’s success chiefly to the action of that

+battery and the heroic endurance of Captain Túshin and his company,”

+and without awaiting a reply, Prince Andrew rose and left the table.

+

+Prince Bagratión looked at Túshin, evidently reluctant to show

+distrust in Bolkónski’s emphatic opinion yet not feeling able fully

+to credit it, bent his head, and told Túshin that he could go. Prince

+Andrew went out with him.

+

+“Thank you; you saved me, my dear fellow!” said Túshin.

+

+Prince Andrew gave him a look, but said nothing and went away. He felt

+sad and depressed. It was all so strange, so unlike what he had hoped.

+

+

+“Who are they? Why are they here? What do they want? And when will

+all this end?” thought Rostóv, looking at the changing shadows before

+him. The pain in his arm became more and more intense. Irresistible

+drowsiness overpowered him, red rings danced before his eyes, and the

+impression of those voices and faces and a sense of loneliness merged

+with the physical pain. It was they, these soldiers—wounded and

+unwounded—it was they who were crushing, weighing down, and twisting

+the sinews and scorching the flesh of his sprained arm and shoulder. To

+rid himself of them he closed his eyes.

+

+For a moment he dozed, but in that short interval innumerable things

+appeared to him in a dream: his mother and her large white hand,

+Sónya’s thin little shoulders, Natásha’s eyes and laughter,

+Denísov with his voice and mustache, and Telyánin and all that affair

+with Telyánin and Bogdánich. That affair was the same thing as this

+soldier with the harsh voice, and it was that affair and this soldier

+that were so agonizingly, incessantly pulling and pressing his arm and

+always dragging it in one direction. He tried to get away from them, but

+they would not for an instant let his shoulder move a hair’s breadth.

+It would not ache—it would be well—if only they did not pull it, but

+it was impossible to get rid of them.

+

+He opened his eyes and looked up. The black canopy of night hung less

+than a yard above the glow of the charcoal. Flakes of falling snow were

+fluttering in that light. Túshin had not returned, the doctor had not

+come. He was alone now, except for a soldier who was sitting naked at

+the other side of the fire, warming his thin yellow body.

+

+“Nobody wants me!” thought Rostóv. “There is no one to help me or

+pity me. Yet I was once at home, strong, happy, and loved.” He sighed

+and, doing so, groaned involuntarily.

+

+“Eh, is anything hurting you?” asked the soldier, shaking his shirt

+out over the fire, and not waiting for an answer he gave a grunt and

+added: “What a lot of men have been crippled today—frightful!”

+

+Rostóv did not listen to the soldier. He looked at the snowflakes

+fluttering above the fire and remembered a Russian winter at his warm,

+bright home, his fluffy fur coat, his quickly gliding sleigh, his

+healthy body, and all the affection and care of his family. “And why

+did I come here?” he wondered.

+

+Next day the French army did not renew their attack, and the remnant of

+Bagratión’s detachment was reunited to Kutúzov’s army.

+

+

+

+

+

+BOOK THREE: 1805

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER I

+

+Prince Vasíli was not a man who deliberately thought out his plans.

+Still less did he think of injuring anyone for his own advantage. He

+was merely a man of the world who had got on and to whom getting on had

+become a habit. Schemes and devices for which he never rightly accounted

+to himself, but which formed the whole interest of his life,

+were constantly shaping themselves in his mind, arising from the

+circumstances and persons he met. Of these plans he had not merely one

+or two in his head but dozens, some only beginning to form themselves,

+some approaching achievement, and some in course of disintegration. He

+did not, for instance, say to himself: “This man now has influence, I

+must gain his confidence and friendship and through him obtain a special

+grant.” Nor did he say to himself: “Pierre is a rich man, I must

+entice him to marry my daughter and lend me the forty thousand rubles

+I need.” But when he came across a man of position his instinct

+immediately told him that this man could be useful, and without any

+premeditation Prince Vasíli took the first opportunity to gain his

+confidence, flatter him, become intimate with him, and finally make his

+request.

+

+He had Pierre at hand in Moscow and procured for him an appointment as

+Gentleman of the Bedchamber, which at that time conferred the status of

+Councilor of State, and insisted on the young man accompanying him to

+Petersburg and staying at his house. With apparent absent-mindedness,

+yet with unhesitating assurance that he was doing the right thing,

+Prince Vasíli did everything to get Pierre to marry his daughter. Had

+he thought out his plans beforehand he could not have been so natural

+and shown such unaffected familiarity in intercourse with everybody both

+above and below him in social standing. Something always drew him toward

+those richer and more powerful than himself and he had rare skill in

+seizing the most opportune moment for making use of people.

+

+Pierre, on unexpectedly becoming Count Bezúkhov and a rich man, felt

+himself after his recent loneliness and freedom from cares so beset and

+preoccupied that only in bed was he able to be by himself. He had to

+sign papers, to present himself at government offices, the purpose of

+which was not clear to him, to question his chief steward, to visit his

+estate near Moscow, and to receive many people who formerly did not

+even wish to know of his existence but would now have been offended

+and grieved had he chosen not to see them. These different

+people—businessmen, relations, and acquaintances alike—were all

+disposed to treat the young heir in the most friendly and flattering

+manner: they were all evidently firmly convinced of Pierre’s noble

+qualities. He was always hearing such words as: “With your remarkable

+kindness,” or, “With your excellent heart,” “You are yourself so

+honorable, Count,” or, “Were he as clever as you,” and so on,

+till he began sincerely to believe in his own exceptional kindness and

+extraordinary intelligence, the more so as in the depth of his heart it

+had always seemed to him that he really was very kind and intelligent.

+Even people who had formerly been spiteful toward him and evidently

+unfriendly now became gentle and affectionate. The angry eldest

+princess, with the long waist and hair plastered down like a doll’s,

+had come into Pierre’s room after the funeral. With drooping eyes

+and frequent blushes she told him she was very sorry about their past

+misunderstandings and did not now feel she had a right to ask him for

+anything, except only for permission, after the blow she had received,

+to remain for a few weeks longer in the house she so loved and where

+she had sacrificed so much. She could not refrain from weeping at these

+words. Touched that this statuesque princess could so change, Pierre

+took her hand and begged her forgiveness, without knowing what for.

+From that day the eldest princess quite changed toward Pierre and began

+knitting a striped scarf for him.

+

+“Do this for my sake, mon cher; after all, she had to put up with a

+great deal from the deceased,” said Prince Vasíli to him, handing him

+a deed to sign for the princess’ benefit.

+

+Prince Vasíli had come to the conclusion that it was necessary to throw

+this bone—a bill for thirty thousand rubles—to the poor princess

+that it might not occur to her to speak of his share in the affair of

+the inlaid portfolio. Pierre signed the deed and after that the princess

+grew still kinder. The younger sisters also became affectionate to him,

+especially the youngest, the pretty one with the mole, who often made

+him feel confused by her smiles and her own confusion when meeting him.

+

+It seemed so natural to Pierre that everyone should like him, and it

+would have seemed so unnatural had anyone disliked him, that he could

+not but believe in the sincerity of those around him. Besides, he had

+no time to ask himself whether these people were sincere or not. He

+was always busy and always felt in a state of mild and cheerful

+intoxication. He felt as though he were the center of some important and

+general movement; that something was constantly expected of him, that if

+he did not do it he would grieve and disappoint many people, but if he

+did this and that, all would be well; and he did what was demanded of

+him, but still that happy result always remained in the future.

+

+More than anyone else, Prince Vasíli took possession of Pierre’s

+affairs and of Pierre himself in those early days. From the death of

+Count Bezúkhov he did not let go his hold of the lad. He had the air of

+a man oppressed by business, weary and suffering, who yet would not, for

+pity’s sake, leave this helpless youth who, after all, was the son of

+his old friend and the possessor of such enormous wealth, to the caprice

+of fate and the designs of rogues. During the few days he spent in

+Moscow after the death of Count Bezúkhov, he would call Pierre, or

+go to him himself, and tell him what ought to be done in a tone of

+weariness and assurance, as if he were adding every time: “You know

+I am overwhelmed with business and it is purely out of charity that

+I trouble myself about you, and you also know quite well that what I

+propose is the only thing possible.”

+

+“Well, my dear fellow, tomorrow we are off at last,” said Prince

+Vasíli one day, closing his eyes and fingering Pierre’s elbow,

+speaking as if he were saying something which had long since been agreed

+upon and could not now be altered. “We start tomorrow and I’m giving

+you a place in my carriage. I am very glad. All our important business

+here is now settled, and I ought to have been off long ago. Here is

+something I have received from the chancellor. I asked him for you, and

+you have been entered in the diplomatic corps and made a Gentleman of

+the Bedchamber. The diplomatic career now lies open before you.”

+

+Notwithstanding the tone of wearied assurance with which these words

+were pronounced, Pierre, who had so long been considering his career,

+wished to make some suggestion. But Prince Vasíli interrupted him in

+the special deep cooing tone, precluding the possibility of interrupting

+his speech, which he used in extreme cases when special persuasion was

+needed.

+

+“Mais, mon cher, I did this for my own sake, to satisfy my conscience,

+and there is nothing to thank me for. No one has ever complained yet of

+being too much loved; and besides, you are free, you could throw it

+up tomorrow. But you will see everything for yourself when you get to

+Petersburg. It is high time for you to get away from these terrible

+recollections.” Prince Vasíli sighed. “Yes, yes, my boy. And my

+valet can go in your carriage. Ah! I was nearly forgetting,” he added.

+“You know, mon cher, your father and I had some accounts to settle, so

+I have received what was due from the Ryazán estate and will keep it;

+you won’t require it. We’ll go into the accounts later.”

+

+By “what was due from the Ryazán estate” Prince Vasíli meant

+several thousand rubles quitrent received from Pierre’s peasants,

+which the prince had retained for himself.

+

+In Petersburg, as in Moscow, Pierre found the same atmosphere of

+gentleness and affection. He could not refuse the post, or rather the

+rank (for he did nothing), that Prince Vasíli had procured for him,

+and acquaintances, invitations, and social occupations were so numerous

+that, even more than in Moscow, he felt a sense of bewilderment, bustle,

+and continual expectation of some good, always in front of him but never

+attained.

+

+Of his former bachelor acquaintances many were no longer in Petersburg.

+The Guards had gone to the front; Dólokhov had been reduced to the

+ranks; Anatole was in the army somewhere in the provinces; Prince Andrew

+was abroad; so Pierre had not the opportunity to spend his nights as he

+used to like to spend them, or to open his mind by intimate talks with

+a friend older than himself and whom he respected. His whole time

+was taken up with dinners and balls and was spent chiefly at Prince

+Vasíli’s house in the company of the stout princess, his wife, and

+his beautiful daughter Hélène.

+

+Like the others, Anna Pávlovna Schérer showed Pierre the change of

+attitude toward him that had taken place in society.

+

+Formerly in Anna Pávlovna’s presence, Pierre had always felt that

+what he was saying was out of place, tactless and unsuitable, that

+remarks which seemed to him clever while they formed in his mind became

+foolish as soon as he uttered them, while on the contrary Hippolyte’s

+stupidest remarks came out clever and apt. Now everything Pierre said

+was charmant. Even if Anna Pávlovna did not say so, he could see that

+she wished to and only refrained out of regard for his modesty.

+

+In the beginning of the winter of 1805-6 Pierre received one of Anna

+Pávlovna’s usual pink notes with an invitation to which was added:

+“You will find the beautiful Hélène here, whom it is always

+delightful to see.”

+

+When he read that sentence, Pierre felt for the first time that some

+link which other people recognized had grown up between himself and

+Hélène, and that thought both alarmed him, as if some obligation were

+being imposed on him which he could not fulfill, and pleased him as an

+entertaining supposition.

+

+Anna Pávlovna’s “At Home” was like the former one, only the

+novelty she offered her guests this time was not Mortemart, but a

+diplomatist fresh from Berlin with the very latest details of the

+Emperor Alexander’s visit to Potsdam, and of how the two august

+friends had pledged themselves in an indissoluble alliance to uphold

+the cause of justice against the enemy of the human race. Anna Pávlovna

+received Pierre with a shade of melancholy, evidently relating to the

+young man’s recent loss by the death of Count Bezúkhov (everyone

+constantly considered it a duty to assure Pierre that he was greatly

+afflicted by the death of the father he had hardly known), and her

+melancholy was just like the august melancholy she showed at the mention

+of her most august Majesty the Empress Márya Fëdorovna. Pierre felt

+flattered by this. Anna Pávlovna arranged the different groups in her

+drawing room with her habitual skill. The large group, in which were

+Prince Vasíli and the generals, had the benefit of the diplomat.

+Another group was at the tea table. Pierre wished to join the former,

+but Anna Pávlovna—who was in the excited condition of a commander on

+a battlefield to whom thousands of new and brilliant ideas occur which

+there is hardly time to put in action—seeing Pierre, touched his

+sleeve with her finger, saying:

+

+“Wait a bit, I have something in view for you this evening.”

+(She glanced at Hélène and smiled at her.) “My dear Hélène, be

+charitable to my poor aunt who adores you. Go and keep her company for

+ten minutes. And that it will not be too dull, here is the dear count

+who will not refuse to accompany you.”

+

+The beauty went to the aunt, but Anna Pávlovna detained Pierre, looking

+as if she had to give some final necessary instructions.

+

+“Isn’t she exquisite?” she said to Pierre, pointing to the stately

+beauty as she glided away. “And how she carries herself! For so young

+a girl, such tact, such masterly perfection of manner! It comes from

+her heart. Happy the man who wins her! With her the least worldly of men

+would occupy a most brilliant position in society. Don’t you think so?

+I only wanted to know your opinion,” and Anna Pávlovna let Pierre go.

+

+Pierre, in reply, sincerely agreed with her as to Hélène’s

+perfection of manner. If he ever thought of Hélène, it was just of

+her beauty and her remarkable skill in appearing silently dignified in

+society.

+

+The old aunt received the two young people in her corner, but seemed

+desirous of hiding her adoration for Hélène and inclined rather

+to show her fear of Anna Pávlovna. She looked at her niece, as if

+inquiring what she was to do with these people. On leaving them, Anna

+Pávlovna again touched Pierre’s sleeve, saying: “I hope you won’t

+say that it is dull in my house again,” and she glanced at Hélène.

+

+Hélène smiled, with a look implying that she did not admit the

+possibility of anyone seeing her without being enchanted. The aunt

+coughed, swallowed, and said in French that she was very pleased to see

+Hélène, then she turned to Pierre with the same words of welcome

+and the same look. In the middle of a dull and halting conversation,

+Hélène turned to Pierre with the beautiful bright smile that she gave

+to everyone. Pierre was so used to that smile, and it had so little

+meaning for him, that he paid no attention to it. The aunt was just

+speaking of a collection of snuffboxes that had belonged to Pierre’s

+father, Count Bezúkhov, and showed them her own box. Princess Hélène

+asked to see the portrait of the aunt’s husband on the box lid.

+

+“That is probably the work of Vinesse,” said Pierre, mentioning

+a celebrated miniaturist, and he leaned over the table to take the

+snuffbox while trying to hear what was being said at the other table.

+

+He half rose, meaning to go round, but the aunt handed him the snuffbox,

+passing it across Hélène’s back. Hélène stooped forward to make

+room, and looked round with a smile. She was, as always at evening

+parties, wearing a dress such as was then fashionable, cut very low at

+front and back. Her bust, which had always seemed like marble to Pierre,

+was so close to him that his shortsighted eyes could not but perceive

+the living charm of her neck and shoulders, so near to his lips that

+he need only have bent his head a little to have touched them. He was

+conscious of the warmth of her body, the scent of perfume, and the

+creaking of her corset as she moved. He did not see her marble beauty

+forming a complete whole with her dress, but all the charm of her body

+only covered by her garments. And having once seen this he could not

+help being aware of it, just as we cannot renew an illusion we have once

+seen through.

+

+“So you have never noticed before how beautiful I am?” Hélène

+seemed to say. “You had not noticed that I am a woman? Yes, I am a

+woman who may belong to anyone—to you too,” said her glance. And at

+that moment Pierre felt that Hélène not only could, but must, be his

+wife, and that it could not be otherwise.

+

+He knew this at that moment as surely as if he had been standing at the

+altar with her. How and when this would be he did not know, he did not

+even know if it would be a good thing (he even felt, he knew not why,

+that it would be a bad thing), but he knew it would happen.

+

+Pierre dropped his eyes, lifted them again, and wished once more to see

+her as a distant beauty far removed from him, as he had seen her every

+day until then, but he could no longer do it. He could not, any more

+than a man who has been looking at a tuft of steppe grass through the

+mist and taking it for a tree can again take it for a tree after he has

+once recognized it to be a tuft of grass. She was terribly close to him.

+She already had power over him, and between them there was no longer any

+barrier except the barrier of his own will.

+

+“Well, I will leave you in your little corner,” came Anna

+Pávlovna’s voice, “I see you are all right there.”

+

+And Pierre, anxiously trying to remember whether he had done anything

+reprehensible, looked round with a blush. It seemed to him that everyone

+knew what had happened to him as he knew it himself.

+

+A little later when he went up to the large circle, Anna Pávlovna said

+to him: “I hear you are refitting your Petersburg house?”

+

+This was true. The architect had told him that it was necessary, and

+Pierre, without knowing why, was having his enormous Petersburg house

+done up.

+

+“That’s a good thing, but don’t move from Prince Vasíli’s. It

+is good to have a friend like the prince,” she said, smiling at Prince

+Vasíli. “I know something about that. Don’t I? And you are still so

+young. You need advice. Don’t be angry with me for exercising an old

+woman’s privilege.”

+

+She paused, as women always do, expecting something after they have

+mentioned their age. “If you marry it will be a different thing,”

+she continued, uniting them both in one glance. Pierre did not look at

+Hélène nor she at him. But she was just as terribly close to him. He

+muttered something and colored.

+

+When he got home he could not sleep for a long time for thinking of what

+had happened. What had happened? Nothing. He had merely understood that

+the woman he had known as a child, of whom when her beauty was mentioned

+he had said absent-mindedly: “Yes, she’s good looking,” he had

+understood that this woman might belong to him.

+

+“But she’s stupid. I have myself said she is stupid,” he thought.

+“There is something nasty, something wrong, in the feeling she excites

+in me. I have been told that her brother Anatole was in love with her

+and she with him, that there was quite a scandal and that that’s why

+he was sent away. Hippolyte is her brother... Prince Vasíli is her

+father... It’s bad....” he reflected, but while he was thinking this

+(the reflection was still incomplete), he caught himself smiling and was

+conscious that another line of thought had sprung up, and while thinking

+of her worthlessness he was also dreaming of how she would be his

+wife, how she would love him become quite different, and how all he had

+thought and heard of her might be false. And he again saw her not as the

+daughter of Prince Vasíli, but visualized her whole body only veiled

+by its gray dress. “But no! Why did this thought never occur to me

+before?” and again he told himself that it was impossible, that there

+would be something unnatural, and as it seemed to him dishonorable, in

+this marriage. He recalled her former words and looks and the words

+and looks of those who had seen them together. He recalled Anna

+Pávlovna’s words and looks when she spoke to him about his house,

+recalled thousands of such hints from Prince Vasíli and others, and was

+seized by terror lest he had already, in some way, bound himself to do

+something that was evidently wrong and that he ought not to do. But at

+the very time he was expressing this conviction to himself, in another

+part of his mind her image rose in all its womanly beauty.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER II

+

+In November, 1805, Prince Vasíli had to go on a tour of inspection

+in four different provinces. He had arranged this for himself so as to

+visit his neglected estates at the same time and pick up his son Anatole

+where his regiment was stationed, and take him to visit Prince Nicholas

+Bolkónski in order to arrange a match for him with the daughter of that

+rich old man. But before leaving home and undertaking these new affairs,

+Prince Vasíli had to settle matters with Pierre, who, it is true, had

+latterly spent whole days at home, that is, in Prince Vasíli’s house

+where he was staying, and had been absurd, excited, and foolish in

+Hélène’s presence (as a lover should be), but had not yet proposed

+to her.

+

+“This is all very fine, but things must be settled,” said Prince

+Vasíli to himself, with a sorrowful sigh, one morning, feeling that

+Pierre who was under such obligations to him (“But never mind that”)

+was not behaving very well in this matter. “Youth, frivolity... well,

+God be with him,” thought he, relishing his own goodness of heart,

+“but it must be brought to a head. The day after tomorrow will be

+Lëlya’s name day. I will invite two or three people, and if he does

+not understand what he ought to do then it will be my affair—yes, my

+affair. I am her father.”

+

+Six weeks after Anna Pávlovna’s “At Home” and after the sleepless

+night when he had decided that to marry Hélène would be a calamity and

+that he ought to avoid her and go away, Pierre, despite that decision,

+had not left Prince Vasíli’s and felt with terror that in people’s

+eyes he was every day more and more connected with her, that it was

+impossible for him to return to his former conception of her, that he

+could not break away from her, and that though it would be a terrible

+thing he would have to unite his fate with hers. He might perhaps have

+been able to free himself but that Prince Vasíli (who had rarely before

+given receptions) now hardly let a day go by without having an evening

+party at which Pierre had to be present unless he wished to spoil

+the general pleasure and disappoint everyone’s expectation. Prince

+Vasíli, in the rare moments when he was at home, would take Pierre’s

+hand in passing and draw it downwards, or absent-mindedly hold out his

+wrinkled, clean-shaven cheek for Pierre to kiss and would say: “Till

+tomorrow,” or, “Be in to dinner or I shall not see you,” or, “I

+am staying in for your sake,” and so on. And though Prince Vasíli,

+when he stayed in (as he said) for Pierre’s sake, hardly exchanged a

+couple of words with him, Pierre felt unable to disappoint him.

+Every day he said to himself one and the same thing: “It is time I

+understood her and made up my mind what she really is. Was I mistaken

+before, or am I mistaken now? No, she is not stupid, she is an excellent

+girl,” he sometimes said to himself “she never makes a mistake,

+never says anything stupid. She says little, but what she does say is

+always clear and simple, so she is not stupid. She never was abashed and

+is not abashed now, so she cannot be a bad woman!” He had often begun

+to make reflections or think aloud in her company, and she had always

+answered him either by a brief but appropriate remark—showing that it

+did not interest her—or by a silent look and smile which more palpably

+than anything else showed Pierre her superiority. She was right in

+regarding all arguments as nonsense in comparison with that smile.

+

+She always addressed him with a radiantly confiding smile meant for him

+alone, in which there was something more significant than in the general

+smile that usually brightened her face. Pierre knew that everyone was

+waiting for him to say a word and cross a certain line, and he knew that

+sooner or later he would step across it, but an incomprehensible terror

+seized him at the thought of that dreadful step. A thousand times during

+that month and a half while he felt himself drawn nearer and nearer to

+that dreadful abyss, Pierre said to himself: “What am I doing? I need

+resolution. Can it be that I have none?”

+

+He wished to take a decision, but felt with dismay that in this matter

+he lacked that strength of will which he had known in himself and really

+possessed. Pierre was one of those who are only strong when they feel

+themselves quite innocent, and since that day when he was overpowered

+by a feeling of desire while stooping over the snuffbox at Anna

+Pávlovna’s, an unacknowledged sense of the guilt of that desire

+paralyzed his will.

+

+On Hélène’s name day, a small party of just their own people—as

+his wife said—met for supper at Prince Vasíli’s. All these friends

+and relations had been given to understand that the fate of the young

+girl would be decided that evening. The visitors were seated at supper.

+Princess Kurágina, a portly imposing woman who had once been handsome,

+was sitting at the head of the table. On either side of her sat the

+more important guests—an old general and his wife, and Anna Pávlovna

+Schérer. At the other end sat the younger and less important guests,

+and there too sat the members of the family, and Pierre and Hélène,

+side by side. Prince Vasíli was not having any supper: he went round

+the table in a merry mood, sitting down now by one, now by another, of

+the guests. To each of them he made some careless and agreeable remark

+except to Pierre and Hélène, whose presence he seemed not to notice.

+He enlivened the whole party. The wax candles burned brightly, the

+silver and crystal gleamed, so did the ladies’ toilets and the gold

+and silver of the men’s epaulets; servants in scarlet liveries moved

+round the table, the clatter of plates, knives, and glasses mingled with

+the animated hum of several conversations. At one end of the table, the

+old chamberlain was heard assuring an old baroness that he loved her

+passionately, at which she laughed; at the other could be heard the

+story of the misfortunes of some Mary Víktorovna or other. At the

+center of the table, Prince Vasíli attracted everybody’s attention.

+With a facetious smile on his face, he was telling the ladies about last

+Wednesday’s meeting of the Imperial Council, at which Sergéy Kuzmích

+Vyazmítinov, the new military governor general of Petersburg, had

+received and read the then famous rescript of the Emperor Alexander

+from the army to Sergéy Kuzmích, in which the Emperor said that he was

+receiving from all sides declarations of the people’s loyalty, that

+the declaration from Petersburg gave him particular pleasure, and that

+he was proud to be at the head of such a nation and would endeavor to be

+worthy of it. This rescript began with the words: “Sergéy Kuzmích,

+From all sides reports reach me,” etc.

+

+“Well, and so he never got farther than: ‘Sergéy Kuzmích’?”

+asked one of the ladies.

+

+“Exactly, not a hair’s breadth farther,” answered Prince Vasíli,

+laughing, “‘Sergéy Kuzmích... From all sides... From all sides...

+Sergéy Kuzmích...’ Poor Vyazmítinov could not get any farther!

+He began the rescript again and again, but as soon as he uttered

+‘Sergéy’ he sobbed, ‘Kuz-mí-ch,’ tears, and ‘From all

+sides’ was smothered in sobs and he could get no farther. And again

+his handkerchief, and again: ‘Sergéy Kuzmích, From all sides,’...

+and tears, till at last somebody else was asked to read it.”

+

+“Kuzmích... From all sides... and then tears,” someone repeated

+laughing.

+

+“Don’t be unkind,” cried Anna Pávlovna from her end of the table

+holding up a threatening finger. “He is such a worthy and excellent

+man, our dear Vyazmítinov....”

+

+Everybody laughed a great deal. At the head of the table, where the

+honored guests sat, everyone seemed to be in high spirits and under the

+influence of a variety of exciting sensations. Only Pierre and

+Hélène sat silently side by side almost at the bottom of the table, a

+suppressed smile brightening both their faces, a smile that had nothing

+to do with Sergéy Kuzmích—a smile of bashfulness at their own

+feelings. But much as all the rest laughed, talked, and joked, much

+as they enjoyed their Rhine wine, sauté, and ices, and however they

+avoided looking at the young couple, and heedless and unobservant as

+they seemed of them, one could feel by the occasional glances they gave

+that the story about Sergéy Kuzmích, the laughter, and the food

+were all a pretense, and that the whole attention of that company was

+directed to—Pierre and Hélène. Prince Vasíli mimicked the sobbing

+of Sergéy Kuzmích and at the same time his eyes glanced toward his

+daughter, and while he laughed the expression on his face clearly said:

+“Yes... it’s getting on, it will all be settled today.” Anna

+Pávlovna threatened him on behalf of “our dear Vyazmítinov,” and

+in her eyes, which, for an instant, glanced at Pierre, Prince Vasíli

+read a congratulation on his future son-in-law and on his daughter’s

+happiness. The old princess sighed sadly as she offered some wine to the

+old lady next to her and glanced angrily at her daughter, and her sigh

+seemed to say: “Yes, there’s nothing left for you and me but to sip

+sweet wine, my dear, now that the time has come for these young ones to

+be thus boldly, provocatively happy.” “And what nonsense all this is

+that I am saying!” thought a diplomatist, glancing at the happy faces

+of the lovers. “That’s happiness!”

+

+Into the insignificant, trifling, and artificial interests uniting that

+society had entered the simple feeling of the attraction of a healthy

+and handsome young man and woman for one another. And this human feeling

+dominated everything else and soared above all their affected chatter.

+Jests fell flat, news was not interesting, and the animation was

+evidently forced. Not only the guests but even the footmen waiting at

+table seemed to feel this, and they forgot their duties as they looked

+at the beautiful Hélène with her radiant face and at the red, broad,

+and happy though uneasy face of Pierre. It seemed as if the very light

+of the candles was focused on those two happy faces alone.

+

+Pierre felt that he was the center of it all, and this both pleased and

+embarrassed him. He was like a man entirely absorbed in some occupation.

+He did not see, hear, or understand anything clearly. Only now and

+then detached ideas and impressions from the world of reality shot

+unexpectedly through his mind.

+

+“So it is all finished!” he thought. “And how has it all happened?

+How quickly! Now I know that not because of her alone, nor of myself

+alone, but because of everyone, it must inevitably come about. They are

+all expecting it, they are so sure that it will happen that I cannot, I

+cannot, disappoint them. But how will it be? I do not know, but it

+will certainly happen!” thought Pierre, glancing at those dazzling

+shoulders close to his eyes.

+

+Or he would suddenly feel ashamed of he knew not what. He felt it

+awkward to attract everyone’s attention and to be considered a

+lucky man and, with his plain face, to be looked on as a sort of Paris

+possessed of a Helen. “But no doubt it always is and must be so!”

+he consoled himself. “And besides, what have I done to bring it about?

+How did it begin? I traveled from Moscow with Prince Vasíli. Then there

+was nothing. So why should I not stay at his house? Then I played cards

+with her and picked up her reticule and drove out with her. How did it

+begin, when did it all come about?” And here he was sitting by her

+side as her betrothed, seeing, hearing, feeling her nearness, her

+breathing, her movements, her beauty. Then it would suddenly seem to him

+that it was not she but he was so unusually beautiful, and that that was

+why they all looked so at him, and flattered by this general admiration

+he would expand his chest, raise his head, and rejoice at his good

+fortune. Suddenly he heard a familiar voice repeating something to him a

+second time. But Pierre was so absorbed that he did not understand what

+was said.

+

+“I am asking you when you last heard from Bolkónski,” repeated

+Prince Vasíli a third time. “How absent-minded you are, my dear

+fellow.”

+

+Prince Vasíli smiled, and Pierre noticed that everyone was smiling at

+him and Hélène. “Well, what of it, if you all know it?” thought

+Pierre. “What of it? It’s the truth!” and he himself smiled his

+gentle childlike smile, and Hélène smiled too.

+

+“When did you get the letter? Was it from Olmütz?” repeated

+Prince Vasíli, who pretended to want to know this in order to settle a

+dispute.

+

+“How can one talk or think of such trifles?” thought Pierre.

+

+“Yes, from Olmütz,” he answered, with a sigh.

+

+After supper Pierre with his partner followed the others into the

+drawing room. The guests began to disperse, some without taking leave

+of Hélène. Some, as if unwilling to distract her from an important

+occupation, came up to her for a moment and made haste to go away,

+refusing to let her see them off. The diplomatist preserved a mournful

+silence as he left the drawing room. He pictured the vanity of his

+diplomatic career in comparison with Pierre’s happiness. The old

+general grumbled at his wife when she asked how his leg was. “Oh, the

+old fool,” he thought. “That Princess Hélène will be beautiful

+still when she’s fifty.”

+

+“I think I may congratulate you,” whispered Anna Pávlovna to the

+old princess, kissing her soundly. “If I hadn’t this headache I’d

+have stayed longer.”

+

+The old princess did not reply, she was tormented by jealousy of her

+daughter’s happiness.

+

+While the guests were taking their leave Pierre remained for a long time

+alone with Hélène in the little drawing room where they were sitting.

+He had often before, during the last six weeks, remained alone with her,

+but had never spoken to her of love. Now he felt that it was inevitable,

+but he could not make up his mind to take the final step. He felt

+ashamed; he felt that he was occupying someone else’s place here

+beside Hélène. “This happiness is not for you,” some inner voice

+whispered to him. “This happiness is for those who have not in them

+what there is in you.”

+

+But, as he had to say something, he began by asking her whether she was

+satisfied with the party. She replied in her usual simple manner that

+this name day of hers had been one of the pleasantest she had ever had.

+

+Some of the nearest relatives had not yet left. They were sitting in

+the large drawing room. Prince Vasíli came up to Pierre with languid

+footsteps. Pierre rose and said it was getting late. Prince Vasíli gave

+him a look of stern inquiry, as though what Pierre had just said was

+so strange that one could not take it in. But then the expression of

+severity changed, and he drew Pierre’s hand downwards, made him sit

+down, and smiled affectionately.

+

+“Well, Lëlya?” he asked, turning instantly to his daughter and

+addressing her with the careless tone of habitual tenderness natural to

+parents who have petted their children from babyhood, but which Prince

+Vasíli had only acquired by imitating other parents.

+

+And he again turned to Pierre.

+

+“Sergéy Kuzmích—From all sides—” he said, unbuttoning the top

+button of his waistcoat.

+

+Pierre smiled, but his smile showed that he knew it was not the story

+about Sergéy Kuzmích that interested Prince Vasíli just then, and

+Prince Vasíli saw that Pierre knew this. He suddenly muttered

+something and went away. It seemed to Pierre that even the prince was

+disconcerted. The sight of the discomposure of that old man of the world

+touched Pierre: he looked at Hélène and she too seemed disconcerted,

+and her look seemed to say: “Well, it is your own fault.”

+

+“The step must be taken but I cannot, I cannot!” thought Pierre,

+and he again began speaking about indifferent matters, about Sergéy

+Kuzmích, asking what the point of the story was as he had not heard it

+properly. Hélène answered with a smile that she too had missed it.

+

+When Prince Vasíli returned to the drawing room, the princess, his

+wife, was talking in low tones to the elderly lady about Pierre.

+

+“Of course, it is a very brilliant match, but happiness, my dear...”

+

+“Marriages are made in heaven,” replied the elderly lady.

+

+Prince Vasíli passed by, seeming not to hear the ladies, and sat down

+on a sofa in a far corner of the room. He closed his eyes and seemed to

+be dozing. His head sank forward and then he roused himself.

+

+“Aline,” he said to his wife, “go and see what they are about.”

+

+The princess went up to the door, passed by it with a dignified and

+indifferent air, and glanced into the little drawing room. Pierre and

+Hélène still sat talking just as before.

+

+“Still the same,” she said to her husband.

+

+Prince Vasíli frowned, twisting his mouth, his cheeks quivered and his

+face assumed the coarse, unpleasant expression peculiar to him. Shaking

+himself, he rose, threw back his head, and with resolute steps went

+past the ladies into the little drawing room. With quick steps he went

+joyfully up to Pierre. His face was so unusually triumphant that Pierre

+rose in alarm on seeing it.

+

+“Thank God!” said Prince Vasíli. “My wife has told me

+everything!” (He put one arm around Pierre and the other around his

+daughter.)—“My dear boy... Lëlya... I am very pleased.” (His

+voice trembled.) “I loved your father... and she will make you a good

+wife... God bless you!...”

+

+He embraced his daughter, and then again Pierre, and kissed him with his

+malodorous mouth. Tears actually moistened his cheeks.

+

+“Princess, come here!” he shouted.

+

+The old princess came in and also wept. The elderly lady was using

+her handkerchief too. Pierre was kissed, and he kissed the beautiful

+Hélène’s hand several times. After a while they were left alone

+again.

+

+“All this had to be and could not be otherwise,” thought Pierre,

+“so it is useless to ask whether it is good or bad. It is good because

+it’s definite and one is rid of the old tormenting doubt.” Pierre

+held the hand of his betrothed in silence, looking at her beautiful

+bosom as it rose and fell.

+

+“Hélène!” he said aloud and paused.

+

+“Something special is always said in such cases,” he thought, but

+could not remember what it was that people say. He looked at her face.

+She drew nearer to him. Her face flushed.

+

+“Oh, take those off... those...” she said, pointing to his

+spectacles.

+

+Pierre took them off, and his eyes, besides the strange look eyes have

+from which spectacles have just been removed, had also a frightened and

+inquiring look. He was about to stoop over her hand and kiss it, but

+with a rapid, almost brutal movement of her head, she intercepted his

+lips and met them with her own. Her face struck Pierre, by its altered,

+unpleasantly excited expression.

+

+“It is too late now, it’s done; besides I love her,” thought

+Pierre.

+

+“Je vous aime!” * he said, remembering what has to be said at such

+moments: but his words sounded so weak that he felt ashamed of himself.

+

+    * “I love you.”

+

+

+Six weeks later he was married, and settled in Count Bezúkhov’s

+large, newly furnished Petersburg house, the happy possessor, as people

+said, of a wife who was a celebrated beauty and of millions of money.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER III

+

+Old Prince Nicholas Bolkónski received a letter from Prince Vasíli

+in November, 1805, announcing that he and his son would be paying him

+a visit. “I am starting on a journey of inspection, and of course I

+shall think nothing of an extra seventy miles to come and see you at

+the same time, my honored benefactor,” wrote Prince Vasíli. “My son

+Anatole is accompanying me on his way to the army, so I hope you will

+allow him personally to express the deep respect that, emulating his

+father, he feels for you.”

+

+“It seems that there will be no need to bring Mary out, suitors are

+coming to us of their own accord,” incautiously remarked the little

+princess on hearing the news.

+

+Prince Nicholas frowned, but said nothing.

+

+A fortnight after the letter Prince Vasíli’s servants came one

+evening in advance of him, and he and his son arrived next day.

+

+Old Bolkónski had always had a poor opinion of Prince Vasíli’s

+character, but more so recently, since in the new reigns of Paul and

+Alexander Prince Vasíli had risen to high position and honors. And now,

+from the hints contained in his letter and given by the little princess,

+he saw which way the wind was blowing, and his low opinion changed into

+a feeling of contemptuous ill will. He snorted whenever he mentioned

+him. On the day of Prince Vasíli’s arrival, Prince Bolkónski was

+particularly discontented and out of temper. Whether he was in a bad

+temper because Prince Vasíli was coming, or whether his being in a bad

+temper made him specially annoyed at Prince Vasíli’s visit, he was

+in a bad temper, and in the morning Tíkhon had already advised the

+architect not to go to the prince with his report.

+

+“Do you hear how he’s walking?” said Tíkhon, drawing the

+architect’s attention to the sound of the prince’s footsteps.

+“Stepping flat on his heels—we know what that means....”

+

+However, at nine o’clock the prince, in his velvet coat with a sable

+collar and cap, went out for his usual walk. It had snowed the day

+before and the path to the hothouse, along which the prince was in the

+habit of walking, had been swept: the marks of the broom were still

+visible in the snow and a shovel had been left sticking in one of the

+soft snowbanks that bordered both sides of the path. The prince went

+through the conservatories, the serfs’ quarters, and the outbuildings,

+frowning and silent.

+

+“Can a sleigh pass?” he asked his overseer, a venerable man,

+resembling his master in manners and looks, who was accompanying him

+back to the house.

+

+“The snow is deep. I am having the avenue swept, your honor.”

+

+The prince bowed his head and went up to the porch. “God be

+thanked,” thought the overseer, “the storm has blown over!”

+

+“It would have been hard to drive up, your honor,” he added. “I

+heard, your honor, that a minister is coming to visit your honor.”

+

+The prince turned round to the overseer and fixed his eyes on him,

+frowning.

+

+“What? A minister? What minister? Who gave orders?” he said in

+his shrill, harsh voice. “The road is not swept for the princess my

+daughter, but for a minister! For me, there are no ministers!”

+

+“Your honor, I thought...”

+

+“You thought!” shouted the prince, his words coming more and more

+rapidly and indistinctly. “You thought!... Rascals! Blackguards!...

+I’ll teach you to think!” and lifting his stick he swung it and

+would have hit Alpátych, the overseer, had not the latter instinctively

+avoided the blow. “Thought... Blackguards...” shouted the prince

+rapidly.

+

+But although Alpátych, frightened at his own temerity in avoiding the

+stroke, came up to the prince, bowing his bald head resignedly before

+him, or perhaps for that very reason, the prince, though he continued

+to shout: “Blackguards!... Throw the snow back on the road!” did not

+lift his stick again but hurried into the house.

+

+Before dinner, Princess Mary and Mademoiselle Bourienne, who knew

+that the prince was in a bad humor, stood awaiting him; Mademoiselle

+Bourienne with a radiant face that said: “I know nothing, I am the

+same as usual,” and Princess Mary pale, frightened, and with downcast

+eyes. What she found hardest to bear was to know that on such occasions

+she ought to behave like Mademoiselle Bourienne, but could not.

+She thought: “If I seem not to notice he will think that I do not

+sympathize with him; if I seem sad and out of spirits myself, he will

+say (as he has done before) that I’m in the dumps.”

+

+The prince looked at his daughter’s frightened face and snorted.

+

+“Fool... or dummy!” he muttered.

+

+“And the other one is not here. They’ve been telling tales,” he

+thought—referring to the little princess who was not in the dining

+room.

+

+“Where is the princess?” he asked. “Hiding?”

+

+“She is not very well,” answered Mademoiselle Bourienne with

+a bright smile, “so she won’t come down. It is natural in her

+state.”

+

+“Hm! Hm!” muttered the prince, sitting down.

+

+His plate seemed to him not quite clean, and pointing to a spot he

+flung it away. Tíkhon caught it and handed it to a footman. The little

+princess was not unwell, but had such an overpowering fear of the prince

+that, hearing he was in a bad humor, she had decided not to appear.

+

+“I am afraid for the baby,” she said to Mademoiselle Bourienne:

+“Heaven knows what a fright might do.”

+

+In general at Bald Hills the little princess lived in constant fear, and

+with a sense of antipathy to the old prince which she did not

+realize because the fear was so much the stronger feeling. The prince

+reciprocated this antipathy, but it was overpowered by his contempt

+for her. When the little princess had grown accustomed to life at Bald

+Hills, she took a special fancy to Mademoiselle Bourienne, spent whole

+days with her, asked her to sleep in her room, and often talked with her

+about the old prince and criticized him.

+

+“So we are to have visitors, mon prince?” remarked Mademoiselle

+Bourienne, unfolding her white napkin with her rosy fingers. “His

+Excellency Prince Vasíli Kurágin and his son, I understand?” she

+said inquiringly.

+

+“Hm!—his excellency is a puppy.... I got him his appointment in the

+service,” said the prince disdainfully. “Why his son is coming I

+don’t understand. Perhaps Princess Elizabeth and Princess Mary know.

+I don’t want him.” (He looked at his blushing daughter.) “Are you

+unwell today? Eh? Afraid of the ‘minister’ as that idiot Alpátych

+called him this morning?”

+

+“No, mon père.”

+

+Though Mademoiselle Bourienne had been so unsuccessful in her choice

+of a subject, she did not stop talking, but chattered about the

+conservatories and the beauty of a flower that had just opened, and

+after the soup the prince became more genial.

+

+After dinner, he went to see his daughter-in-law. The little princess

+was sitting at a small table, chattering with Másha, her maid. She grew

+pale on seeing her father-in-law.

+

+She was much altered. She was now plain rather than pretty. Her cheeks

+had sunk, her lip was drawn up, and her eyes drawn down.

+

+“Yes, I feel a kind of oppression,” she said in reply to the

+prince’s question as to how she felt.

+

+“Do you want anything?”

+

+“No, merci, mon père.”

+

+“Well, all right, all right.”

+

+He left the room and went to the waiting room where Alpátych stood with

+bowed head.

+

+“Has the snow been shoveled back?”

+

+“Yes, your excellency. Forgive me for heaven’s sake... It was only

+my stupidity.”

+

+“All right, all right,” interrupted the prince, and laughing his

+unnatural way, he stretched out his hand for Alpátych to kiss, and then

+proceeded to his study.

+

+Prince Vasíli arrived that evening. He was met in the avenue by

+coachmen and footmen, who, with loud shouts, dragged his sleighs up to

+one of the lodges over the road purposely laden with snow.

+

+Prince Vasíli and Anatole had separate rooms assigned to them.

+

+Anatole, having taken off his overcoat, sat with arms akimbo before a

+table on a corner of which he smilingly and absent-mindedly fixed his

+large and handsome eyes. He regarded his whole life as a continual round

+of amusement which someone for some reason had to provide for him.

+And he looked on this visit to a churlish old man and a rich and ugly

+heiress in the same way. All this might, he thought, turn out very well

+and amusingly. “And why not marry her if she really has so much money?

+That never does any harm,” thought Anatole.

+

+He shaved and scented himself with the care and elegance which had

+become habitual to him and, his handsome head held high, entered his

+father’s room with the good-humored and victorious air natural to

+him. Prince Vasíli’s two valets were busy dressing him, and he looked

+round with much animation and cheerfully nodded to his son as the latter

+entered, as if to say: “Yes, that’s how I want you to look.”

+

+“I say, Father, joking apart, is she very hideous?” Anatole asked,

+as if continuing a conversation the subject of which had often been

+mentioned during the journey.

+

+“Enough! What nonsense! Above all, try to be respectful and cautious

+with the old prince.”

+

+“If he starts a row I’ll go away,” said Prince Anatole. “I

+can’t bear those old men! Eh?”

+

+“Remember, for you everything depends on this.”

+

+In the meantime, not only was it known in the maidservants’ rooms that

+the minister and his son had arrived, but the appearance of both had

+been minutely described. Princess Mary was sitting alone in her room,

+vainly trying to master her agitation.

+

+“Why did they write, why did Lise tell me about it? It can never

+happen!” she said, looking at herself in the glass. “How shall I

+enter the drawing room? Even if I like him I can’t now be myself with

+him.” The mere thought of her father’s look filled her with terror.

+The little princess and Mademoiselle Bourienne had already received

+from Másha, the lady’s maid, the necessary report of how handsome the

+minister’s son was, with his rosy cheeks and dark eyebrows, and with

+what difficulty the father had dragged his legs upstairs while the son

+had followed him like an eagle, three steps at a time. Having received

+this information, the little princess and Mademoiselle Bourienne, whose

+chattering voices had reached her from the corridor, went into Princess

+Mary’s room.

+

+“You know they’ve come, Marie?” said the little princess, waddling

+in, and sinking heavily into an armchair.

+

+She was no longer in the loose gown she generally wore in the morning,

+but had on one of her best dresses. Her hair was carefully done and her

+face was animated, which, however, did not conceal its sunken and faded

+outlines. Dressed as she used to be in Petersburg society, it was still

+more noticeable how much plainer she had become. Some unobtrusive touch

+had been added to Mademoiselle Bourienne’s toilet which rendered her

+fresh and pretty face yet more attractive.

+

+“What! Are you going to remain as you are, dear princess?” she

+began. “They’ll be announcing that the gentlemen are in the drawing

+room and we shall have to go down, and you have not smartened yourself

+up at all!”

+

+The little princess got up, rang for the maid, and hurriedly and merrily

+began to devise and carry out a plan of how Princess Mary should be

+dressed. Princess Mary’s self-esteem was wounded by the fact that

+the arrival of a suitor agitated her, and still more so by both

+her companions’ not having the least conception that it could be

+otherwise. To tell them that she felt ashamed for herself and for them

+would be to betray her agitation, while to decline their offers to

+dress her would prolong their banter and insistence. She flushed, her

+beautiful eyes grew dim, red blotches came on her face, and it took

+on the unattractive martyrlike expression it so often wore, as she

+submitted herself to Mademoiselle Bourienne and Lise. Both these women

+quite sincerely tried to make her look pretty. She was so plain that

+neither of them could think of her as a rival, so they began dressing

+her with perfect sincerity, and with the naïve and firm conviction

+women have that dress can make a face pretty.

+

+“No really, my dear, this dress is not pretty,” said Lise, looking

+sideways at Princess Mary from a little distance. “You have a maroon

+dress, have it fetched. Really! You know the fate of your whole life may

+be at stake. But this one is too light, it’s not becoming!”

+

+It was not the dress, but the face and whole figure of Princess Mary

+that was not pretty, but neither Mademoiselle Bourienne nor the little

+princess felt this; they still thought that if a blue ribbon were placed

+in the hair, the hair combed up, and the blue scarf arranged lower on

+the best maroon dress, and so on, all would be well. They forgot that

+the frightened face and the figure could not be altered, and that

+however they might change the setting and adornment of that face, it

+would still remain piteous and plain. After two or three changes to

+which Princess Mary meekly submitted, just as her hair had been arranged

+on the top of her head (a style that quite altered and spoiled her

+looks) and she had put on a maroon dress with a pale-blue scarf, the

+little princess walked twice round her, now adjusting a fold of the

+dress with her little hand, now arranging the scarf and looking at her

+with her head bent first on one side and then on the other.

+

+“No, it will not do,” she said decidedly, clasping her hands. “No,

+Mary, really this dress does not suit you. I prefer you in your little

+gray everyday dress. Now please, do it for my sake. Katie,” she said

+to the maid, “bring the princess her gray dress, and you’ll see,

+Mademoiselle Bourienne, how I shall arrange it,” she added, smiling

+with a foretaste of artistic pleasure.

+

+But when Katie brought the required dress, Princess Mary remained

+sitting motionless before the glass, looking at her face, and saw in the

+mirror her eyes full of tears and her mouth quivering, ready to burst

+into sobs.

+

+“Come, dear princess,” said Mademoiselle Bourienne, “just one more

+little effort.”

+

+The little princess, taking the dress from the maid, came up to Princess

+Mary.

+

+“Well, now we’ll arrange something quite simple and becoming,” she

+said.

+

+The three voices, hers, Mademoiselle Bourienne’s, and Katie’s, who

+was laughing at something, mingled in a merry sound, like the chirping

+of birds.

+

+“No, leave me alone,” said Princess Mary.

+

+Her voice sounded so serious and so sad that the chirping of the birds

+was silenced at once. They looked at the beautiful, large, thoughtful

+eyes full of tears and of thoughts, gazing shiningly and imploringly at

+them, and understood that it was useless and even cruel to insist.

+

+“At least, change your coiffure,” said the little princess.

+“Didn’t I tell you,” she went on, turning reproachfully to

+Mademoiselle Bourienne, “Mary’s is a face which such a coiffure does

+not suit in the least. Not in the least! Please change it.”

+

+“Leave me alone, please leave me alone! It is all quite the same to

+me,” answered a voice struggling with tears.

+

+Mademoiselle Bourienne and the little princess had to own to themselves

+that Princess Mary in this guise looked very plain, worse than usual,

+but it was too late. She was looking at them with an expression they

+both knew, an expression thoughtful and sad. This expression in Princess

+Mary did not frighten them (she never inspired fear in anyone), but they

+knew that when it appeared on her face, she became mute and was not to

+be shaken in her determination.

+

+“You will change it, won’t you?” said Lise. And as Princess Mary

+gave no answer, she left the room.

+

+Princess Mary was left alone. She did not comply with Lise’s request,

+she not only left her hair as it was, but did not even look in her

+glass. Letting her arms fall helplessly, she sat with downcast eyes and

+pondered. A husband, a man, a strong dominant and strangely attractive

+being rose in her imagination, and carried her into a totally different

+happy world of his own. She fancied a child, her own—such as she had

+seen the day before in the arms of her nurse’s daughter—at her

+own breast, the husband standing by and gazing tenderly at her and the

+child. “But no, it is impossible, I am too ugly,” she thought.

+

+“Please come to tea. The prince will be out in a moment,” came the

+maid’s voice at the door.

+

+She roused herself, and felt appalled at what she had been thinking, and

+before going down she went into the room where the icons hung and, her

+eyes fixed on the dark face of a large icon of the Saviour lit by a

+lamp, she stood before it with folded hands for a few moments. A painful

+doubt filled her soul. Could the joy of love, of earthly love for a

+man, be for her? In her thoughts of marriage Princess Mary dreamed of

+happiness and of children, but her strongest, most deeply hidden longing

+was for earthly love. The more she tried to hide this feeling from

+others and even from herself, the stronger it grew. “O God,” she

+said, “how am I to stifle in my heart these temptations of the devil?

+How am I to renounce forever these vile fancies, so as peacefully to

+fulfill Thy will?” And scarcely had she put that question than God

+gave her the answer in her own heart. “Desire nothing for thyself,

+seek nothing, be not anxious or envious. Man’s future and thy own fate

+must remain hidden from thee, but live so that thou mayest be ready for

+anything. If it be God’s will to prove thee in the duties of marriage,

+be ready to fulfill His will.” With this consoling thought (but

+yet with a hope for the fulfillment of her forbidden earthly longing)

+Princess Mary sighed, and having crossed herself went down, thinking

+neither of her gown and coiffure nor of how she would go in nor of what

+she would say. What could all that matter in comparison with the will of

+God, without Whose care not a hair of man’s head can fall?

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER IV

+

+When Princess Mary came down, Prince Vasíli and his son were already

+in the drawing room, talking to the little princess and Mademoiselle

+Bourienne. When she entered with her heavy step, treading on her heels,

+the gentlemen and Mademoiselle Bourienne rose and the little princess,

+indicating her to the gentlemen, said: “Voilà Marie!” Princess Mary

+saw them all and saw them in detail. She saw Prince Vasíli’s face,

+serious for an instant at the sight of her, but immediately smiling

+again, and the little princess curiously noting the impression

+“Marie” produced on the visitors. And she saw Mademoiselle

+Bourienne, with her ribbon and pretty face, and her unusually animated

+look which was fixed on him, but him she could not see, she only saw

+something large, brilliant, and handsome moving toward her as she

+entered the room. Prince Vasíli approached first, and she kissed the

+bold forehead that bent over her hand and answered his question by

+saying that, on the contrary, she remembered him quite well. Then

+Anatole came up to her. She still could not see him. She only felt a

+soft hand taking hers firmly, and she touched with her lips a white

+forehead, over which was beautiful light-brown hair smelling of pomade.

+When she looked up at him she was struck by his beauty. Anatole stood

+with his right thumb under a button of his uniform, his chest expanded

+and his back drawn in, slightly swinging one foot, and, with his head a

+little bent, looked with beaming face at the princess without

+speaking and evidently not thinking about her at all. Anatole was not

+quick-witted, nor ready or eloquent in conversation, but he had the

+faculty, so invaluable in society, of composure and imperturbable

+self-possession. If a man lacking in self-confidence remains dumb on

+a first introduction and betrays a consciousness of the impropriety of

+such silence and an anxiety to find something to say, the effect is

+bad. But Anatole was dumb, swung his foot, and smilingly examined the

+princess’ hair. It was evident that he could be silent in this way for

+a very long time. “If anyone finds this silence inconvenient, let him

+talk, but I don’t want to,” he seemed to say. Besides this, in his

+behavior to women Anatole had a manner which particularly inspires in

+them curiosity, awe, and even love—a supercilious consciousness of

+his own superiority. It was as if he said to them: “I know you, I know

+you, but why should I bother about you? You’d be only too glad, of

+course.” Perhaps he did not really think this when he met women—even

+probably he did not, for in general he thought very little—but his

+looks and manner gave that impression. The princess felt this, and as if

+wishing to show him that she did not even dare expect to interest him,

+she turned to his father. The conversation was general and animated,

+thanks to Princess Lise’s voice and little downy lip that lifted over

+her white teeth. She met Prince Vasíli with that playful manner often

+employed by lively chatty people, and consisting in the assumption

+that between the person they so address and themselves there are some

+semi-private, long-established jokes and amusing reminiscences, though

+no such reminiscences really exist—just as none existed in this case.

+Prince Vasíli readily adopted her tone and the little princess also

+drew Anatole, whom she hardly knew, into these amusing recollections of

+things that had never occurred. Mademoiselle Bourienne also shared them

+and even Princess Mary felt herself pleasantly made to share in these

+merry reminiscences.

+

+“Here at least we shall have the benefit of your company all to

+ourselves, dear prince,” said the little princess (of course, in

+French) to Prince Vasíli. “It’s not as at Annette’s * receptions

+where you always ran away; you remember cette chère Annette!”

+

+    * Anna Pávlovna.

+

+“Ah, but you won’t talk politics to me like Annette!”

+

+“And our little tea table?”

+

+“Oh, yes!”

+

+“Why is it you were never at Annette’s?” the little princess asked

+Anatole. “Ah, I know, I know,” she said with a sly glance, “your

+brother Hippolyte told me about your goings on. Oh!” and she shook her

+finger at him, “I have even heard of your doings in Paris!”

+

+“And didn’t Hippolyte tell you?” asked Prince Vasíli, turning to

+his son and seizing the little princess’ arm as if she would have run

+away and he had just managed to catch her, “didn’t he tell you how

+he himself was pining for the dear princess, and how she showed him the

+door? Oh, she is a pearl among women, Princess,” he added, turning to

+Princess Mary.

+

+When Paris was mentioned, Mademoiselle Bourienne for her part seized the

+opportunity of joining in the general current of recollections.

+

+She took the liberty of inquiring whether it was long since Anatole

+had left Paris and how he had liked that city. Anatole answered the

+Frenchwoman very readily and, looking at her with a smile, talked to her

+about her native land. When he saw the pretty little Bourienne, Anatole

+came to the conclusion that he would not find Bald Hills dull either.

+“Not at all bad!” he thought, examining her, “not at all bad, that

+little companion! I hope she will bring her along with her when we’re

+married, la petite est gentille.” *

+

+    * The little one is charming.

+

+The old prince dressed leisurely in his study, frowning and considering

+what he was to do. The coming of these visitors annoyed him. “What are

+Prince Vasíli and that son of his to me? Prince Vasíli is a shallow

+braggart and his son, no doubt, is a fine specimen,” he grumbled to

+himself. What angered him was that the coming of these visitors revived

+in his mind an unsettled question he always tried to stifle, one about

+which he always deceived himself. The question was whether he could ever

+bring himself to part from his daughter and give her to a husband. The

+prince never directly asked himself that question, knowing beforehand

+that he would have to answer it justly, and justice clashed not only

+with his feelings but with the very possibility of life. Life without

+Princess Mary, little as he seemed to value her, was unthinkable to

+him. “And why should she marry?” he thought. “To be unhappy for

+certain. There’s Lise, married to Andrew—a better husband one would

+think could hardly be found nowadays—but is she contented with her

+lot? And who would marry Marie for love? Plain and awkward! They’ll

+take her for her connections and wealth. Are there no women living

+unmarried, and even the happier for it?” So thought Prince Bolkónski

+while dressing, and yet the question he was always putting off demanded

+an immediate answer. Prince Vasíli had brought his son with the evident

+intention of proposing, and today or tomorrow he would probably ask

+for an answer. His birth and position in society were not bad. “Well,

+I’ve nothing against it,” the prince said to himself, “but he must

+be worthy of her. And that is what we shall see.”

+

+“That is what we shall see! That is what we shall see!” he added

+aloud.

+

+He entered the drawing room with his usual alert step, glancing rapidly

+round the company. He noticed the change in the little princess’

+dress, Mademoiselle Bourienne’s ribbon, Princess Mary’s unbecoming

+coiffure, Mademoiselle Bourienne’s and Anatole’s smiles, and the

+loneliness of his daughter amid the general conversation. “Got herself

+up like a fool!” he thought, looking irritably at her. “She is

+shameless, and he ignores her!”

+

+He went straight up to Prince Vasíli.

+

+“Well! How d’ye do? How d’ye do? Glad to see you!”

+

+“Friendship laughs at distance,” began Prince Vasíli in his usual

+rapid, self-confident, familiar tone. “Here is my second son; please

+love and befriend him.”

+

+Prince Bolkónski surveyed Anatole.

+

+“Fine young fellow! Fine young fellow!” he said. “Well, come and

+kiss me,” and he offered his cheek.

+

+Anatole kissed the old man, and looked at him with curiosity and perfect

+composure, waiting for a display of the eccentricities his father had

+told him to expect.

+

+Prince Bolkónski sat down in his usual place in the corner of the sofa

+and, drawing up an armchair for Prince Vasíli, pointed to it and began

+questioning him about political affairs and news. He seemed to listen

+attentively to what Prince Vasíli said, but kept glancing at Princess

+Mary.

+

+“And so they are writing from Potsdam already?” he said, repeating

+Prince Vasíli’s last words. Then rising, he suddenly went up to his

+daughter.

+

+“Is it for visitors you’ve got yourself up like that, eh?” said

+he. “Fine, very fine! You have done up your hair in this new way for

+the visitors, and before the visitors I tell you that in future you are

+never to dare to change your way of dress without my consent.”

+

+“It was my fault, mon père,” interceded the little princess, with a

+blush.

+

+“You must do as you please,” said Prince Bolkónski, bowing to his

+daughter-in-law, “but she need not make a fool of herself, she’s

+plain enough as it is.”

+

+And he sat down again, paying no more attention to his daughter, who was

+reduced to tears.

+

+“On the contrary, that coiffure suits the princess very well,” said

+Prince Vasíli.

+

+“Now you, young prince, what’s your name?” said Prince Bolkónski,

+turning to Anatole, “come here, let us talk and get acquainted.”

+

+“Now the fun begins,” thought Anatole, sitting down with a smile

+beside the old prince.

+

+“Well, my dear boy, I hear you’ve been educated abroad, not taught

+to read and write by the deacon, like your father and me. Now tell me,

+my dear boy, are you serving in the Horse Guards?” asked the old man,

+scrutinizing Anatole closely and intently.

+

+“No, I have been transferred to the line,” said Anatole, hardly able

+to restrain his laughter.

+

+“Ah! That’s a good thing. So, my dear boy, you wish to serve the

+Tsar and the country? It is wartime. Such a fine fellow must serve.

+Well, are you off to the front?”

+

+“No, Prince, our regiment has gone to the front, but I am attached...

+what is it I am attached to, Papa?” said Anatole, turning to his

+father with a laugh.

+

+“A splendid soldier, splendid! ‘What am I attached to!’ Ha, ha,

+ha!” laughed Prince Bolkónski, and Anatole laughed still louder.

+Suddenly Prince Bolkónski frowned.

+

+“You may go,” he said to Anatole.

+

+Anatole returned smiling to the ladies.

+

+“And so you’ve had him educated abroad, Prince Vasíli, haven’t

+you?” said the old prince to Prince Vasíli.

+

+“I have done my best for him, and I can assure you the education there

+is much better than ours.”

+

+“Yes, everything is different nowadays, everything is changed. The

+lad’s a fine fellow, a fine fellow! Well, come with me now.” He took

+Prince Vasíli’s arm and led him to his study. As soon as they were

+alone together, Prince Vasíli announced his hopes and wishes to the old

+prince.

+

+“Well, do you think I shall prevent her, that I can’t part from

+her?” said the old prince angrily. “What an idea! I’m ready for it

+tomorrow! Only let me tell you, I want to know my son-in-law better. You

+know my principles—everything aboveboard! I will ask her tomorrow in

+your presence; if she is willing, then he can stay on. He can stay and

+I’ll see.” The old prince snorted. “Let her marry, it’s all the

+same to me!” he screamed in the same piercing tone as when parting

+from his son.

+

+“I will tell you frankly,” said Prince Vasíli in the tone of

+a crafty man convinced of the futility of being cunning with so

+keen-sighted a companion. “You know, you see right through people.

+Anatole is no genius, but he is an honest, goodhearted lad; an excellent

+son or kinsman.”

+

+“All right, all right, we’ll see!”

+

+As always happens when women lead lonely lives for any length of time

+without male society, on Anatole’s appearance all the three women of

+Prince Bolkónski’s household felt that their life had not been real

+till then. Their powers of reasoning, feeling, and observing immediately

+increased tenfold, and their life, which seemed to have been passed in

+darkness, was suddenly lit up by a new brightness, full of significance.

+

+Princess Mary grew quite unconscious of her face and coiffure. The

+handsome open face of the man who might perhaps be her husband absorbed

+all her attention. He seemed to her kind, brave, determined, manly, and

+magnanimous. She felt convinced of that. Thousands of dreams of a future

+family life continually rose in her imagination. She drove them away and

+tried to conceal them.

+

+“But am I not too cold with him?” thought the princess. “I try

+to be reserved because in the depth of my soul I feel too near to him

+already, but then he cannot know what I think of him and may imagine

+that I do not like him.”

+

+And Princess Mary tried, but could not manage, to be cordial to her new

+guest. “Poor girl, she’s devilish ugly!” thought Anatole.

+

+Mademoiselle Bourienne, also roused to great excitement by Anatole’s

+arrival, thought in another way. Of course, she, a handsome young woman

+without any definite position, without relations or even a country, did

+not intend to devote her life to serving Prince Bolkónski, to reading

+aloud to him and being friends with Princess Mary. Mademoiselle

+Bourienne had long been waiting for a Russian prince who, able to

+appreciate at a glance her superiority to the plain, badly dressed,

+ungainly Russian princesses, would fall in love with her and carry her

+off; and here at last was a Russian prince. Mademoiselle Bourienne knew

+a story, heard from her aunt but finished in her own way, which she

+liked to repeat to herself. It was the story of a girl who had been

+seduced, and to whom her poor mother (sa pauvre mère) appeared, and

+reproached her for yielding to a man without being married. Mademoiselle

+Bourienne was often touched to tears as in imagination she told this

+story to him, her seducer. And now he, a real Russian prince, had

+appeared. He would carry her away and then sa pauvre mère would appear

+and he would marry her. So her future shaped itself in Mademoiselle

+Bourienne’s head at the very time she was talking to Anatole about

+Paris. It was not calculation that guided her (she did not even for a

+moment consider what she should do), but all this had long been familiar

+to her, and now that Anatole had appeared it just grouped itself around

+him and she wished and tried to please him as much as possible.

+

+The little princess, like an old war horse that hears the trumpet,

+unconsciously and quite forgetting her condition, prepared for the

+familiar gallop of coquetry, without any ulterior motive or any

+struggle, but with naïve and lighthearted gaiety.

+

+Although in female society Anatole usually assumed the role of a man

+tired of being run after by women, his vanity was flattered by the

+spectacle of his power over these three women. Besides that, he was

+beginning to feel for the pretty and provocative Mademoiselle Bourienne

+that passionate animal feeling which was apt to master him with great

+suddenness and prompt him to the coarsest and most reckless actions.

+

+After tea, the company went into the sitting room and Princess Mary was

+asked to play on the clavichord. Anatole, laughing and in high spirits,

+came and leaned on his elbows, facing her and beside Mademoiselle

+Bourienne. Princess Mary felt his look with a painfully joyous emotion.

+Her favorite sonata bore her into a most intimately poetic world and

+the look she felt upon her made that world still more poetic. But

+Anatole’s expression, though his eyes were fixed on her, referred not

+to her but to the movements of Mademoiselle Bourienne’s little

+foot, which he was then touching with his own under the clavichord.

+Mademoiselle Bourienne was also looking at Princess Mary, and in her

+lovely eyes there was a look of fearful joy and hope that was also new

+to the princess.

+

+“How she loves me!” thought Princess Mary. “How happy I am now,

+and how happy I may be with such a friend and such a husband! Husband?

+Can it be possible?” she thought, not daring to look at his face, but

+still feeling his eyes gazing at her.

+

+In the evening, after supper, when all were about to retire, Anatole

+kissed Princess Mary’s hand. She did not know how she found the

+courage, but she looked straight into his handsome face as it came near

+to her shortsighted eyes. Turning from Princess Mary he went up and

+kissed Mademoiselle Bourienne’s hand. (This was not etiquette, but

+then he did everything so simply and with such assurance!) Mademoiselle

+Bourienne flushed, and gave the princess a frightened look.

+

+“What delicacy!” thought the princess. “Is it possible that

+Amélie” (Mademoiselle Bourienne) “thinks I could be jealous of her,

+and not value her pure affection and devotion to me?” She went up

+to her and kissed her warmly. Anatole went up to kiss the little

+princess’ hand.

+

+“No! No! No! When your father writes to tell me that you are behaving

+well I will give you my hand to kiss. Not till then!” she said. And

+smilingly raising a finger at him, she left the room.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER V

+

+They all separated, but, except Anatole who fell asleep as soon as he

+got into bed, all kept awake a long time that night.

+

+“Is he really to be my husband, this stranger who is so kind—yes,

+kind, that is the chief thing,” thought Princess Mary; and fear, which

+she had seldom experienced, came upon her. She feared to look round, it

+seemed to her that someone was there standing behind the screen in the

+dark corner. And this someone was he—the devil—and he was also this

+man with the white forehead, black eyebrows, and red lips.

+

+She rang for her maid and asked her to sleep in her room.

+

+Mademoiselle Bourienne walked up and down the conservatory for a long

+time that evening, vainly expecting someone, now smiling at someone, now

+working herself up to tears with the imaginary words of her pauvre mère

+rebuking her for her fall.

+

+The little princess grumbled to her maid that her bed was badly made.

+She could not lie either on her face or on her side. Every position was

+awkward and uncomfortable, and her burden oppressed her now more than

+ever because Anatole’s presence had vividly recalled to her the time

+when she was not like that and when everything was light and gay. She

+sat in an armchair in her dressing jacket and nightcap and Katie, sleepy

+and disheveled, beat and turned the heavy feather bed for the third

+time, muttering to herself.

+

+“I told you it was all lumps and holes!” the little princess

+repeated. “I should be glad enough to fall asleep, so it’s not my

+fault!” and her voice quivered like that of a child about to cry.

+

+The old prince did not sleep either. Tíkhon, half asleep, heard him

+pacing angrily about and snorting. The old prince felt as though he

+had been insulted through his daughter. The insult was the more pointed

+because it concerned not himself but another, his daughter, whom he

+loved more than himself. He kept telling himself that he would consider

+the whole matter and decide what was right and how he should act, but

+instead of that he only excited himself more and more.

+

+“The first man that turns up—she forgets her father and everything

+else, runs upstairs and does up her hair and wags her tail and is unlike

+herself! Glad to throw her father over! And she knew I should notice

+it. Fr... fr... fr! And don’t I see that that idiot had eyes only for

+Bourienne—I shall have to get rid of her. And how is it she has not

+pride enough to see it? If she has no pride for herself she might at

+least have some for my sake! She must be shown that the blockhead thinks

+nothing of her and looks only at Bourienne. No, she has no pride... but

+I’ll let her see....”

+

+The old prince knew that if he told his daughter she was making a

+mistake and that Anatole meant to flirt with Mademoiselle Bourienne,

+Princess Mary’s self-esteem would be wounded and his point (not to

+be parted from her) would be gained, so pacifying himself with this

+thought, he called Tíkhon and began to undress.

+

+“What devil brought them here?” thought he, while Tíkhon was

+putting the nightshirt over his dried-up old body and gray-haired chest.

+“I never invited them. They came to disturb my life—and there is not

+much of it left.”

+

+“Devil take ‘em!” he muttered, while his head was still covered by

+the shirt.

+

+Tíkhon knew his master’s habit of sometimes thinking aloud, and

+therefore met with unaltered looks the angrily inquisitive expression of

+the face that emerged from the shirt.

+

+“Gone to bed?” asked the prince.

+

+Tíkhon, like all good valets, instinctively knew the direction of his

+master’s thoughts. He guessed that the question referred to Prince

+Vasíli and his son.

+

+“They have gone to bed and put out their lights, your excellency.”

+

+“No good... no good...” said the prince rapidly, and thrusting his

+feet into his slippers and his arms into the sleeves of his dressing

+gown, he went to the couch on which he slept.

+

+Though no words had passed between Anatole and Mademoiselle Bourienne,

+they quite understood one another as to the first part of their romance,

+up to the appearance of the pauvre mère; they understood that they had

+much to say to one another in private and so they had been seeking an

+opportunity since morning to meet one another alone. When Princess Mary

+went to her father’s room at the usual hour, Mademoiselle Bourienne

+and Anatole met in the conservatory.

+

+Princess Mary went to the door of the study with special trepidation.

+It seemed to her that not only did everybody know that her fate would be

+decided that day, but that they also knew what she thought about it. She

+read this in Tíkhon’s face and in that of Prince Vasíli’s valet,

+who made her a low bow when she met him in the corridor carrying hot

+water.

+

+The old prince was very affectionate and careful in his treatment of

+his daughter that morning. Princess Mary well knew this painstaking

+expression of her father’s. His face wore that expression when his

+dry hands clenched with vexation at her not understanding a sum in

+arithmetic, when rising from his chair he would walk away from her,

+repeating in a low voice the same words several times over.

+

+He came to the point at once, treating her ceremoniously.

+

+“I have had a proposition made me concerning you,” he said with an

+unnatural smile. “I expect you have guessed that Prince Vasíli has

+not come and brought his pupil with him” (for some reason Prince

+Bolkónski referred to Anatole as a “pupil”) “for the sake of my

+beautiful eyes. Last night a proposition was made me on your account

+and, as you know my principles, I refer it to you.”

+

+“How am I to understand you, mon père?” said the princess, growing

+pale and then blushing.

+

+“How understand me!” cried her father angrily. “Prince Vasíli

+finds you to his taste as a daughter-in-law and makes a proposal to you

+on his pupil’s behalf. That’s how it’s to be understood! ‘How

+understand it’!... And I ask you!”

+

+“I do not know what you think, Father,” whispered the princess.

+

+“I? I? What of me? Leave me out of the question. I’m not going to

+get married. What about you? That’s what I want to know.”

+

+The princess saw that her father regarded the matter with disapproval,

+but at that moment the thought occurred to her that her fate would be

+decided now or never. She lowered her eyes so as not to see the gaze

+under which she felt that she could not think, but would only be able to

+submit from habit, and she said: “I wish only to do your will, but if

+I had to express my own desire...” She had no time to finish. The old

+prince interrupted her.

+

+“That’s admirable!” he shouted. “He will take you with your

+dowry and take Mademoiselle Bourienne into the bargain. She’ll be the

+wife, while you...”

+

+The prince stopped. He saw the effect these words had produced on his

+daughter. She lowered her head and was ready to burst into tears.

+

+“Now then, now then, I’m only joking!” he said. “Remember this,

+Princess, I hold to the principle that a maiden has a full right to

+choose. I give you freedom. Only remember that your life’s happiness

+depends on your decision. Never mind me!”

+

+“But I do not know, Father!”

+

+“There’s no need to talk! He receives his orders and will marry you

+or anybody; but you are free to choose.... Go to your room, think it

+over, and come back in an hour and tell me in his presence: yes or no.

+I know you will pray over it. Well, pray if you like, but you had better

+think it over. Go! Yes or no, yes or no, yes or no!” he still shouted

+when the princess, as if lost in a fog, had already staggered out of the

+study.

+

+Her fate was decided and happily decided. But what her father had said

+about Mademoiselle Bourienne was dreadful. It was untrue to be sure, but

+still it was terrible, and she could not help thinking of it. She was

+going straight on through the conservatory, neither seeing nor hearing

+anything, when suddenly the well-known whispering of Mademoiselle

+Bourienne aroused her. She raised her eyes, and two steps away saw

+Anatole embracing the Frenchwoman and whispering something to her. With

+a horrified expression on his handsome face, Anatole looked at Princess

+Mary, but did not at once take his arm from the waist of Mademoiselle

+Bourienne who had not yet seen her.

+

+“Who’s that? Why? Wait a moment!” Anatole’s face seemed to say.

+Princess Mary looked at them in silence. She could not understand it. At

+last Mademoiselle Bourienne gave a scream and ran away. Anatole bowed to

+Princess Mary with a gay smile, as if inviting her to join in a laugh at

+this strange incident, and then shrugging his shoulders went to the door

+that led to his own apartments.

+

+An hour later, Tíkhon came to call Princess Mary to the old prince;

+he added that Prince Vasíli was also there. When Tíkhon came to her

+Princess Mary was sitting on the sofa in her room, holding the weeping

+Mademoiselle Bourienne in her arms and gently stroking her hair. The

+princess’ beautiful eyes with all their former calm radiance were

+looking with tender affection and pity at Mademoiselle Bourienne’s

+pretty face.

+

+“No, Princess, I have lost your affection forever!” said

+Mademoiselle Bourienne.

+

+“Why? I love you more than ever,” said Princess Mary, “and I will

+try to do all I can for your happiness.”

+

+“But you despise me. You who are so pure can never understand being so

+carried away by passion. Oh, only my poor mother...”

+

+“I quite understand,” answered Princess Mary, with a sad smile.

+“Calm yourself, my dear. I will go to my father,” she said, and went

+out.

+

+Prince Vasíli, with one leg thrown high over the other and a snuffbox

+in his hand, was sitting there with a smile of deep emotion on his face,

+as if stirred to his heart’s core and himself regretting and laughing

+at his own sensibility, when Princess Mary entered. He hurriedly took a

+pinch of snuff.

+

+“Ah, my dear, my dear!” he began, rising and taking her by both

+hands. Then, sighing, he added: “My son’s fate is in your hands.

+Decide, my dear, good, gentle Marie, whom I have always loved as a

+daughter!”

+

+He drew back and a real tear appeared in his eye.

+

+“Fr... fr...” snorted Prince Bolkónski. “The prince is making a

+proposition to you in his pupil’s—I mean, his son’s—name. Do you

+wish or not to be Prince Anatole Kurágin’s wife? Reply: yes or no,”

+he shouted, “and then I shall reserve the right to state my opinion

+also. Yes, my opinion, and only my opinion,” added Prince Bolkónski,

+turning to Prince Vasíli and answering his imploring look. “Yes, or

+no?”

+

+“My desire is never to leave you, Father, never to separate my

+life from yours. I don’t wish to marry,” she answered positively,

+glancing at Prince Vasíli and at her father with her beautiful eyes.

+

+“Humbug! Nonsense! Humbug, humbug, humbug!” cried Prince Bolkónski,

+frowning and taking his daughter’s hand; he did not kiss her, but only

+bending his forehead to hers just touched it, and pressed her hand so

+that she winced and uttered a cry.

+

+Prince Vasíli rose.

+

+“My dear, I must tell you that this is a moment I shall never, never

+forget. But, my dear, will you not give us a little hope of touching

+this heart, so kind and generous? Say ‘perhaps’... The future is so

+long. Say ‘perhaps.’”

+

+“Prince, what I have said is all there is in my heart. I thank you for

+the honor, but I shall never be your son’s wife.”

+

+“Well, so that’s finished, my dear fellow! I am very glad to have

+seen you. Very glad! Go back to your rooms, Princess. Go!” said

+the old prince. “Very, very glad to have seen you,” repeated he,

+embracing Prince Vasíli.

+

+“My vocation is a different one,” thought Princess Mary. “My

+vocation is to be happy with another kind of happiness, the happiness

+of love and self-sacrifice. And cost what it may, I will arrange

+poor Amélie’s happiness, she loves him so passionately, and so

+passionately repents. I will do all I can to arrange the match between

+them. If he is not rich I will give her the means; I will ask my

+father and Andrew. I shall be so happy when she is his wife. She is so

+unfortunate, a stranger, alone, helpless! And, oh God, how passionately

+she must love him if she could so far forget herself! Perhaps I might

+have done the same!...” thought Princess Mary.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER VI

+

+It was long since the Rostóvs had news of Nicholas. Not till midwinter

+was the count at last handed a letter addressed in his son’s

+handwriting. On receiving it, he ran on tiptoe to his study in alarm and

+haste, trying to escape notice, closed the door, and began to read the

+letter.

+

+Anna Mikháylovna, who always knew everything that passed in the house,

+on hearing of the arrival of the letter went softly into the room and

+found the count with it in his hand, sobbing and laughing at the same

+time.

+

+Anna Mikháylovna, though her circumstances had improved, was still

+living with the Rostóvs.

+

+“My dear friend?” said she, in a tone of pathetic inquiry, prepared

+to sympathize in any way.

+

+The count sobbed yet more.

+

+“Nikólenka... a letter... wa... a... s... wounded... my darling

+boy... the countess... promoted to be an officer... thank God... How

+tell the little countess!”

+

+Anna Mikháylovna sat down beside him, with her own handkerchief wiped

+the tears from his eyes and from the letter, then having dried her

+own eyes she comforted the count, and decided that at dinner and till

+teatime she would prepare the countess, and after tea, with God’s

+help, would inform her.

+

+At dinner Anna Mikháylovna talked the whole time about the war news

+and about Nikólenka, twice asked when the last letter had been received

+from him, though she knew that already, and remarked that they might

+very likely be getting a letter from him that day. Each time that these

+hints began to make the countess anxious and she glanced uneasily at

+the count and at Anna Mikháylovna, the latter very adroitly turned

+the conversation to insignificant matters. Natásha, who, of the whole

+family, was the most gifted with a capacity to feel any shades of

+intonation, look, and expression, pricked up her ears from the beginning

+of the meal and was certain that there was some secret between her

+father and Anna Mikháylovna, that it had something to do with her

+brother, and that Anna Mikháylovna was preparing them for it. Bold as

+she was, Natásha, who knew how sensitive her mother was to anything

+relating to Nikólenka, did not venture to ask any questions at dinner,

+but she was too excited to eat anything and kept wriggling about on her

+chair regardless of her governess’ remarks. After dinner, she rushed

+headlong after Anna Mikháylovna and, dashing at her, flung herself on

+her neck as soon as she overtook her in the sitting room.

+

+“Auntie, darling, do tell me what it is!”

+

+“Nothing, my dear.”

+

+“No, dearest, sweet one, honey, I won’t give up—I know you know

+something.”

+

+Anna Mikháylovna shook her head.

+

+“You are a little slyboots,” she said.

+

+“A letter from Nikólenka! I’m sure of it!” exclaimed Natásha,

+reading confirmation in Anna Mikháylovna’s face.

+

+“But for God’s sake, be careful, you know how it may affect your

+mamma.”

+

+“I will, I will, only tell me! You won’t? Then I will go and tell at

+once.”

+

+Anna Mikháylovna, in a few words, told her the contents of the letter,

+on condition that she should tell no one.

+

+“No, on my true word of honor,” said Natásha, crossing herself,

+“I won’t tell anyone!” and she ran off at once to Sónya.

+

+“Nikólenka... wounded... a letter,” she announced in gleeful

+triumph.

+

+“Nicholas!” was all Sónya said, instantly turning white.

+

+Natásha, seeing the impression the news of her brother’s wound

+produced on Sónya, felt for the first time the sorrowful side of the

+news.

+

+She rushed to Sónya, hugged her, and began to cry.

+

+“A little wound, but he has been made an officer; he is well now, he

+wrote himself,” said she through her tears.

+

+“There now! It’s true that all you women are crybabies,” remarked

+Pétya, pacing the room with large, resolute strides. “Now I’m very

+glad, very glad indeed, that my brother has distinguished himself so.

+You are all blubberers and understand nothing.”

+

+Natásha smiled through her tears.

+

+“You haven’t read the letter?” asked Sónya.

+

+“No, but she said that it was all over and that he’s now an

+officer.”

+

+“Thank God!” said Sónya, crossing herself. “But perhaps she

+deceived you. Let us go to Mamma.”

+

+Pétya paced the room in silence for a time.

+

+“If I’d been in Nikólenka’s place I would have killed even more

+of those Frenchmen,” he said. “What nasty brutes they are! I’d

+have killed so many that there’d have been a heap of them.”

+

+“Hold your tongue, Pétya, what a goose you are!”

+

+“I’m not a goose, but they are who cry about trifles,” said

+Pétya.

+

+“Do you remember him?” Natásha suddenly asked, after a moment’s

+silence.

+

+Sónya smiled.

+

+“Do I remember Nicholas?”

+

+“No, Sónya, but do you remember so that you remember him perfectly,

+remember everything?” said Natásha, with an expressive gesture,

+evidently wishing to give her words a very definite meaning. “I

+remember Nikólenka too, I remember him well,” she said. “But I

+don’t remember Borís. I don’t remember him a bit.”

+

+“What! You don’t remember Borís?” asked Sónya in surprise.

+

+“It’s not that I don’t remember—I know what he is like, but not

+as I remember Nikólenka. Him—I just shut my eyes and remember,

+but Borís... No!” (She shut her eyes.) “No! there’s nothing at

+all.”

+

+“Oh, Natásha!” said Sónya, looking ecstatically and earnestly at

+her friend as if she did not consider her worthy to hear what she meant

+to say and as if she were saying it to someone else, with whom joking

+was out of the question, “I am in love with your brother once for all

+and, whatever may happen to him or to me, shall never cease to love him

+as long as I live.”

+

+Natásha looked at Sónya with wondering and inquisitive eyes, and said

+nothing. She felt that Sónya was speaking the truth, that there was

+such love as Sónya was speaking of. But Natásha had not yet felt

+anything like it. She believed it could be, but did not understand it.

+

+“Shall you write to him?” she asked.

+

+Sónya became thoughtful. The question of how to write to Nicholas, and

+whether she ought to write, tormented her. Now that he was already an

+officer and a wounded hero, would it be right to remind him of herself

+and, as it might seem, of the obligations to her he had taken on

+himself?

+

+“I don’t know. I think if he writes, I will write too,” she said,

+blushing.

+

+“And you won’t feel ashamed to write to him?”

+

+Sónya smiled.

+

+“No.”

+

+“And I should be ashamed to write to Borís. I’m not going to.”

+

+“Why should you be ashamed?”

+

+“Well, I don’t know. It’s awkward and would make me ashamed.”

+

+“And I know why she’d be ashamed,” said Pétya, offended by

+Natásha’s previous remark. “It’s because she was in love with

+that fat one in spectacles” (that was how Pétya described his

+namesake, the new Count Bezúkhov) “and now she’s in love with that

+singer” (he meant Natásha’s Italian singing master), “that’s

+why she’s ashamed!”

+

+“Pétya, you’re a stupid!” said Natásha.

+

+“Not more stupid than you, madam,” said the nine-year-old Pétya,

+with the air of an old brigadier.

+

+The countess had been prepared by Anna Mikháylovna’s hints at dinner.

+On retiring to her own room, she sat in an armchair, her eyes fixed on a

+miniature portrait of her son on the lid of a snuffbox, while the tears

+kept coming into her eyes. Anna Mikháylovna, with the letter, came on

+tiptoe to the countess’ door and paused.

+

+“Don’t come in,” she said to the old count who was following her.

+“Come later.” And she went in, closing the door behind her.

+

+The count put his ear to the keyhole and listened.

+

+At first he heard the sound of indifferent voices, then Anna

+Mikháylovna’s voice alone in a long speech, then a cry, then silence,

+then both voices together with glad intonations, and then footsteps.

+Anna Mikháylovna opened the door. Her face wore the proud expression

+of a surgeon who has just performed a difficult operation and admits the

+public to appreciate his skill.

+

+“It is done!” she said to the count, pointing triumphantly to the

+countess, who sat holding in one hand the snuffbox with its portrait and

+in the other the letter, and pressing them alternately to her lips.

+

+When she saw the count, she stretched out her arms to him, embraced his

+bald head, over which she again looked at the letter and the portrait,

+and in order to press them again to her lips, she slightly pushed away

+the bald head. Véra, Natásha, Sónya, and Pétya now entered the room,

+and the reading of the letter began. After a brief description of

+the campaign and the two battles in which he had taken part, and his

+promotion, Nicholas said that he kissed his father’s and mother’s

+hands asking for their blessing, and that he kissed Véra, Natásha, and

+Pétya. Besides that, he sent greetings to Monsieur Schelling, Madame

+Schoss, and his old nurse, and asked them to kiss for him “dear

+Sónya, whom he loved and thought of just the same as ever.” When she

+heard this Sónya blushed so that tears came into her eyes and, unable

+to bear the looks turned upon her, ran away into the dancing hall,

+whirled round it at full speed with her dress puffed out like a balloon,

+and, flushed and smiling, plumped down on the floor. The countess was

+crying.

+

+“Why are you crying, Mamma?” asked Véra. “From all he says one

+should be glad and not cry.”

+

+This was quite true, but the count, the countess, and Natásha looked

+at her reproachfully. “And who is it she takes after?” thought the

+countess.

+

+Nicholas’ letter was read over hundreds of times, and those who were

+considered worthy to hear it had to come to the countess, for she

+did not let it out of her hands. The tutors came, and the nurses, and

+Dmítri, and several acquaintances, and the countess reread the letter

+each time with fresh pleasure and each time discovered in it fresh

+proofs of Nikólenka’s virtues. How strange, how extraordinary, how

+joyful it seemed, that her son, the scarcely perceptible motion of whose

+tiny limbs she had felt twenty years ago within her, that son about whom

+she used to have quarrels with the too indulgent count, that son who

+had first learned to say “pear” and then “granny,” that this son

+should now be away in a foreign land amid strange surroundings, a manly

+warrior doing some kind of man’s work of his own, without help or

+guidance. The universal experience of ages, showing that children do

+grow imperceptibly from the cradle to manhood, did not exist for the

+countess. Her son’s growth toward manhood, at each of its stages,

+had seemed as extraordinary to her as if there had never existed the

+millions of human beings who grew up in the same way. As twenty

+years before, it seemed impossible that the little creature who lived

+somewhere under her heart would ever cry, suck her breast, and begin to

+speak, so now she could not believe that that little creature could be

+this strong, brave man, this model son and officer that, judging by this

+letter, he now was.

+

+“What a style! How charmingly he describes!” said she, reading the

+descriptive part of the letter. “And what a soul! Not a word about

+himself.... Not a word! About some Denísov or other, though he himself,

+I dare say, is braver than any of them. He says nothing about his

+sufferings. What a heart! How like him it is! And how he has remembered

+everybody! Not forgetting anyone. I always said when he was only so

+high—I always said....”

+

+For more than a week preparations were being made, rough drafts of

+letters to Nicholas from all the household were written and copied out,

+while under the supervision of the countess and the solicitude of the

+count, money and all things necessary for the uniform and equipment

+of the newly commissioned officer were collected. Anna Mikháylovna,

+practical woman that she was, had even managed by favor with army

+authorities to secure advantageous means of communication for herself

+and her son. She had opportunities of sending her letters to the Grand

+Duke Constantine Pávlovich, who commanded the Guards. The Rostóvs

+supposed that The Russian Guards, Abroad, was quite a definite address,

+and that if a letter reached the Grand Duke in command of the Guards

+there was no reason why it should not reach the Pávlograd regiment,

+which was presumably somewhere in the same neighborhood. And so it was

+decided to send the letters and money by the Grand Duke’s courier to

+Borís and Borís was to forward them to Nicholas. The letters were from

+the old count, the countess, Pétya, Véra, Natásha, and Sónya, and

+finally there were six thousand rubles for his outfit and various other

+things the old count sent to his son.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER VII

+

+On the twelfth of November, Kutúzov’s active army, in camp before

+Olmütz, was preparing to be reviewed next day by the two Emperors—the

+Russian and the Austrian. The Guards, just arrived from Russia, spent

+the night ten miles from Olmütz and next morning were to come straight

+to the review, reaching the field at Olmütz by ten o’clock.

+

+That day Nicholas Rostóv received a letter from Borís, telling him

+that the Ismáylov regiment was quartered for the night ten miles from

+Olmütz and that he wanted to see him as he had a letter and money for

+him. Rostóv was particularly in need of money now that the troops,

+after their active service, were stationed near Olmütz and the camp

+swarmed with well-provisioned sutlers and Austrian Jews offering

+all sorts of tempting wares. The Pávlograds held feast after feast,

+celebrating awards they had received for the campaign, and made

+expeditions to Olmütz to visit a certain Caroline the Hungarian,

+who had recently opened a restaurant there with girls as waitresses.

+Rostóv, who had just celebrated his promotion to a cornetcy and bought

+Denísov’s horse, Bedouin, was in debt all round, to his comrades and

+the sutlers. On receiving Borís’ letter he rode with a fellow officer

+to Olmütz, dined there, drank a bottle of wine, and then set off alone

+to the Guards’ camp to find his old playmate. Rostóv had not yet had

+time to get his uniform. He had on a shabby cadet jacket, decorated with

+a soldier’s cross, equally shabby cadet’s riding breeches lined with

+worn leather, and an officer’s saber with a sword knot. The Don horse

+he was riding was one he had bought from a Cossack during the campaign,

+and he wore a crumpled hussar cap stuck jauntily back on one side of his

+head. As he rode up to the camp he thought how he would impress Borís

+and all his comrades of the Guards by his appearance—that of a

+fighting hussar who had been under fire.

+

+The Guards had made their whole march as if on a pleasure trip, parading

+their cleanliness and discipline. They had come by easy stages, their

+knapsacks conveyed on carts, and the Austrian authorities had provided

+excellent dinners for the officers at every halting place. The regiments

+had entered and left the town with their bands playing, and by the Grand

+Duke’s orders the men had marched all the way in step (a practice on

+which the Guards prided themselves), the officers on foot and at their

+proper posts. Borís had been quartered, and had marched all the

+way, with Berg who was already in command of a company. Berg, who had

+obtained his captaincy during the campaign, had gained the confidence of

+his superiors by his promptitude and accuracy and had arranged his money

+matters very satisfactorily. Borís, during the campaign, had made the

+acquaintance of many persons who might prove useful to him, and by

+a letter of recommendation he had brought from Pierre had become

+acquainted with Prince Andrew Bolkónski, through whom he hoped to

+obtain a post on the commander in chief’s staff. Berg and Borís,

+having rested after yesterday’s march, were sitting, clean and neatly

+dressed, at a round table in the clean quarters allotted to them,

+playing chess. Berg held a smoking pipe between his knees. Borís, in

+the accurate way characteristic of him, was building a little pyramid of

+chessmen with his delicate white fingers while awaiting Berg’s move,

+and watched his opponent’s face, evidently thinking about the game as

+he always thought only of whatever he was engaged on.

+

+“Well, how are you going to get out of that?” he remarked.

+

+“We’ll try to,” replied Berg, touching a pawn and then removing

+his hand.

+

+At that moment the door opened.

+

+“Here he is at last!” shouted Rostóv. “And Berg too! Oh, you

+petisenfans, allay cushay dormir!” he exclaimed, imitating his Russian

+nurse’s French, at which he and Borís used to laugh long ago.

+

+“Dear me, how you have changed!”

+

+Borís rose to meet Rostóv, but in doing so did not omit to steady and

+replace some chessmen that were falling. He was about to embrace his

+friend, but Nicholas avoided him. With that peculiar feeling of youth,

+that dread of beaten tracks, and wish to express itself in a manner

+different from that of its elders which is often insincere, Nicholas

+wished to do something special on meeting his friend. He wanted to pinch

+him, push him, do anything but kiss him—a thing everybody did. But

+notwithstanding this, Borís embraced him in a quiet, friendly way and

+kissed him three times.

+

+They had not met for nearly half a year and, being at the age when young

+men take their first steps on life’s road, each saw immense changes in

+the other, quite a new reflection of the society in which they had taken

+those first steps. Both had changed greatly since they last met and both

+were in a hurry to show the changes that had taken place in them.

+

+“Oh, you damned dandies! Clean and fresh as if you’d been to a fete,

+not like us sinners of the line,” cried Rostóv, with martial swagger

+and with baritone notes in his voice, new to Borís, pointing to his own

+mud-bespattered breeches. The German landlady, hearing Rostóv’s loud

+voice, popped her head in at the door.

+

+“Eh, is she pretty?” he asked with a wink.

+

+“Why do you shout so? You’ll frighten them!” said Borís. “I did

+not expect you today,” he added. “I only sent you the note yesterday

+by Bolkónski—an adjutant of Kutúzov’s, who’s a friend of mine.

+I did not think he would get it to you so quickly.... Well, how are you?

+Been under fire already?” asked Borís.

+

+Without answering, Rostóv shook the soldier’s Cross of St. George

+fastened to the cording of his uniform and, indicating a bandaged arm,

+glanced at Berg with a smile.

+

+“As you see,” he said.

+

+“Indeed? Yes, yes!” said Borís, with a smile. “And we too have

+had a splendid march. You know, of course, that His Imperial Highness

+rode with our regiment all the time, so that we had every comfort and

+every advantage. What receptions we had in Poland! What dinners and

+balls! I can’t tell you. And the Tsarévich was very gracious to all

+our officers.”

+

+And the two friends told each other of their doings, the one of his

+hussar revels and life in the fighting line, the other of the pleasures

+and advantages of service under members of the Imperial family.

+

+“Oh, you Guards!” said Rostóv. “I say, send for some wine.”

+

+Borís made a grimace.

+

+“If you really want it,” said he.

+

+He went to his bed, drew a purse from under the clean pillow, and sent

+for wine.

+

+“Yes, and I have some money and a letter to give you,” he added.

+

+Rostóv took the letter and, throwing the money on the sofa, put both

+arms on the table and began to read. After reading a few lines, he

+glanced angrily at Berg, then, meeting his eyes, hid his face behind the

+letter.

+

+“Well, they’ve sent you a tidy sum,” said Berg, eying the heavy

+purse that sank into the sofa. “As for us, Count, we get along on our

+pay. I can tell you for myself...”

+

+“I say, Berg, my dear fellow,” said Rostóv, “when you get a

+letter from home and meet one of your own people whom you want to talk

+everything over with, and I happen to be there, I’ll go at once, to

+be out of your way! Do go somewhere, anywhere... to the devil!” he

+exclaimed, and immediately seizing him by the shoulder and looking

+amiably into his face, evidently wishing to soften the rudeness of his

+words, he added, “Don’t be hurt, my dear fellow; you know I speak

+from my heart as to an old acquaintance.”

+

+“Oh, don’t mention it, Count! I quite understand,” said Berg,

+getting up and speaking in a muffled and guttural voice.

+

+“Go across to our hosts: they invited you,” added Borís.

+

+Berg put on the cleanest of coats, without a spot or speck of dust,

+stood before a looking glass and brushed the hair on his temples

+upwards, in the way affected by the Emperor Alexander, and, having

+assured himself from the way Rostóv looked at it that his coat had been

+noticed, left the room with a pleasant smile.

+

+“Oh dear, what a beast I am!” muttered Rostóv, as he read the

+letter.

+

+“Why?”

+

+“Oh, what a pig I am, not to have written and to have given them

+such a fright! Oh, what a pig I am!” he repeated, flushing suddenly.

+“Well, have you sent Gabriel for some wine? All right let’s have

+some!”

+

+In the letter from his parents was enclosed a letter of recommendation

+to Bagratión which the old countess at Anna Mikháylovna’s advice had

+obtained through an acquaintance and sent to her son, asking him to take

+it to its destination and make use of it.

+

+“What nonsense! Much I need it!” said Rostóv, throwing the letter

+under the table.

+

+“Why have you thrown that away?” asked Borís.

+

+“It is some letter of recommendation... what the devil do I want it

+for!”

+

+“Why ‘What the devil’?” said Borís, picking it up and reading

+the address. “This letter would be of great use to you.”

+

+“I want nothing, and I won’t be anyone’s adjutant.”

+

+“Why not?” inquired Borís.

+

+“It’s a lackey’s job!”

+

+“You are still the same dreamer, I see,” remarked Borís, shaking

+his head.

+

+“And you’re still the same diplomatist! But that’s not the

+point... Come, how are you?” asked Rostóv.

+

+“Well, as you see. So far everything’s all right, but I confess I

+should much like to be an adjutant and not remain at the front.”

+

+“Why?”

+

+“Because when once a man starts on military service, he should try to

+make as successful a career of it as possible.”

+

+“Oh, that’s it!” said Rostóv, evidently thinking of something

+else.

+

+He looked intently and inquiringly into his friend’s eyes, evidently

+trying in vain to find the answer to some question.

+

+Old Gabriel brought in the wine.

+

+“Shouldn’t we now send for Berg?” asked Borís. “He would drink

+with you. I can’t.”

+

+“Well, send for him... and how do you get on with that German?”

+asked Rostóv, with a contemptuous smile.

+

+“He is a very, very nice, honest, and pleasant fellow,” answered

+Borís.

+

+Again Rostóv looked intently into Borís’ eyes and sighed. Berg

+returned, and over the bottle of wine conversation between the three

+officers became animated. The Guardsmen told Rostóv of their march and

+how they had been made much of in Russia, Poland, and abroad. They spoke

+of the sayings and doings of their commander, the Grand Duke, and told

+stories of his kindness and irascibility. Berg, as usual, kept silent

+when the subject did not relate to himself, but in connection with the

+stories of the Grand Duke’s quick temper he related with gusto how in

+Galicia he had managed to deal with the Grand Duke when the latter

+made a tour of the regiments and was annoyed at the irregularity of

+a movement. With a pleasant smile Berg related how the Grand Duke

+had ridden up to him in a violent passion, shouting: “Arnauts!”

+(“Arnauts” was the Tsarévich’s favorite expression when he was in

+a rage) and called for the company commander.

+

+“Would you believe it, Count, I was not at all alarmed, because I knew

+I was right. Without boasting, you know, I may say that I know the Army

+Orders by heart and know the Regulations as well as I do the Lord’s

+Prayer. So, Count, there never is any negligence in my company, and

+so my conscience was at ease. I came forward....” (Berg stood up and

+showed how he presented himself, with his hand to his cap, and really

+it would have been difficult for a face to express greater respect and

+self-complacency than his did.) “Well, he stormed at me, as the saying

+is, stormed and stormed and stormed! It was not a matter of life but

+rather of death, as the saying is. ‘Albanians!’ and ‘devils!’

+and ‘To Siberia!’” said Berg with a sagacious smile. “I knew I

+was in the right so I kept silent; was not that best, Count?... ‘Hey,

+are you dumb?’ he shouted. Still I remained silent. And what do you

+think, Count? The next day it was not even mentioned in the Orders of

+the Day. That’s what keeping one’s head means. That’s the way,

+Count,” said Berg, lighting his pipe and emitting rings of smoke.

+

+“Yes, that was fine,” said Rostóv, smiling.

+

+But Borís noticed that he was preparing to make fun of Berg, and

+skillfully changed the subject. He asked him to tell them how and where

+he got his wound. This pleased Rostóv and he began talking about it,

+and as he went on became more and more animated. He told them of his

+Schön Grabern affair, just as those who have taken part in a battle

+generally do describe it, that is, as they would like it to have been,

+as they have heard it described by others, and as sounds well, but not

+at all as it really was. Rostóv was a truthful young man and would on

+no account have told a deliberate lie. He began his story meaning to

+tell everything just as it happened, but imperceptibly, involuntarily,

+and inevitably he lapsed into falsehood. If he had told the truth to his

+hearers—who like himself had often heard stories of attacks and had

+formed a definite idea of what an attack was and were expecting to hear

+just such a story—they would either not have believed him or, still

+worse, would have thought that Rostóv was himself to blame since what

+generally happens to the narrators of cavalry attacks had not happened

+to him. He could not tell them simply that everyone went at a trot and

+that he fell off his horse and sprained his arm and then ran as hard as

+he could from a Frenchman into the wood. Besides, to tell everything as

+it really happened, it would have been necessary to make an effort of

+will to tell only what happened. It is very difficult to tell the truth,

+and young people are rarely capable of it. His hearers expected a story

+of how beside himself and all aflame with excitement, he had flown like

+a storm at the square, cut his way in, slashed right and left, how his

+saber had tasted flesh and he had fallen exhausted, and so on. And so he

+told them all that.

+

+In the middle of his story, just as he was saying: “You cannot imagine

+what a strange frenzy one experiences during an attack,” Prince

+Andrew, whom Borís was expecting, entered the room. Prince Andrew, who

+liked to help young men, was flattered by being asked for his assistance

+and being well disposed toward Borís, who had managed to please him the

+day before, he wished to do what the young man wanted. Having been sent

+with papers from Kutúzov to the Tsarévich, he looked in on Borís,

+hoping to find him alone. When he came in and saw an hussar of the line

+recounting his military exploits (Prince Andrew could not endure

+that sort of man), he gave Borís a pleasant smile, frowned as with

+half-closed eyes he looked at Rostóv, bowed slightly and wearily, and

+sat down languidly on the sofa: he felt it unpleasant to have dropped

+in on bad company. Rostóv flushed up on noticing this, but he did not

+care, this was a mere stranger. Glancing, however, at Borís, he saw

+that he too seemed ashamed of the hussar of the line.

+

+In spite of Prince Andrew’s disagreeable, ironical tone, in spite of

+the contempt with which Rostóv, from his fighting army point of view,

+regarded all these little adjutants on the staff of whom the newcomer

+was evidently one, Rostóv felt confused, blushed, and became silent.

+Borís inquired what news there might be on the staff, and what, without

+indiscretion, one might ask about our plans.

+

+“We shall probably advance,” replied Bolkónski, evidently reluctant

+to say more in the presence of a stranger.

+

+Berg took the opportunity to ask, with great politeness, whether, as was

+rumored, the allowance of forage money to captains of companies would be

+doubled. To this Prince Andrew answered with a smile that he could

+give no opinion on such an important government order, and Berg laughed

+gaily.

+

+“As to your business,” Prince Andrew continued, addressing Borís,

+“we will talk of it later” (and he looked round at Rostóv). “Come

+to me after the review and we will do what is possible.”

+

+And, having glanced round the room, Prince Andrew turned to Rostóv,

+whose state of unconquerable childish embarrassment now changing to

+anger he did not condescend to notice, and said: “I think you were

+talking of the Schön Grabern affair? Were you there?”

+

+“I was there,” said Rostóv angrily, as if intending to insult the

+aide-de-camp.

+

+Bolkónski noticed the hussar’s state of mind, and it amused him. With

+a slightly contemptuous smile, he said: “Yes, there are many stories

+now told about that affair!”

+

+“Yes, stories!” repeated Rostóv loudly, looking with eyes suddenly

+grown furious, now at Borís, now at Bolkónski. “Yes, many stories!

+But our stories are the stories of men who have been under the enemy’s

+fire! Our stories have some weight, not like the stories of those

+fellows on the staff who get rewards without doing anything!”

+

+“Of whom you imagine me to be one?” said Prince Andrew, with a quiet

+and particularly amiable smile.

+

+A strange feeling of exasperation and yet of respect for this man’s

+self-possession mingled at that moment in Rostóv’s soul.

+

+“I am not talking about you,” he said, “I don’t know you and,

+frankly, I don’t want to. I am speaking of the staff in general.”

+

+“And I will tell you this,” Prince Andrew interrupted in a tone of

+quiet authority, “you wish to insult me, and I am ready to agree with

+you that it would be very easy to do so if you haven’t sufficient

+self-respect, but admit that the time and place are very badly chosen.

+In a day or two we shall all have to take part in a greater and more

+serious duel, and besides, Drubetskóy, who says he is an old friend

+of yours, is not at all to blame that my face has the misfortune to

+displease you. However,” he added rising, “you know my name and

+where to find me, but don’t forget that I do not regard either myself

+or you as having been at all insulted, and as a man older than you, my

+advice is to let the matter drop. Well then, on Friday after the review

+I shall expect you, Drubetskóy. Au revoir!” exclaimed Prince Andrew,

+and with a bow to them both he went out.

+

+Only when Prince Andrew was gone did Rostóv think of what he ought to

+have said. And he was still more angry at having omitted to say it. He

+ordered his horse at once and, coldly taking leave of Borís, rode

+home. Should he go to headquarters next day and challenge that affected

+adjutant, or really let the matter drop, was the question that worried

+him all the way. He thought angrily of the pleasure he would have at

+seeing the fright of that small and frail but proud man when covered by

+his pistol, and then he felt with surprise that of all the men he knew

+there was none he would so much like to have for a friend as that very

+adjutant whom he so hated.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER VIII

+

+The day after Rostóv had been to see Borís, a review was held of the

+Austrian and Russian troops, both those freshly arrived from Russia and

+those who had been campaigning under Kutúzov. The two Emperors,

+the Russian with his heir the Tsarévich, and the Austrian with the

+Archduke, inspected the allied army of eighty thousand men.

+

+From early morning the smart clean troops were on the move, forming up

+on the field before the fortress. Now thousands of feet and bayonets

+moved and halted at the officers’ command, turned with banners flying,

+formed up at intervals, and wheeled round other similar masses of

+infantry in different uniforms; now was heard the rhythmic beat of

+hoofs and the jingling of showy cavalry in blue, red, and green braided

+uniforms, with smartly dressed bandsmen in front mounted on black, roan,

+or gray horses; then again, spreading out with the brazen clatter of the

+polished shining cannon that quivered on the gun carriages and with

+the smell of linstocks, came the artillery which crawled between the

+infantry and cavalry and took up its appointed position. Not only the

+generals in full parade uniforms, with their thin or thick waists drawn

+in to the utmost, their red necks squeezed into their stiff collars, and

+wearing scarves and all their decorations, not only the elegant, pomaded

+officers, but every soldier with his freshly washed and shaven face and

+his weapons clean and polished to the utmost, and every horse groomed

+till its coat shone like satin and every hair of its wetted mane lay

+smooth—felt that no small matter was happening, but an important and

+solemn affair. Every general and every soldier was conscious of his own

+insignificance, aware of being but a drop in that ocean of men, and

+yet at the same time was conscious of his strength as a part of that

+enormous whole.

+

+From early morning strenuous activities and efforts had begun and by ten

+o’clock all had been brought into due order. The ranks were drawn

+up on the vast field. The whole army was extended in three lines: the

+cavalry in front, behind it the artillery, and behind that again the

+infantry.

+

+A space like a street was left between each two lines of troops. The

+three parts of that army were sharply distinguished: Kutúzov’s

+fighting army (with the Pávlograds on the right flank of the front);

+those recently arrived from Russia, both Guards and regiments of the

+line; and the Austrian troops. But they all stood in the same lines,

+under one command, and in a like order.

+

+Like wind over leaves ran an excited whisper: “They’re coming!

+They’re coming!” Alarmed voices were heard, and a stir of final

+preparation swept over all the troops.

+

+From the direction of Olmütz in front of them, a group was seen

+approaching. And at that moment, though the day was still, a light gust

+of wind blowing over the army slightly stirred the streamers on the

+lances and the unfolded standards fluttered against their staffs. It

+looked as if by that slight motion the army itself was expressing its

+joy at the approach of the Emperors. One voice was heard shouting:

+“Eyes front!” Then, like the crowing of cocks at sunrise, this was

+repeated by others from various sides and all became silent.

+

+In the deathlike stillness only the tramp of horses was heard. This

+was the Emperors’ suites. The Emperors rode up to the flank, and the

+trumpets of the first cavalry regiment played the general march. It

+seemed as though not the trumpeters were playing, but as if the army

+itself, rejoicing at the Emperors’ approach, had naturally burst into

+music. Amid these sounds, only the youthful kindly voice of the Emperor

+Alexander was clearly heard. He gave the words of greeting, and the

+first regiment roared “Hurrah!” so deafeningly, continuously, and

+joyfully that the men themselves were awed by their multitude and the

+immensity of the power they constituted.

+

+Rostóv, standing in the front lines of Kutúzov’s army which the Tsar

+approached first, experienced the same feeling as every other man in

+that army: a feeling of self-forgetfulness, a proud consciousness of

+might, and a passionate attraction to him who was the cause of this

+triumph.

+

+He felt that at a single word from that man all this vast mass (and he

+himself an insignificant atom in it) would go through fire and water,

+commit crime, die, or perform deeds of highest heroism, and so he could

+not but tremble and his heart stand still at the imminence of that word.

+

+“Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!” thundered from all sides, one regiment

+after another greeting the Tsar with the strains of the march, and then

+“Hurrah!”... Then the general march, and again “Hurrah! Hurrah!”

+growing ever stronger and fuller and merging into a deafening roar.

+

+Till the Tsar reached it, each regiment in its silence and immobility

+seemed like a lifeless body, but as soon as he came up it became alive,

+its thunder joining the roar of the whole line along which he had

+already passed. Through the terrible and deafening roar of those voices,

+amid the square masses of troops standing motionless as if turned to

+stone, hundreds of riders composing the suites moved carelessly but

+symmetrically and above all freely, and in front of them two men—the

+Emperors. Upon them the undivided, tensely passionate attention of that

+whole mass of men was concentrated.

+

+The handsome young Emperor Alexander, in the uniform of the Horse

+Guards, wearing a cocked hat with its peaks front and back, with his

+pleasant face and resonant though not loud voice, attracted everyone’s

+attention.

+

+Rostóv was not far from the trumpeters, and with his keen sight had

+recognized the Tsar and watched his approach. When he was within twenty

+paces, and Nicholas could clearly distinguish every detail of his

+handsome, happy young face, he experienced a feeling of tenderness

+and ecstasy such as he had never before known. Every trait and every

+movement of the Tsar’s seemed to him enchanting.

+

+Stopping in front of the Pávlograds, the Tsar said something in French

+to the Austrian Emperor and smiled.

+

+Seeing that smile, Rostóv involuntarily smiled himself and felt a still

+stronger flow of love for his sovereign. He longed to show that love in

+some way and knowing that this was impossible was ready to cry. The Tsar

+called the colonel of the regiment and said a few words to him.

+

+“Oh God, what would happen to me if the Emperor spoke to me?”

+thought Rostóv. “I should die of happiness!”

+

+The Tsar addressed the officers also: “I thank you all, gentlemen, I

+thank you with my whole heart.” To Rostóv every word sounded like a

+voice from heaven. How gladly would he have died at once for his Tsar!

+

+“You have earned the St. George’s standards and will be worthy of

+them.”

+

+“Oh, to die, to die for him,” thought Rostóv.

+

+The Tsar said something more which Rostóv did not hear, and the

+soldiers, straining their lungs, shouted “Hurrah!”

+

+Rostóv too, bending over his saddle, shouted “Hurrah!” with all his

+might, feeling that he would like to injure himself by that shout, if

+only to express his rapture fully.

+

+The Tsar stopped a few minutes in front of the hussars as if undecided.

+

+“How can the Emperor be undecided?” thought Rostóv, but then even

+this indecision appeared to him majestic and enchanting, like everything

+else the Tsar did.

+

+That hesitation lasted only an instant. The Tsar’s foot, in the narrow

+pointed boot then fashionable, touched the groin of the bobtailed bay

+mare he rode, his hand in a white glove gathered up the reins, and he

+moved off accompanied by an irregularly swaying sea of aides-de-camp.

+Farther and farther he rode away, stopping at other regiments, till at

+last only his white plumes were visible to Rostóv from amid the suites

+that surrounded the Emperors.

+

+Among the gentlemen of the suite, Rostóv noticed Bolkónski, sitting

+his horse indolently and carelessly. Rostóv recalled their quarrel of

+yesterday and the question presented itself whether he ought or ought

+not to challenge Bolkónski. “Of course not!” he now thought. “Is

+it worth thinking or speaking of it at such a moment? At a time of such

+love, such rapture, and such self-sacrifice, what do any of our quarrels

+and affronts matter? I love and forgive everybody now.”

+

+When the Emperor had passed nearly all the regiments, the troops began

+a ceremonial march past him, and Rostóv on Bedouin, recently purchased

+from Denísov, rode past too, at the rear of his squadron—that is,

+alone and in full view of the Emperor.

+

+Before he reached him, Rostóv, who was a splendid horseman, spurred

+Bedouin twice and successfully put him to the showy trot in which the

+animal went when excited. Bending his foaming muzzle to his chest, his

+tail extended, Bedouin, as if also conscious of the Emperor’s eye

+upon him, passed splendidly, lifting his feet with a high and graceful

+action, as if flying through the air without touching the ground.

+

+Rostóv himself, his legs well back and his stomach drawn in and feeling

+himself one with his horse, rode past the Emperor with a frowning but

+blissful face “like a vewy devil,” as Denísov expressed it.

+

+“Fine fellows, the Pávlograds!” remarked the Emperor.

+

+“My God, how happy I should be if he ordered me to leap into the fire

+this instant!” thought Rostóv.

+

+When the review was over, the newly arrived officers, and also

+Kutúzov’s, collected in groups and began to talk about the awards,

+about the Austrians and their uniforms, about their lines, about

+Bonaparte, and how badly the latter would fare now, especially if the

+Essen corps arrived and Prussia took our side.

+

+But the talk in every group was chiefly about the Emperor Alexander. His

+every word and movement was described with ecstasy.

+

+They all had but one wish: to advance as soon as possible against the

+enemy under the Emperor’s command. Commanded by the Emperor himself

+they could not fail to vanquish anyone, be it whom it might: so thought

+Rostóv and most of the officers after the review.

+

+All were then more confident of victory than the winning of two battles

+would have made them.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER IX

+

+The day after the review, Borís, in his best uniform and with his

+comrade Berg’s best wishes for success, rode to Olmütz to see

+Bolkónski, wishing to profit by his friendliness and obtain for himself

+the best post he could—preferably that of adjutant to some important

+personage, a position in the army which seemed to him most attractive.

+“It is all very well for Rostóv, whose father sends him ten thousand

+rubles at a time, to talk about not wishing to cringe to anybody and not

+be anyone’s lackey, but I who have nothing but my brains have to

+make a career and must not miss opportunities, but must avail myself of

+them!” he reflected.

+

+He did not find Prince Andrew in Olmütz that day, but the appearance of

+the town where the headquarters and the diplomatic corps were stationed

+and the two Emperors were living with their suites, households, and

+courts only strengthened his desire to belong to that higher world.

+

+He knew no one, and despite his smart Guardsman’s uniform, all these

+exalted personages passing in the streets in their elegant carriages

+with their plumes, ribbons, and medals, both courtiers and military

+men, seemed so immeasurably above him, an insignificant officer of the

+Guards, that they not only did not wish to, but simply could not, be

+aware of his existence. At the quarters of the commander in chief,

+Kutúzov, where he inquired for Bolkónski, all the adjutants and even

+the orderlies looked at him as if they wished to impress on him that a

+great many officers like him were always coming there and that everybody

+was heartily sick of them. In spite of this, or rather because of

+it, next day, November 15, after dinner he again went to Olmütz and,

+entering the house occupied by Kutúzov, asked for Bolkónski. Prince

+Andrew was in and Borís was shown into a large hall probably formerly

+used for dancing, but in which five beds now stood, and furniture of

+various kinds: a table, chairs, and a clavichord. One adjutant, nearest

+the door, was sitting at the table in a Persian dressing gown, writing.

+Another, the red, stout Nesvítski, lay on a bed with his arms under his

+head, laughing with an officer who had sat down beside him. A third was

+playing a Viennese waltz on the clavichord, while a fourth, lying on

+the clavichord, sang the tune. Bolkónski was not there. None of these

+gentlemen changed his position on seeing Borís. The one who was writing

+and whom Borís addressed turned round crossly and told him Bolkónski

+was on duty and that he should go through the door on the left into the

+reception room if he wished to see him. Borís thanked him and went to

+the reception room, where he found some ten officers and generals.

+

+When he entered, Prince Andrew, his eyes drooping contemptuously (with

+that peculiar expression of polite weariness which plainly says, “If

+it were not my duty I would not talk to you for a moment”), was

+listening to an old Russian general with decorations, who stood very

+erect, almost on tiptoe, with a soldier’s obsequious expression on his

+purple face, reporting something.

+

+“Very well, then, be so good as to wait,” said Prince Andrew to the

+general, in Russian, speaking with the French intonation he affected

+when he wished to speak contemptuously, and noticing Borís, Prince

+Andrew, paying no more heed to the general who ran after him imploring

+him to hear something more, nodded and turned to him with a cheerful

+smile.

+

+At that moment Borís clearly realized what he had before surmised, that

+in the army, besides the subordination and discipline prescribed in the

+military code, which he and the others knew in the regiment, there was

+another, more important, subordination, which made this tight-laced,

+purple-faced general wait respectfully while Captain Prince Andrew, for

+his own pleasure, chose to chat with Lieutenant Drubetskóy. More than

+ever was Borís resolved to serve in future not according to the written

+code, but under this unwritten law. He felt now that merely by having

+been recommended to Prince Andrew he had already risen above the general

+who at the front had the power to annihilate him, a lieutenant of the

+Guards. Prince Andrew came up to him and took his hand.

+

+“I am very sorry you did not find me in yesterday. I was fussing about

+with Germans all day. We went with Weyrother to survey the dispositions.

+When Germans start being accurate, there’s no end to it!”

+

+Borís smiled, as if he understood what Prince Andrew was alluding to

+as something generally known. But it was the first time he had heard

+Weyrother’s name, or even the term “dispositions.”

+

+“Well, my dear fellow, so you still want to be an adjutant? I have

+been thinking about you.”

+

+“Yes, I was thinking”—for some reason Borís could not help

+blushing—“of asking the commander in chief. He has had a letter from

+Prince Kurágin about me. I only wanted to ask because I fear the Guards

+won’t be in action,” he added as if in apology.

+

+“All right, all right. We’ll talk it over,” replied Prince Andrew.

+“Only let me report this gentleman’s business, and I shall be at

+your disposal.”

+

+While Prince Andrew went to report about the purple-faced general, that

+gentleman—evidently not sharing Borís’ conception of the advantages

+of the unwritten code of subordination—looked so fixedly at the

+presumptuous lieutenant who had prevented his finishing what he had to

+say to the adjutant that Borís felt uncomfortable. He turned away and

+waited impatiently for Prince Andrew’s return from the commander in

+chief’s room.

+

+“You see, my dear fellow, I have been thinking about you,”

+said Prince Andrew when they had gone into the large room where the

+clavichord was. “It’s no use your going to the commander in chief.

+He would say a lot of pleasant things, ask you to dinner” (“That

+would not be bad as regards the unwritten code,” thought Borís),

+“but nothing more would come of it. There will soon be a battalion of

+us aides-de-camp and adjutants! But this is what we’ll do: I have

+a good friend, an adjutant general and an excellent fellow, Prince

+Dolgorúkov; and though you may not know it, the fact is that now

+Kutúzov with his staff and all of us count for nothing. Everything is

+now centered round the Emperor. So we will go to Dolgorúkov; I have to

+go there anyhow and I have already spoken to him about you. We shall

+see whether he cannot attach you to himself or find a place for you

+somewhere nearer the sun.”

+

+Prince Andrew always became specially keen when he had to guide a young

+man and help him to worldly success. Under cover of obtaining help

+of this kind for another, which from pride he would never accept for

+himself, he kept in touch with the circle which confers success and

+which attracted him. He very readily took up Borís’ cause and went

+with him to Dolgorúkov.

+

+It was late in the evening when they entered the palace at Olmütz

+occupied by the Emperors and their retinues.

+

+That same day a council of war had been held in which all the members of

+the Hofkriegsrath and both Emperors took part. At that council, contrary

+to the views of the old generals Kutúzov and Prince Schwartzenberg, it

+had been decided to advance immediately and give battle to Bonaparte.

+The council of war was just over when Prince Andrew accompanied

+by Borís arrived at the palace to find Dolgorúkov. Everyone at

+headquarters was still under the spell of the day’s council, at which

+the party of the young had triumphed. The voices of those who counseled

+delay and advised waiting for something else before advancing had been

+so completely silenced and their arguments confuted by such conclusive

+evidence of the advantages of attacking that what had been discussed

+at the council—the coming battle and the victory that would certainly

+result from it—no longer seemed to be in the future but in the past.

+All the advantages were on our side. Our enormous forces, undoubtedly

+superior to Napoleon’s, were concentrated in one place, the troops

+inspired by the Emperors’ presence were eager for action. The

+strategic position where the operations would take place was familiar in

+all its details to the Austrian General Weyrother: a lucky accident had

+ordained that the Austrian army should maneuver the previous year on the

+very fields where the French had now to be fought; the adjacent

+locality was known and shown in every detail on the maps, and Bonaparte,

+evidently weakened, was undertaking nothing.

+

+Dolgorúkov, one of the warmest advocates of an attack, had just

+returned from the council, tired and exhausted but eager and proud

+of the victory that had been gained. Prince Andrew introduced his

+protégé, but Prince Dolgorúkov politely and firmly pressing his hand

+said nothing to Borís and, evidently unable to suppress the thoughts

+which were uppermost in his mind at that moment, addressed Prince Andrew

+in French.

+

+“Ah, my dear fellow, what a battle we have gained! God grant that

+the one that will result from it will be as victorious! However, dear

+fellow,” he said abruptly and eagerly, “I must confess to having

+been unjust to the Austrians and especially to Weyrother. What

+exactitude, what minuteness, what knowledge of the locality, what

+foresight for every eventuality, every possibility even to the smallest

+detail! No, my dear fellow, no conditions better than our present ones

+could have been devised. This combination of Austrian precision with

+Russian valor—what more could be wished for?”

+

+“So the attack is definitely resolved on?” asked Bolkónski.

+

+“And do you know, my dear fellow, it seems to me that Bonaparte has

+decidedly lost bearings, you know that a letter was received from him

+today for the Emperor.” Dolgorúkov smiled significantly.

+

+“Is that so? And what did he say?” inquired Bolkónski.

+

+“What can he say? Tra-di-ri-di-ra and so on... merely to gain time.

+I tell you he is in our hands, that’s certain! But what was most

+amusing,” he continued, with a sudden, good-natured laugh, “was that

+we could not think how to address the reply! If not as ‘Consul’

+and of course not as ‘Emperor,’ it seemed to me it should be to

+‘General Bonaparte.’”

+

+“But between not recognizing him as Emperor and calling him General

+Bonaparte, there is a difference,” remarked Bolkónski.

+

+“That’s just it,” interrupted Dolgorúkov quickly, laughing.

+“You know Bilíbin—he’s a very clever fellow. He suggested

+addressing him as ‘Usurper and Enemy of Mankind.’”

+

+Dolgorúkov laughed merrily.

+

+“Only that?” said Bolkónski.

+

+“All the same, it was Bilíbin who found a suitable form for the

+address. He is a wise and clever fellow.”

+

+“What was it?”

+

+“To the Head of the French Government... Au chef du gouvernement

+français,” said Dolgorúkov, with grave satisfaction. “Good,

+wasn’t it?”

+

+“Yes, but he will dislike it extremely,” said Bolkónski.

+

+“Oh yes, very much! My brother knows him, he’s dined with him—the

+present Emperor—more than once in Paris, and tells me he never met a

+more cunning or subtle diplomatist—you know, a combination of French

+adroitness and Italian play-acting! Do you know the tale about him and

+Count Markóv? Count Markóv was the only man who knew how to handle

+him. You know the story of the handkerchief? It is delightful!”

+

+And the talkative Dolgorúkov, turning now to Borís, now to Prince

+Andrew, told how Bonaparte wishing to test Markóv, our ambassador,

+purposely dropped a handkerchief in front of him and stood looking

+at Markóv, probably expecting Markóv to pick it up for him, and how

+Markóv immediately dropped his own beside it and picked it up without

+touching Bonaparte’s.

+

+“Delightful!” said Bolkónski. “But I have come to you, Prince,

+as a petitioner on behalf of this young man. You see...” but

+before Prince Andrew could finish, an aide-de-camp came in to summon

+Dolgorúkov to the Emperor.

+

+“Oh, what a nuisance,” said Dolgorúkov, getting up hurriedly and

+pressing the hands of Prince Andrew and Borís. “You know I should

+be very glad to do all in my power both for you and for this dear young

+man.” Again he pressed the hand of the latter with an expression of

+good-natured, sincere, and animated levity. “But you see... another

+time!”

+

+Borís was excited by the thought of being so close to the higher powers

+as he felt himself to be at that moment. He was conscious that here

+he was in contact with the springs that set in motion the enormous

+movements of the mass of which in his regiment he felt himself a tiny,

+obedient, and insignificant atom. They followed Prince Dolgorúkov out

+into the corridor and met—coming out of the door of the Emperor’s

+room by which Dolgorúkov had entered—a short man in civilian clothes

+with a clever face and sharply projecting jaw which, without spoiling

+his face, gave him a peculiar vivacity and shiftiness of expression.

+This short man nodded to Dolgorúkov as to an intimate friend and stared

+at Prince Andrew with cool intensity, walking straight toward him and

+evidently expecting him to bow or to step out of his way. Prince Andrew

+did neither: a look of animosity appeared on his face and the other

+turned away and went down the side of the corridor.

+

+“Who was that?” asked Borís.

+

+“He is one of the most remarkable, but to me most unpleasant of

+men—the Minister of Foreign Affairs, Prince Adam Czartorýski.... It

+is such men as he who decide the fate of nations,” added Bolkónski

+with a sigh he could not suppress, as they passed out of the palace.

+

+Next day, the army began its campaign, and up to the very battle of

+Austerlitz, Borís was unable to see either Prince Andrew or Dolgorúkov

+again and remained for a while with the Ismáylov regiment.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER X

+

+At dawn on the sixteenth of November, Denísov’s squadron, in

+which Nicholas Rostóv served and which was in Prince Bagratión’s

+detachment, moved from the place where it had spent the night, advancing

+into action as arranged, and after going behind other columns for

+about two thirds of a mile was stopped on the highroad. Rostóv saw the

+Cossacks and then the first and second squadrons of hussars and infantry

+battalions and artillery pass by and go forward and then Generals

+Bagratión and Dolgorúkov ride past with their adjutants. All the fear

+before action which he had experienced as previously, all the inner

+struggle to conquer that fear, all his dreams of distinguishing himself

+as a true hussar in this battle, had been wasted. Their squadron

+remained in reserve and Nicholas Rostóv spent that day in a dull and

+wretched mood. At nine in the morning, he heard firing in front and

+shouts of hurrah, and saw wounded being brought back (there were not

+many of them), and at last he saw how a whole detachment of French

+cavalry was brought in, convoyed by a sótnya of Cossacks. Evidently the

+affair was over and, though not big, had been a successful engagement.

+The men and officers returning spoke of a brilliant victory, of the

+occupation of the town of Wischau and the capture of a whole French

+squadron. The day was bright and sunny after a sharp night frost, and

+the cheerful glitter of that autumn day was in keeping with the news of

+victory which was conveyed, not only by the tales of those who had taken

+part in it, but also by the joyful expression on the faces of soldiers,

+officers, generals, and adjutants, as they passed Rostóv going or

+coming. And Nicholas, who had vainly suffered all the dread that

+precedes a battle and had spent that happy day in inactivity, was all

+the more depressed.

+

+“Come here, Wostóv. Let’s dwink to dwown our gwief!” shouted

+Denísov, who had settled down by the roadside with a flask and some

+food.

+

+The officers gathered round Denísov’s canteen, eating and talking.

+

+“There! They are bringing another!” cried one of the officers,

+indicating a captive French dragoon who was being brought in on foot by

+two Cossacks.

+

+One of them was leading by the bridle a fine large French horse he had

+taken from the prisoner.

+

+“Sell us that horse!” Denísov called out to the Cossacks.

+

+“If you like, your honor!”

+

+The officers got up and stood round the Cossacks and their prisoner.

+The French dragoon was a young Alsatian who spoke French with a German

+accent. He was breathless with agitation, his face was red, and when

+he heard some French spoken he at once began speaking to the officers,

+addressing first one, then another. He said he would not have been

+taken, it was not his fault but the corporal’s who had sent him to

+seize some horsecloths, though he had told him the Russians were there.

+And at every word he added: “But don’t hurt my little horse!” and

+stroked the animal. It was plain that he did not quite grasp where he

+was. Now he excused himself for having been taken prisoner and now,

+imagining himself before his own officers, insisted on his soldierly

+discipline and zeal in the service. He brought with him into our

+rearguard all the freshness of atmosphere of the French army, which was

+so alien to us.

+

+The Cossacks sold the horse for two gold pieces, and Rostóv, being the

+richest of the officers now that he had received his money, bought it.

+

+“But don’t hurt my little horse!” said the Alsatian good-naturedly

+to Rostóv when the animal was handed over to the hussar.

+

+Rostóv smilingly reassured the dragoon and gave him money.

+

+“Alley! Alley!” said the Cossack, touching the prisoner’s arm to

+make him go on.

+

+“The Emperor! The Emperor!” was suddenly heard among the hussars.

+

+All began to run and bustle, and Rostóv saw coming up the road behind

+him several riders with white plumes in their hats. In a moment everyone

+was in his place, waiting.

+

+Rostóv did not know or remember how he ran to his place and mounted.

+Instantly his regret at not having been in action and his dejected mood

+amid people of whom he was weary had gone, instantly every thought of

+himself had vanished. He was filled with happiness at his nearness to

+the Emperor. He felt that this nearness by itself made up to him for the

+day he had lost. He was happy as a lover when the longed-for moment of

+meeting arrives. Not daring to look round and without looking round, he

+was ecstatically conscious of his approach. He felt it not only from the

+sound of the hoofs of the approaching cavalcade, but because as he drew

+near everything grew brighter, more joyful, more significant, and more

+festive around him. Nearer and nearer to Rostóv came that sun shedding

+beams of mild and majestic light around, and already he felt himself

+enveloped in those beams, he heard his voice, that kindly, calm,

+and majestic voice that was yet so simple! And as if in accord with

+Rostóv’s feeling, there was a deathly stillness amid which was heard

+the Emperor’s voice.

+

+“The Pávlograd hussars?” he inquired.

+

+“The reserves, sire!” replied a voice, a very human one compared to

+that which had said: “The Pávlograd hussars?”

+

+The Emperor drew level with Rostóv and halted. Alexander’s face was

+even more beautiful than it had been three days before at the review. It

+shone with such gaiety and youth, such innocent youth, that it suggested

+the liveliness of a fourteen-year-old boy, and yet it was the face

+of the majestic Emperor. Casually, while surveying the squadron, the

+Emperor’s eyes met Rostóv’s and rested on them for not more than

+two seconds. Whether or no the Emperor understood what was going on in

+Rostóv’s soul (it seemed to Rostóv that he understood everything),

+at any rate his light-blue eyes gazed for about two seconds into

+Rostóv’s face. A gentle, mild light poured from them. Then all at

+once he raised his eyebrows, abruptly touched his horse with his left

+foot, and galloped on.

+

+The younger Emperor could not restrain his wish to be present at the

+battle and, in spite of the remonstrances of his courtiers, at twelve

+o’clock left the third column with which he had been and galloped

+toward the vanguard. Before he came up with the hussars, several

+adjutants met him with news of the successful result of the action.

+

+This battle, which consisted in the capture of a French squadron, was

+represented as a brilliant victory over the French, and so the

+Emperor and the whole army, especially while the smoke hung over

+the battlefield, believed that the French had been defeated and were

+retreating against their will. A few minutes after the Emperor had

+passed, the Pávlograd division was ordered to advance. In Wischau

+itself, a petty German town, Rostóv saw the Emperor again. In the

+market place, where there had been some rather heavy firing before the

+Emperor’s arrival, lay several killed and wounded soldiers whom there

+had not been time to move. The Emperor, surrounded by his suite

+of officers and courtiers, was riding a bobtailed chestnut mare, a

+different one from that which he had ridden at the review, and bending

+to one side he gracefully held a gold lorgnette to his eyes and looked

+at a soldier who lay prone, with blood on his uncovered head. The

+wounded soldier was so dirty, coarse, and revolting that his proximity

+to the Emperor shocked Rostóv. Rostóv saw how the Emperor’s rather

+round shoulders shuddered as if a cold shiver had run down them, how his

+left foot began convulsively tapping the horse’s side with the spur,

+and how the well-trained horse looked round unconcerned and did not

+stir. An adjutant, dismounting, lifted the soldier under the arms to

+place him on a stretcher that had been brought. The soldier groaned.

+

+“Gently, gently! Can’t you do it more gently?” said the Emperor

+apparently suffering more than the dying soldier, and he rode away.

+

+Rostóv saw tears filling the Emperor’s eyes and heard him, as he was

+riding away, say to Czartorýski: “What a terrible thing war is: what

+a terrible thing! Quelle terrible chose que la guerre!”

+

+The troops of the vanguard were stationed before Wischau, within sight

+of the enemy’s lines, which all day long had yielded ground to us

+at the least firing. The Emperor’s gratitude was announced to the

+vanguard, rewards were promised, and the men received a double ration of

+vodka. The campfires crackled and the soldiers’ songs resounded

+even more merrily than on the previous night. Denísov celebrated his

+promotion to the rank of major, and Rostóv, who had already drunk

+enough, at the end of the feast proposed the Emperor’s health. “Not

+‘our Sovereign, the Emperor,’ as they say at official dinners,”

+said he, “but the health of our Sovereign, that good, enchanting, and

+great man! Let us drink to his health and to the certain defeat of the

+French!”

+

+“If we fought before,” he said, “not letting the French pass, as

+at Schön Grabern, what shall we not do now when he is at the front? We

+will all die for him gladly! Is it not so, gentlemen? Perhaps I am not

+saying it right, I have drunk a good deal—but that is how I feel, and

+so do you too! To the health of Alexander the First! Hurrah!”

+

+“Hurrah!” rang the enthusiastic voices of the officers.

+

+And the old cavalry captain, Kírsten, shouted enthusiastically and no

+less sincerely than the twenty-year-old Rostóv.

+

+When the officers had emptied and smashed their glasses, Kírsten filled

+others and, in shirt sleeves and breeches, went glass in hand to the

+soldiers’ bonfires and with his long gray mustache, his white chest

+showing under his open shirt, he stood in a majestic pose in the light

+of the campfire, waving his uplifted arm.

+

+“Lads! here’s to our Sovereign, the Emperor, and victory over

+our enemies! Hurrah!” he exclaimed in his dashing, old, hussar’s

+baritone.

+

+The hussars crowded round and responded heartily with loud shouts.

+

+Late that night, when all had separated, Denísov with his short hand

+patted his favorite, Rostóv, on the shoulder.

+

+“As there’s no one to fall in love with on campaign, he’s fallen

+in love with the Tsar,” he said.

+

+“Denísov, don’t make fun of it!” cried Rostóv. “It is such a

+lofty, beautiful feeling, such a...”

+

+“I believe it, I believe it, fwiend, and I share and appwove...”

+

+“No, you don’t understand!”

+

+And Rostóv got up and went wandering among the campfires, dreaming of

+what happiness it would be to die—not in saving the Emperor’s life

+(he did not even dare to dream of that), but simply to die before his

+eyes. He really was in love with the Tsar and the glory of the Russian

+arms and the hope of future triumph. And he was not the only man to

+experience that feeling during those memorable days preceding the battle

+of Austerlitz: nine tenths of the men in the Russian army were then in

+love, though less ecstatically, with their Tsar and the glory of the

+Russian arms.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XI

+

+The next day the Emperor stopped at Wischau, and Villier, his physician,

+was repeatedly summoned to see him. At headquarters and among the troops

+near by the news spread that the Emperor was unwell. He ate nothing and

+had slept badly that night, those around him reported. The cause of this

+indisposition was the strong impression made on his sensitive mind by

+the sight of the killed and wounded.

+

+At daybreak on the seventeenth, a French officer who had come with

+a flag of truce, demanding an audience with the Russian Emperor, was

+brought into Wischau from our outposts. This officer was Savary. The

+Emperor had only just fallen asleep and so Savary had to wait. At midday

+he was admitted to the Emperor, and an hour later he rode off with

+Prince Dolgorúkov to the advanced post of the French army.

+

+It was rumored that Savary had been sent to propose to Alexander

+a meeting with Napoleon. To the joy and pride of the whole army, a

+personal interview was refused, and instead of the Sovereign, Prince

+Dolgorúkov, the victor at Wischau, was sent with Savary to negotiate

+with Napoleon if, contrary to expectations, these negotiations were

+actuated by a real desire for peace.

+

+Toward evening Dolgorúkov came back, went straight to the Tsar, and

+remained alone with him for a long time.

+

+On the eighteenth and nineteenth of November, the army advanced two

+days’ march and the enemy’s outposts after a brief interchange

+of shots retreated. In the highest army circles from midday on the

+nineteenth, a great, excitedly bustling activity began which lasted till

+the morning of the twentieth, when the memorable battle of Austerlitz

+was fought.

+

+Till midday on the nineteenth, the activity—the eager talk, running to

+and fro, and dispatching of adjutants—was confined to the Emperor’s

+headquarters. But on the afternoon of that day, this activity reached

+Kutúzov’s headquarters and the staffs of the commanders of columns.

+By evening, the adjutants had spread it to all ends and parts of the

+army, and in the night from the nineteenth to the twentieth, the whole

+eighty thousand allied troops rose from their bivouacs to the hum of

+voices, and the army swayed and started in one enormous mass six miles

+long.

+

+The concentrated activity which had begun at the Emperor’s

+headquarters in the morning and had started the whole movement that

+followed was like the first movement of the main wheel of a large tower

+clock. One wheel slowly moved, another was set in motion, and a third,

+and wheels began to revolve faster and faster, levers and cogwheels to

+work, chimes to play, figures to pop out, and the hands to advance with

+regular motion as a result of all that activity.

+

+Just as in the mechanism of a clock, so in the mechanism of the military

+machine, an impulse once given leads to the final result; and just as

+indifferently quiescent till the moment when motion is transmitted

+to them are the parts of the mechanism which the impulse has not yet

+reached. Wheels creak on their axles as the cogs engage one another and

+the revolving pulleys whirr with the rapidity of their movement, but a

+neighboring wheel is as quiet and motionless as though it were prepared

+to remain so for a hundred years; but the moment comes when the lever

+catches it and obeying the impulse that wheel begins to creak and joins

+in the common motion the result and aim of which are beyond its ken.

+

+Just as in a clock, the result of the complicated motion of innumerable

+wheels and pulleys is merely a slow and regular movement of the

+hands which show the time, so the result of all the complicated human

+activities of 160,000 Russians and French—all their passions, desires,

+remorse, humiliations, sufferings, outbursts of pride, fear, and

+enthusiasm—was only the loss of the battle of Austerlitz, the

+so-called battle of the three Emperors—that is to say, a slow movement

+of the hand on the dial of human history.

+

+Prince Andrew was on duty that day and in constant attendance on the

+commander in chief.

+

+At six in the evening, Kutúzov went to the Emperor’s headquarters

+and after staying but a short time with the Tsar went to see the grand

+marshal of the court, Count Tolstóy.

+

+Bolkónski took the opportunity to go in to get some details of the

+coming action from Dolgorúkov. He felt that Kutúzov was upset

+and dissatisfied about something and that at headquarters they were

+dissatisfied with him, and also that at the Emperor’s headquarters

+everyone adopted toward him the tone of men who know something others do

+not know: he therefore wished to speak to Dolgorúkov.

+

+“Well, how d’you do, my dear fellow?” said Dolgorúkov, who was

+sitting at tea with Bilíbin. “The fete is for tomorrow. How is your

+old fellow? Out of sorts?”

+

+“I won’t say he is out of sorts, but I fancy he would like to be

+heard.”

+

+“But they heard him at the council of war and will hear him when he

+talks sense, but to temporize and wait for something now when Bonaparte

+fears nothing so much as a general battle is impossible.”

+

+“Yes, you have seen him?” said Prince Andrew. “Well, what is

+Bonaparte like? How did he impress you?”

+

+“Yes, I saw him, and am convinced that he fears nothing so much as

+a general engagement,” repeated Dolgorúkov, evidently prizing this

+general conclusion which he had arrived at from his interview with

+Napoleon. “If he weren’t afraid of a battle why did he ask for that

+interview? Why negotiate, and above all why retreat, when to retreat is

+so contrary to his method of conducting war? Believe me, he is afraid,

+afraid of a general battle. His hour has come! Mark my words!”

+

+“But tell me, what is he like, eh?” said Prince Andrew again.

+

+“He is a man in a gray overcoat, very anxious that I should call

+him ‘Your Majesty,’ but who, to his chagrin, got no title from

+me! That’s the sort of man he is, and nothing more,” replied

+Dolgorúkov, looking round at Bilíbin with a smile.

+

+“Despite my great respect for old Kutúzov,” he continued, “we

+should be a nice set of fellows if we were to wait about and so give him

+a chance to escape, or to trick us, now that we certainly have him in

+our hands! No, we mustn’t forget Suvórov and his rule—not to put

+yourself in a position to be attacked, but yourself to attack. Believe

+me in war the energy of young men often shows the way better than all

+the experience of old Cunctators.”

+

+“But in what position are we going to attack him? I have been at the

+outposts today and it is impossible to say where his chief forces are

+situated,” said Prince Andrew.

+

+He wished to explain to Dolgorúkov a plan of attack he had himself

+formed.

+

+“Oh, that is all the same,” Dolgorúkov said quickly, and getting up

+he spread a map on the table. “All eventualities have been foreseen.

+If he is standing before Brünn...”

+

+And Prince Dolgorúkov rapidly but indistinctly explained Weyrother’s

+plan of a flanking movement.

+

+Prince Andrew began to reply and to state his own plan, which might

+have been as good as Weyrother’s, but for the disadvantage that

+Weyrother’s had already been approved. As soon as Prince Andrew began

+to demonstrate the defects of the latter and the merits of his own plan,

+Prince Dolgorúkov ceased to listen to him and gazed absent-mindedly not

+at the map, but at Prince Andrew’s face.

+

+“There will be a council of war at Kutúzov’s tonight, though; you

+can say all this there,” remarked Dolgorúkov.

+

+“I will do so,” said Prince Andrew, moving away from the map.

+

+“Whatever are you bothering about, gentlemen?” said Bilíbin, who,

+till then, had listened with an amused smile to their conversation and

+now was evidently ready with a joke. “Whether tomorrow brings

+victory or defeat, the glory of our Russian arms is secure. Except your

+Kutúzov, there is not a single Russian in command of a column! The

+commanders are: Herr General Wimpfen, le Comte de Langeron, le Prince de

+Lichtenstein, le Prince, de Hohenlohe, and finally Prishprish, and so on

+like all those Polish names.”

+

+“Be quiet, backbiter!” said Dolgorúkov. “It is not true; there

+are now two Russians, Milorádovich, and Dokhtúrov, and there would be

+a third, Count Arakchéev, if his nerves were not too weak.”

+

+“However, I think General Kutúzov has come out,” said Prince

+Andrew. “I wish you good luck and success, gentlemen!” he added and

+went out after shaking hands with Dolgorúkov and Bilíbin.

+

+On the way home, Prince Andrew could not refrain from asking Kutúzov,

+who was sitting silently beside him, what he thought of tomorrow’s

+battle.

+

+Kutúzov looked sternly at his adjutant and, after a pause, replied:

+“I think the battle will be lost, and so I told Count Tolstóy and

+asked him to tell the Emperor. What do you think he replied? ‘But, my

+dear general, I am engaged with rice and cutlets, look after military

+matters yourself!’ Yes... That was the answer I got!”

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XII

+

+Shortly after nine o’clock that evening, Weyrother drove with his

+plans to Kutúzov’s quarters where the council of war was to be

+held. All the commanders of columns were summoned to the commander in

+chief’s and with the exception of Prince Bagratión, who declined to

+come, were all there at the appointed time.

+

+Weyrother, who was in full control of the proposed battle, by his

+eagerness and briskness presented a marked contrast to the dissatisfied

+and drowsy Kutúzov, who reluctantly played the part of chairman and

+president of the council of war. Weyrother evidently felt himself to be

+at the head of a movement that had already become unrestrainable. He was

+like a horse running downhill harnessed to a heavy cart. Whether he was

+pulling it or being pushed by it he did not know, but rushed along at

+headlong speed with no time to consider what this movement might lead

+to. Weyrother had been twice that evening to the enemy’s picket

+line to reconnoiter personally, and twice to the Emperors, Russian and

+Austrian, to report and explain, and to his headquarters where he had

+dictated the dispositions in German, and now, much exhausted, he arrived

+at Kutúzov’s.

+

+He was evidently so busy that he even forgot to be polite to the

+commander in chief. He interrupted him, talked rapidly and indistinctly,

+without looking at the man he was addressing, and did not reply to

+questions put to him. He was bespattered with mud and had a pitiful,

+weary, and distracted air, though at the same time he was haughty and

+self-confident.

+

+Kutúzov was occupying a nobleman’s castle of modest dimensions near

+Ostralitz. In the large drawing room which had become the commander

+in chief’s office were gathered Kutúzov himself, Weyrother, and the

+members of the council of war. They were drinking tea, and only awaited

+Prince Bagratión to begin the council. At last Bagratión’s orderly

+came with the news that the prince could not attend. Prince Andrew came

+in to inform the commander in chief of this and, availing himself

+of permission previously given him by Kutúzov to be present at the

+council, he remained in the room.

+

+“Since Prince Bagratión is not coming, we may begin,” said

+Weyrother, hurriedly rising from his seat and going up to the table on

+which an enormous map of the environs of Brünn was spread out.

+

+Kutúzov, with his uniform unbuttoned so that his fat neck bulged over

+his collar as if escaping, was sitting almost asleep in a low chair,

+with his podgy old hands resting symmetrically on its arms. At the sound

+of Weyrother’s voice, he opened his one eye with an effort.

+

+“Yes, yes, if you please! It is already late,” said he, and nodding

+his head he let it droop and again closed his eye.

+

+If at first the members of the council thought that Kutúzov was

+pretending to sleep, the sounds his nose emitted during the reading that

+followed proved that the commander in chief at that moment was absorbed

+by a far more serious matter than a desire to show his contempt for

+the dispositions or anything else—he was engaged in satisfying the

+irresistible human need for sleep. He really was asleep. Weyrother, with

+the gesture of a man too busy to lose a moment, glanced at Kutúzov and,

+having convinced himself that he was asleep, took up a paper and in

+a loud, monotonous voice began to read out the dispositions for the

+impending battle, under a heading which he also read out:

+

+“Dispositions for an attack on the enemy position behind Kobelnitz and

+Sokolnitz, November 30, 1805.”

+

+The dispositions were very complicated and difficult. They began as

+follows:

+

+“As the enemy’s left wing rests on wooded hills and his right

+extends along Kobelnitz and Sokolnitz behind the ponds that are there,

+while we, on the other hand, with our left wing by far outflank his

+right, it is advantageous to attack the enemy’s latter wing especially

+if we occupy the villages of Sokolnitz and Kobelnitz, whereby we

+can both fall on his flank and pursue him over the plain between

+Schlappanitz and the Thuerassa forest, avoiding the defiles of

+Schlappanitz and Bellowitz which cover the enemy’s front. For this

+object it is necessary that... The first column marches... The second

+column marches... The third column marches...” and so on, read

+Weyrother.

+

+The generals seemed to listen reluctantly to the difficult dispositions.

+The tall, fair-haired General Buxhöwden stood, leaning his back against

+the wall, his eyes fixed on a burning candle, and seemed not to listen

+or even to wish to be thought to listen. Exactly opposite Weyrother,

+with his glistening wide-open eyes fixed upon him and his mustache

+twisted upwards, sat the ruddy Milorádovich in a military pose, his

+elbows turned outwards, his hands on his knees, and his shoulders

+raised. He remained stubbornly silent, gazing at Weyrother’s face,

+and only turned away his eyes when the Austrian chief of staff finished

+reading. Then Milorádovich looked round significantly at the other

+generals. But one could not tell from that significant look whether he

+agreed or disagreed and was satisfied or not with the arrangements. Next

+to Weyrother sat Count Langeron who, with a subtle smile that never left

+his typically southern French face during the whole time of the reading,

+gazed at his delicate fingers which rapidly twirled by its corners

+a gold snuffbox on which was a portrait. In the middle of one of the

+longest sentences, he stopped the rotary motion of the snuffbox, raised

+his head, and with inimical politeness lurking in the corners of his

+thin lips interrupted Weyrother, wishing to say something. But the

+Austrian general, continuing to read, frowned angrily and jerked his

+elbows, as if to say: “You can tell me your views later, but now be so

+good as to look at the map and listen.” Langeron lifted his eyes with

+an expression of perplexity, turned round to Milorádovich as if seeking

+an explanation, but meeting the latter’s impressive but meaningless

+gaze drooped his eyes sadly and again took to twirling his snuffbox.

+

+“A geography lesson!” he muttered as if to himself, but loud enough

+to be heard.

+

+Przebyszéwski, with respectful but dignified politeness, held his

+hand to his ear toward Weyrother, with the air of a man absorbed in

+attention. Dohktúrov, a little man, sat opposite Weyrother, with

+an assiduous and modest mien, and stooping over the outspread map

+conscientiously studied the dispositions and the unfamiliar locality. He

+asked Weyrother several times to repeat words he had not clearly heard

+and the difficult names of villages. Weyrother complied and Dohktúrov

+noted them down.

+

+When the reading which lasted more than an hour was over, Langeron again

+brought his snuffbox to rest and, without looking at Weyrother or at

+anyone in particular, began to say how difficult it was to carry out

+such a plan in which the enemy’s position was assumed to be known,

+whereas it was perhaps not known, since the enemy was in movement.

+Langeron’s objections were valid but it was obvious that their chief

+aim was to show General Weyrother—who had read his dispositions with

+as much self-confidence as if he were addressing school children—that

+he had to do, not with fools, but with men who could teach him something

+in military matters.

+

+When the monotonous sound of Weyrother’s voice ceased, Kutúzov opened

+his eye as a miller wakes up when the soporific drone of the mill wheel

+is interrupted. He listened to what Langeron said, as if remarking,

+“So you are still at that silly business!” quickly closed his eye

+again, and let his head sink still lower.

+

+Langeron, trying as virulently as possible to sting Weyrother’s vanity

+as author of the military plan, argued that Bonaparte might easily

+attack instead of being attacked, and so render the whole of this

+plan perfectly worthless. Weyrother met all objections with a firm and

+contemptuous smile, evidently prepared beforehand to meet all objections

+be they what they might.

+

+“If he could attack us, he would have done so today,” said he.

+

+“So you think he is powerless?” said Langeron.

+

+“He has forty thousand men at most,” replied Weyrother, with the

+smile of a doctor to whom an old wife wishes to explain the treatment of

+a case.

+

+“In that case he is inviting his doom by awaiting our attack,” said

+Langeron, with a subtly ironical smile, again glancing round for support

+to Milorádovich who was near him.

+

+But Milorádovich was at that moment evidently thinking of anything

+rather than of what the generals were disputing about.

+

+“Ma foi!” said he, “tomorrow we shall see all that on the

+battlefield.”

+

+Weyrother again gave that smile which seemed to say that to him it was

+strange and ridiculous to meet objections from Russian generals and to

+have to prove to them what he had not merely convinced himself of, but

+had also convinced the sovereign Emperors of.

+

+“The enemy has quenched his fires and a continual noise is heard from

+his camp,” said he. “What does that mean? Either he is retreating,

+which is the only thing we need fear, or he is changing his position.”

+(He smiled ironically.) “But even if he also took up a position in

+the Thuerassa, he merely saves us a great deal of trouble and all our

+arrangements to the minutest detail remain the same.”

+

+“How is that?...” began Prince Andrew, who had for long been waiting

+an opportunity to express his doubts.

+

+Kutúzov here woke up, coughed heavily, and looked round at the

+generals.

+

+“Gentlemen, the dispositions for tomorrow—or rather for today, for

+it is past midnight—cannot now be altered,” said he. “You have

+heard them, and we shall all do our duty. But before a battle, there is

+nothing more important...” he paused, “than to have a good sleep.”

+

+He moved as if to rise. The generals bowed and retired. It was past

+midnight. Prince Andrew went out.

+

+The council of war, at which Prince Andrew had not been able to

+express his opinion as he had hoped to, left on him a vague and uneasy

+impression. Whether Dolgorúkov and Weyrother, or Kutúzov, Langeron,

+and the others who did not approve of the plan of attack, were

+right—he did not know. “But was it really not possible for Kutúzov

+to state his views plainly to the Emperor? Is it possible that on

+account of court and personal considerations tens of thousands of lives,

+and my life, my life,” he thought, “must be risked?”

+

+“Yes, it is very likely that I shall be killed tomorrow,” he

+thought. And suddenly, at this thought of death, a whole series of most

+distant, most intimate, memories rose in his imagination: he remembered

+his last parting from his father and his wife; he remembered the days

+when he first loved her. He thought of her pregnancy and felt sorry for

+her and for himself, and in a nervously emotional and softened mood he

+went out of the hut in which he was billeted with Nesvítski and began

+to walk up and down before it.

+

+The night was foggy and through the fog the moonlight gleamed

+mysteriously. “Yes, tomorrow, tomorrow!” he thought. “Tomorrow

+everything may be over for me! All these memories will be no more, none

+of them will have any meaning for me. Tomorrow perhaps, even certainly,

+I have a presentiment that for the first time I shall have to show all

+I can do.” And his fancy pictured the battle, its loss, the

+concentration of fighting at one point, and the hesitation of all the

+commanders. And then that happy moment, that Toulon for which he had

+so long waited, presents itself to him at last. He firmly and clearly

+expresses his opinion to Kutúzov, to Weyrother, and to the Emperors.

+All are struck by the justness of his views, but no one undertakes to

+carry them out, so he takes a regiment, a division—stipulates that no

+one is to interfere with his arrangements—leads his division to

+the decisive point, and gains the victory alone. “But death and

+suffering?” suggested another voice. Prince Andrew, however, did not

+answer that voice and went on dreaming of his triumphs. The dispositions

+for the next battle are planned by him alone. Nominally he is only an

+adjutant on Kutúzov’s staff, but he does everything alone. The next

+battle is won by him alone. Kutúzov is removed and he is appointed...

+“Well and then?” asked the other voice. “If before that you are

+not ten times wounded, killed, or betrayed, well... what then?...”

+“Well then,” Prince Andrew answered himself, “I don’t know

+what will happen and don’t want to know, and can’t, but if I want

+this—want glory, want to be known to men, want to be loved by them, it

+is not my fault that I want it and want nothing but that and live only

+for that. Yes, for that alone! I shall never tell anyone, but, oh God!

+what am I to do if I love nothing but fame and men’s esteem? Death,

+wounds, the loss of family—I fear nothing. And precious and dear

+as many persons are to me—father, sister, wife—those dearest to

+me—yet dreadful and unnatural as it seems, I would give them all at

+once for a moment of glory, of triumph over men, of love from men I

+don’t know and never shall know, for the love of these men here,” he

+thought, as he listened to voices in Kutúzov’s courtyard. The voices

+were those of the orderlies who were packing up; one voice, probably a

+coachman’s, was teasing Kutúzov’s old cook whom Prince Andrew knew,

+and who was called Tit. He was saying, “Tit, I say, Tit!”

+

+“Well?” returned the old man.

+

+“Go, Tit, thresh a bit!” said the wag.

+

+“Oh, go to the devil!” called out a voice, drowned by the laughter

+of the orderlies and servants.

+

+“All the same, I love and value nothing but triumph over them all, I

+value this mystic power and glory that is floating here above me in this

+mist!”

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XIII

+

+That same night, Rostóv was with a platoon on skirmishing duty in front

+of Bagratión’s detachment. His hussars were placed along the line

+in couples and he himself rode along the line trying to master the

+sleepiness that kept coming over him. An enormous space, with our

+army’s campfires dimly glowing in the fog, could be seen behind him;

+in front of him was misty darkness. Rostóv could see nothing, peer as

+he would into that foggy distance: now something gleamed gray, now there

+was something black, now little lights seemed to glimmer where the enemy

+ought to be, now he fancied it was only something in his own eyes. His

+eyes kept closing, and in his fancy appeared—now the Emperor, now

+Denísov, and now Moscow memories—and he again hurriedly opened his

+eyes and saw close before him the head and ears of the horse he was

+riding, and sometimes, when he came within six paces of them, the

+black figures of hussars, but in the distance was still the same misty

+darkness. “Why not?... It might easily happen,” thought Rostóv,

+“that the Emperor will meet me and give me an order as he would to any

+other officer; he’ll say: ‘Go and find out what’s there.’ There

+are many stories of his getting to know an officer in just such a chance

+way and attaching him to himself! What if he gave me a place near him?

+Oh, how I would guard him, how I would tell him the truth, how I would

+unmask his deceivers!” And in order to realize vividly his love

+devotion to the sovereign, Rostóv pictured to himself an enemy or a

+deceitful German, whom he would not only kill with pleasure but whom

+he would slap in the face before the Emperor. Suddenly a distant shout

+aroused him. He started and opened his eyes.

+

+“Where am I? Oh yes, in the skirmishing line... pass and

+watchword—shaft, Olmütz. What a nuisance that our squadron will be in

+reserve tomorrow,” he thought. “I’ll ask leave to go to the front,

+this may be my only chance of seeing the Emperor. It won’t be long

+now before I am off duty. I’ll take another turn and when I get back

+I’ll go to the general and ask him.” He readjusted himself in the

+saddle and touched up his horse to ride once more round his hussars. It

+seemed to him that it was getting lighter. To the left he saw a sloping

+descent lit up, and facing it a black knoll that seemed as steep as a

+wall. On this knoll there was a white patch that Rostóv could not at

+all make out: was it a glade in the wood lit up by the moon, or some

+unmelted snow, or some white houses? He even thought something moved on

+that white spot. “I expect it’s snow... that spot... a spot—une

+tache,” he thought. “There now... it’s not a tache... Natásha...

+sister, black eyes... Na... tasha... (Won’t she be surprised when

+I tell her how I’ve seen the Emperor?) Natásha... take my

+sabretache...”—“Keep to the right, your honor, there are bushes

+here,” came the voice of an hussar, past whom Rostóv was riding in

+the act of falling asleep. Rostóv lifted his head that had sunk almost

+to his horse’s mane and pulled up beside the hussar. He was succumbing

+to irresistible, youthful, childish drowsiness. “But what was I

+thinking? I mustn’t forget. How shall I speak to the Emperor? No,

+that’s not it—that’s tomorrow. Oh yes! Natásha... sabretache...

+saber them... Whom? The hussars... Ah, the hussars with mustaches. Along

+the Tverskáya Street rode the hussar with mustaches... I thought about

+him too, just opposite Gúryev’s house... Old Gúryev.... Oh, but

+Denísov’s a fine fellow. But that’s all nonsense. The chief thing

+is that the Emperor is here. How he looked at me and wished to say

+something, but dared not.... No, it was I who dared not. But that’s

+nonsense, the chief thing is not to forget the important thing I

+was thinking of. Yes, Na-tásha, sabretache, oh, yes, yes! That’s

+right!” And his head once more sank to his horse’s neck. All at once

+it seemed to him that he was being fired at. “What? What? What?... Cut

+them down! What?...” said Rostóv, waking up. At the moment he opened

+his eyes he heard in front of him, where the enemy was, the long-drawn

+shouts of thousands of voices. His horse and the horse of the hussar

+near him pricked their ears at these shouts. Over there, where the

+shouting came from, a fire flared up and went out again, then another,

+and all along the French line on the hill fires flared up and the

+shouting grew louder and louder. Rostóv could hear the sound of French

+words but could not distinguish them. The din of many voices was too

+great; all he could hear was: “ahahah!” and “rrrr!”

+

+“What’s that? What do you make of it?” said Rostóv to the hussar

+beside him. “That must be the enemy’s camp!”

+

+The hussar did not reply.

+

+“Why, don’t you hear it?” Rostóv asked again, after waiting for a

+reply.

+

+“Who can tell, your honor?” replied the hussar reluctantly.

+

+“From the direction, it must be the enemy,” repeated Rostóv.

+

+“It may be he or it may be nothing,” muttered the hussar. “It’s

+dark... Steady!” he cried to his fidgeting horse.

+

+Rostóv’s horse was also getting restive: it pawed the frozen ground,

+pricking its ears at the noise and looking at the lights. The shouting

+grew still louder and merged into a general roar that only an army

+of several thousand men could produce. The lights spread farther and

+farther, probably along the line of the French camp. Rostóv no longer

+wanted to sleep. The gay triumphant shouting of the enemy army had a

+stimulating effect on him. “Vive l’Empereur! l’Empereur!” he now

+heard distinctly.

+

+“They can’t be far off, probably just beyond the stream,” he said

+to the hussar beside him.

+

+The hussar only sighed without replying and coughed angrily. The sound

+of horse’s hoofs approaching at a trot along the line of hussars was

+heard, and out of the foggy darkness the figure of a sergeant of hussars

+suddenly appeared, looming huge as an elephant.

+

+“Your honor, the generals!” said the sergeant, riding up to Rostóv.

+

+Rostóv, still looking round toward the fires and the shouts, rode with

+the sergeant to meet some mounted men who were riding along the line.

+One was on a white horse. Prince Bagratión and Prince Dolgorúkov with

+their adjutants had come to witness the curious phenomenon of the

+lights and shouts in the enemy’s camp. Rostóv rode up to Bagratión,

+reported to him, and then joined the adjutants listening to what the

+generals were saying.

+

+“Believe me,” said Prince Dolgorúkov, addressing Bagratión, “it

+is nothing but a trick! He has retreated and ordered the rearguard to

+kindle fires and make a noise to deceive us.”

+

+“Hardly,” said Bagratión. “I saw them this evening on that

+knoll; if they had retreated they would have withdrawn from that too....

+Officer!” said Bagratión to Rostóv, “are the enemy’s skirmishers

+still there?”

+

+“They were there this evening, but now I don’t know, your

+excellency. Shall I go with some of my hussars to see?” replied

+Rostóv.

+

+Bagratión stopped and, before replying, tried to see Rostóv’s face

+in the mist.

+

+“Well, go and see,” he said, after a pause.

+

+“Yes, sir.”

+

+Rostóv spurred his horse, called to Sergeant Fédchenko and two other

+hussars, told them to follow him, and trotted downhill in the direction

+from which the shouting came. He felt both frightened and pleased to be

+riding alone with three hussars into that mysterious and dangerous misty

+distance where no one had been before him. Bagratión called to him from

+the hill not to go beyond the stream, but Rostóv pretended not to hear

+him and did not stop but rode on and on, continually mistaking bushes

+for trees and gullies for men and continually discovering his mistakes.

+Having descended the hill at a trot, he no longer saw either our own or

+the enemy’s fires, but heard the shouting of the French more loudly

+and distinctly. In the valley he saw before him something like a river,

+but when he reached it he found it was a road. Having come out onto

+the road he reined in his horse, hesitating whether to ride along it or

+cross it and ride over the black field up the hillside. To keep to the

+road which gleamed white in the mist would have been safer because it

+would be easier to see people coming along it. “Follow me!” said he,

+crossed the road, and began riding up the hill at a gallop toward the

+point where the French pickets had been standing that evening.

+

+“Your honor, there he is!” cried one of the hussars behind him. And

+before Rostóv had time to make out what the black thing was that had

+suddenly appeared in the fog, there was a flash, followed by a report,

+and a bullet whizzing high up in the mist with a plaintive sound passed

+out of hearing. Another musket missed fire but flashed in the pan.

+Rostóv turned his horse and galloped back. Four more reports followed

+at intervals, and the bullets passed somewhere in the fog singing in

+different tones. Rostóv reined in his horse, whose spirits had risen,

+like his own, at the firing, and went back at a footpace. “Well, some

+more! Some more!” a merry voice was saying in his soul. But no more

+shots came.

+

+Only when approaching Bagratión did Rostóv let his horse gallop again,

+and with his hand at the salute rode up to the general.

+

+Dolgorúkov was still insisting that the French had retreated and had

+only lit fires to deceive us.

+

+“What does that prove?” he was saying as Rostóv rode up. “They

+might retreat and leave the pickets.”

+

+“It’s plain that they have not all gone yet, Prince,” said

+Bagratión. “Wait till tomorrow morning, we’ll find out everything

+tomorrow.”

+

+“The picket is still on the hill, your excellency, just where it was

+in the evening,” reported Rostóv, stooping forward with his hand at

+the salute and unable to repress the smile of delight induced by his

+ride and especially by the sound of the bullets.

+

+“Very good, very good,” said Bagratión. “Thank you, officer.”

+

+“Your excellency,” said Rostóv, “may I ask a favor?”

+

+“What is it?”

+

+“Tomorrow our squadron is to be in reserve. May I ask to be attached

+to the first squadron?”

+

+“What’s your name?”

+

+“Count Rostóv.”

+

+“Oh, very well, you may stay in attendance on me.”

+

+“Count Ilyá Rostóv’s son?” asked Dolgorúkov.

+

+But Rostóv did not reply.

+

+“Then I may reckon on it, your excellency?”

+

+“I will give the order.”

+

+“Tomorrow very likely I may be sent with some message to the

+Emperor,” thought Rostóv.

+

+“Thank God!”

+

+The fires and shouting in the enemy’s army were occasioned by the fact

+that while Napoleon’s proclamation was being read to the troops the

+Emperor himself rode round his bivouacs. The soldiers, on seeing him,

+lit wisps of straw and ran after him, shouting, “Vive l’Empereur!”

+Napoleon’s proclamation was as follows:

+

+Soldiers! The Russian army is advancing against you to avenge the

+Austrian army of Ulm. They are the same battalions you broke at

+Hollabrünn and have pursued ever since to this place. The position we

+occupy is a strong one, and while they are marching to go round me on

+the right they will expose a flank to me. Soldiers! I will myself direct

+your battalions. I will keep out of fire if you with your habitual

+valor carry disorder and confusion into the enemy’s ranks, but should

+victory be in doubt, even for a moment, you will see your Emperor

+exposing himself to the first blows of the enemy, for there must be no

+doubt of victory, especially on this day when what is at stake is the

+honor of the French infantry, so necessary to the honor of our nation.

+

+Do not break your ranks on the plea of removing the wounded! Let every

+man be fully imbued with the thought that we must defeat these hirelings

+of England, inspired by such hatred of our nation! This victory will

+conclude our campaign and we can return to winter quarters, where fresh

+French troops who are being raised in France will join us, and the peace

+I shall conclude will be worthy of my people, of you, and of myself.

+

+NAPOLEON

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XIV

+

+At five in the morning it was still quite dark. The troops of the

+center, the reserves, and Bagratión’s right flank had not yet moved,

+but on the left flank the columns of infantry, cavalry, and artillery,

+which were to be the first to descend the heights to attack the French

+right flank and drive it into the Bohemian mountains according to plan,

+were already up and astir. The smoke of the campfires, into which they

+were throwing everything superfluous, made the eyes smart. It was cold

+and dark. The officers were hurriedly drinking tea and breakfasting, the

+soldiers, munching biscuit and beating a tattoo with their feet to

+warm themselves, gathering round the fires throwing into the flames the

+remains of sheds, chairs, tables, wheels, tubs, and everything that they

+did not want or could not carry away with them. Austrian column guides

+were moving in and out among the Russian troops and served as heralds

+of the advance. As soon as an Austrian officer showed himself near

+a commanding officer’s quarters, the regiment began to move: the

+soldiers ran from the fires, thrust their pipes into their boots, their

+bags into the carts, got their muskets ready, and formed rank. The

+officers buttoned up their coats, buckled on their swords and pouches,

+and moved along the ranks shouting. The train drivers and orderlies

+harnessed and packed the wagons and tied on the loads. The adjutants and

+battalion and regimental commanders mounted, crossed themselves, gave

+final instructions, orders, and commissions to the baggage men

+who remained behind, and the monotonous tramp of thousands of feet

+resounded. The column moved forward without knowing where and unable,

+from the masses around them, the smoke and the increasing fog, to see

+either the place they were leaving or that to which they were going.

+

+A soldier on the march is hemmed in and borne along by his regiment as

+much as a sailor is by his ship. However far he has walked, whatever

+strange, unknown, and dangerous places he reaches, just as a sailor is

+always surrounded by the same decks, masts, and rigging of his ship, so

+the soldier always has around him the same comrades, the same ranks, the

+same sergeant major Iván Mítrich, the same company dog Jack, and the

+same commanders. The sailor rarely cares to know the latitude in which

+his ship is sailing, but on the day of battle—heaven knows how and

+whence—a stern note of which all are conscious sounds in the moral

+atmosphere of an army, announcing the approach of something decisive

+and solemn, and awakening in the men an unusual curiosity. On the day of

+battle the soldiers excitedly try to get beyond the interests of their

+regiment, they listen intently, look about, and eagerly ask concerning

+what is going on around them.

+

+The fog had grown so dense that though it was growing light they could

+not see ten paces ahead. Bushes looked like gigantic trees and level

+ground like cliffs and slopes. Anywhere, on any side, one might

+encounter an enemy invisible ten paces off. But the columns advanced

+for a long time, always in the same fog, descending and ascending hills,

+avoiding gardens and enclosures, going over new and unknown ground, and

+nowhere encountering the enemy. On the contrary, the soldiers became

+aware that in front, behind, and on all sides, other Russian columns

+were moving in the same direction. Every soldier felt glad to know that

+to the unknown place where he was going, many more of our men were going

+too.

+

+“There now, the Kúrskies have also gone past,” was being said in

+the ranks.

+

+“It’s wonderful what a lot of our troops have gathered, lads! Last

+night I looked at the campfires and there was no end of them. A regular

+Moscow!”

+

+Though none of the column commanders rode up to the ranks or talked to

+the men (the commanders, as we saw at the council of war, were out of

+humor and dissatisfied with the affair, and so did not exert themselves

+to cheer the men but merely carried out the orders), yet the troops

+marched gaily, as they always do when going into action, especially to

+an attack. But when they had marched for about an hour in the dense fog,

+the greater part of the men had to halt and an unpleasant consciousness

+of some dislocation and blunder spread through the ranks. How such

+a consciousness is communicated is very difficult to define, but it

+certainly is communicated very surely, and flows rapidly, imperceptibly,

+and irrepressibly, as water does in a creek. Had the Russian army been

+alone without any allies, it might perhaps have been a long time before

+this consciousness of mismanagement became a general conviction, but as

+it was, the disorder was readily and naturally attributed to the stupid

+Germans, and everyone was convinced that a dangerous muddle had been

+occasioned by the sausage eaters.

+

+“Why have we stopped? Is the way blocked? Or have we already come up

+against the French?”

+

+“No, one can’t hear them. They’d be firing if we had.”

+

+“They were in a hurry enough to start us, and now here we stand in

+the middle of a field without rhyme or reason. It’s all those damned

+Germans’ muddling! What stupid devils!”

+

+“Yes, I’d send them on in front, but no fear, they’re crowding up

+behind. And now here we stand hungry.”

+

+“I say, shall we soon be clear? They say the cavalry are blocking the

+way,” said an officer.

+

+“Ah, those damned Germans! They don’t know their own country!”

+said another.

+

+“What division are you?” shouted an adjutant, riding up.

+

+“The Eighteenth.”

+

+“Then why are you here? You should have gone on long ago, now you

+won’t get there till evening.”

+

+“What stupid orders! They don’t themselves know what they are

+doing!” said the officer and rode off.

+

+Then a general rode past shouting something angrily, not in Russian.

+

+“Tafa-lafa! But what he’s jabbering no one can make out,” said a

+soldier, mimicking the general who had ridden away. “I’d shoot them,

+the scoundrels!”

+

+“We were ordered to be at the place before nine, but we haven’t got

+halfway. Fine orders!” was being repeated on different sides.

+

+And the feeling of energy with which the troops had started began to

+turn into vexation and anger at the stupid arrangements and at the

+Germans.

+

+The cause of the confusion was that while the Austrian cavalry was

+moving toward our left flank, the higher command found that our center

+was too far separated from our right flank and the cavalry were all

+ordered to turn back to the right. Several thousand cavalry crossed in

+front of the infantry, who had to wait.

+

+At the front an altercation occurred between an Austrian guide and a

+Russian general. The general shouted a demand that the cavalry should be

+halted, the Austrian argued that not he, but the higher command, was to

+blame. The troops meanwhile stood growing listless and dispirited. After

+an hour’s delay they at last moved on, descending the hill. The fog

+that was dispersing on the hill lay still more densely below, where they

+were descending. In front in the fog a shot was heard and then another,

+at first irregularly at varying intervals—trata...tat—and then more

+and more regularly and rapidly, and the action at the Goldbach Stream

+began.

+

+Not expecting to come on the enemy down by the stream, and having

+stumbled on him in the fog, hearing no encouraging word from their

+commanders, and with a consciousness of being too late spreading through

+the ranks, and above all being unable to see anything in front or around

+them in the thick fog, the Russians exchanged shots with the enemy

+lazily and advanced and again halted, receiving no timely orders from

+the officers or adjutants who wandered about in the fog in those unknown

+surroundings unable to find their own regiments. In this way the action

+began for the first, second, and third columns, which had gone down into

+the valley. The fourth column, with which Kutúzov was, stood on the

+Pratzen Heights.

+

+Below, where the fight was beginning, there was still thick fog; on the

+higher ground it was clearing, but nothing could be seen of what was

+going on in front. Whether all the enemy forces were, as we supposed,

+six miles away, or whether they were near by in that sea of mist, no one

+knew till after eight o’clock.

+

+It was nine o’clock in the morning. The fog lay unbroken like a sea

+down below, but higher up at the village of Schlappanitz where Napoleon

+stood with his marshals around him, it was quite light. Above him was

+a clear blue sky, and the sun’s vast orb quivered like a huge hollow,

+crimson float on the surface of that milky sea of mist. The whole French

+army, and even Napoleon himself with his staff, were not on the far side

+of the streams and hollows of Sokolnitz and Schlappanitz beyond which we

+intended to take up our position and begin the action, but were on this

+side, so close to our own forces that Napoleon with the naked eye could

+distinguish a mounted man from one on foot. Napoleon, in the blue cloak

+which he had worn on his Italian campaign, sat on his small gray Arab

+horse a little in front of his marshals. He gazed silently at the hills

+which seemed to rise out of the sea of mist and on which the Russian

+troops were moving in the distance, and he listened to the sounds of

+firing in the valley. Not a single muscle of his face—which in those

+days was still thin—moved. His gleaming eyes were fixed intently on

+one spot. His predictions were being justified. Part of the Russian

+force had already descended into the valley toward the ponds and lakes

+and part were leaving these Pratzen Heights which he intended to attack

+and regarded as the key to the position. He saw over the mist that in

+a hollow between two hills near the village of Pratzen, the Russian

+columns, their bayonets glittering, were moving continuously in one

+direction toward the valley and disappearing one after another into

+the mist. From information he had received the evening before, from the

+sound of wheels and footsteps heard by the outposts during the night,

+by the disorderly movement of the Russian columns, and from all

+indications, he saw clearly that the allies believed him to be far away

+in front of them, and that the columns moving near Pratzen constituted

+the center of the Russian army, and that that center was already

+sufficiently weakened to be successfully attacked. But still he did not

+begin the engagement.

+

+Today was a great day for him—the anniversary of his coronation.

+Before dawn he had slept for a few hours, and refreshed, vigorous, and

+in good spirits, he mounted his horse and rode out into the field

+in that happy mood in which everything seems possible and everything

+succeeds. He sat motionless, looking at the heights visible above

+the mist, and his cold face wore that special look of confident,

+self-complacent happiness that one sees on the face of a boy happily

+in love. The marshals stood behind him not venturing to distract his

+attention. He looked now at the Pratzen Heights, now at the sun floating

+up out of the mist.

+

+When the sun had entirely emerged from the fog, and fields and mist were

+aglow with dazzling light—as if he had only awaited this to begin the

+action—he drew the glove from his shapely white hand, made a sign

+with it to the marshals, and ordered the action to begin. The marshals,

+accompanied by adjutants, galloped off in different directions, and

+a few minutes later the chief forces of the French army moved rapidly

+toward those Pratzen Heights which were being more and more denuded by

+Russian troops moving down the valley to their left.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XV

+

+At eight o’clock Kutúzov rode to Pratzen at the head of the fourth

+column, Milorádovich’s, the one that was to take the place of

+Przebyszéwski’s and Langeron’s columns which had already gone down

+into the valley. He greeted the men of the foremost regiment and gave

+them the order to march, thereby indicating that he intended to lead

+that column himself. When he had reached the village of Pratzen he

+halted. Prince Andrew was behind, among the immense number forming the

+commander in chief’s suite. He was in a state of suppressed excitement

+and irritation, though controlledly calm as a man is at the approach of

+a long-awaited moment. He was firmly convinced that this was the day of

+his Toulon, or his bridge of Arcola. How it would come about he did not

+know, but he felt sure it would do so. The locality and the position of

+our troops were known to him as far as they could be known to anyone

+in our army. His own strategic plan, which obviously could not now

+be carried out, was forgotten. Now, entering into Weyrother’s plan,

+Prince Andrew considered possible contingencies and formed new projects

+such as might call for his rapidity of perception and decision.

+

+To the left down below in the mist, the musketry fire of unseen forces

+could be heard. It was there Prince Andrew thought the fight would

+concentrate. “There we shall encounter difficulties, and there,”

+thought he, “I shall be sent with a brigade or division, and there,

+standard in hand, I shall go forward and break whatever is in front of

+me.”

+

+He could not look calmly at the standards of the passing battalions.

+Seeing them he kept thinking, “That may be the very standard with

+which I shall lead the army.”

+

+In the morning all that was left of the night mist on the heights was

+a hoar frost now turning to dew, but in the valleys it still lay like a

+milk-white sea. Nothing was visible in the valley to the left into which

+our troops had descended and from whence came the sounds of firing.

+Above the heights was the dark clear sky, and to the right the vast orb

+of the sun. In front, far off on the farther shore of that sea of mist,

+some wooded hills were discernible, and it was there the enemy probably

+was, for something could be descried. On the right the Guards were

+entering the misty region with a sound of hoofs and wheels and now and

+then a gleam of bayonets; to the left beyond the village similar masses

+of cavalry came up and disappeared in the sea of mist. In front and

+behind moved infantry. The commander in chief was standing at the end of

+the village letting the troops pass by him. That morning Kutúzov seemed

+worn and irritable. The infantry passing before him came to a halt

+without any command being given, apparently obstructed by something in

+front.

+

+“Do order them to form into battalion columns and go round the

+village!” he said angrily to a general who had ridden up. “Don’t

+you understand, your excellency, my dear sir, that you must not

+defile through narrow village streets when we are marching against the

+enemy?”

+

+“I intended to re-form them beyond the village, your excellency,”

+answered the general.

+

+Kutúzov laughed bitterly.

+

+“You’ll make a fine thing of it, deploying in sight of the enemy!

+Very fine!”

+

+“The enemy is still far away, your excellency. According to the

+dispositions...”

+

+“The dispositions!” exclaimed Kutúzov bitterly. “Who told you

+that?... Kindly do as you are ordered.”

+

+“Yes, sir.”

+

+“My dear fellow,” Nesvítski whispered to Prince Andrew, “the old

+man is as surly as a dog.”

+

+An Austrian officer in a white uniform with green plumes in his hat

+galloped up to Kutúzov and asked in the Emperor’s name had the fourth

+column advanced into action.

+

+Kutúzov turned round without answering and his eye happened to fall

+upon Prince Andrew, who was beside him. Seeing him, Kutúzov’s

+malevolent and caustic expression softened, as if admitting that what

+was being done was not his adjutant’s fault, and still not answering

+the Austrian adjutant, he addressed Bolkónski.

+

+“Go, my dear fellow, and see whether the third division has passed the

+village. Tell it to stop and await my orders.”

+

+Hardly had Prince Andrew started than he stopped him.

+

+“And ask whether sharpshooters have been posted,” he added. “What

+are they doing? What are they doing?” he murmured to himself, still

+not replying to the Austrian.

+

+Prince Andrew galloped off to execute the order.

+

+Overtaking the battalions that continued to advance, he stopped

+the third division and convinced himself that there really were no

+sharpshooters in front of our columns. The colonel at the head of the

+regiment was much surprised at the commander in chief’s order to throw

+out skirmishers. He had felt perfectly sure that there were other troops

+in front of him and that the enemy must be at least six miles away.

+There was really nothing to be seen in front except a barren descent

+hidden by dense mist. Having given orders in the commander in chief’s

+name to rectify this omission, Prince Andrew galloped back. Kutúzov

+still in the same place, his stout body resting heavily in the saddle

+with the lassitude of age, sat yawning wearily with closed eyes. The

+troops were no longer moving, but stood with the butts of their muskets

+on the ground.

+

+“All right, all right!” he said to Prince Andrew, and turned to a

+general who, watch in hand, was saying it was time they started as all

+the left-flank columns had already descended.

+

+“Plenty of time, your excellency,” muttered Kutúzov in the midst of

+a yawn. “Plenty of time,” he repeated.

+

+Just then at a distance behind Kutúzov was heard the sound of regiments

+saluting, and this sound rapidly came nearer along the whole extended

+line of the advancing Russian columns. Evidently the person they were

+greeting was riding quickly. When the soldiers of the regiment in front

+of which Kutúzov was standing began to shout, he rode a little to one

+side and looked round with a frown. Along the road from Pratzen galloped

+what looked like a squadron of horsemen in various uniforms. Two of them

+rode side by side in front, at full gallop. One in a black uniform with

+white plumes in his hat rode a bobtailed chestnut horse, the other who

+was in a white uniform rode a black one. These were the two Emperors

+followed by their suites. Kutúzov, affecting the manners of an old

+soldier at the front, gave the command “Attention!” and rode up

+to the Emperors with a salute. His whole appearance and manner were

+suddenly transformed. He put on the air of a subordinate who obeys

+without reasoning. With an affectation of respect which evidently struck

+Alexander unpleasantly, he rode up and saluted.

+

+This unpleasant impression merely flitted over the young and happy face

+of the Emperor like a cloud of haze across a clear sky and vanished.

+After his illness he looked rather thinner that day than on the field

+of Olmütz where Bolkónski had seen him for the first time abroad, but

+there was still the same bewitching combination of majesty and mildness

+in his fine gray eyes, and on his delicate lips the same capacity for

+varying expression and the same prevalent appearance of goodhearted

+innocent youth.

+

+At the Olmütz review he had seemed more majestic; here he seemed

+brighter and more energetic. He was slightly flushed after galloping two

+miles, and reining in his horse he sighed restfully and looked round

+at the faces of his suite, young and animated as his own. Czartorýski,

+Novosíltsev, Prince Volkónsky, Strógonov, and the others, all richly

+dressed gay young men on splendid, well-groomed, fresh, only slightly

+heated horses, exchanging remarks and smiling, had stopped behind the

+Emperor. The Emperor Francis, a rosy, long faced young man, sat very

+erect on his handsome black horse, looking about him in a leisurely and

+preoccupied manner. He beckoned to one of his white adjutants and asked

+some question—“Most likely he is asking at what o’clock they

+started,” thought Prince Andrew, watching his old acquaintance with

+a smile he could not repress as he recalled his reception at Brünn.

+In the Emperors’ suite were the picked young orderly officers of the

+Guard and line regiments, Russian and Austrian. Among them were grooms

+leading the Tsar’s beautiful relay horses covered with embroidered

+cloths.

+

+As when a window is opened a whiff of fresh air from the fields enters

+a stuffy room, so a whiff of youthfulness, energy, and confidence of

+success reached Kutúzov’s cheerless staff with the galloping advent

+of all these brilliant young men.

+

+“Why aren’t you beginning, Michael Ilariónovich?” said the

+Emperor Alexander hurriedly to Kutúzov, glancing courteously at the

+same time at the Emperor Francis.

+

+“I am waiting, Your Majesty,” answered Kutúzov, bending forward

+respectfully.

+

+The Emperor, frowning slightly, bent his ear forward as if he had not

+quite heard.

+

+“Waiting, Your Majesty,” repeated Kutúzov. (Prince Andrew noted

+that Kutúzov’s upper lip twitched unnaturally as he said the

+word “waiting.”) “Not all the columns have formed up yet, Your

+Majesty.”

+

+The Tsar heard but obviously did not like the reply; he shrugged his

+rather round shoulders and glanced at Novosíltsev who was near him, as

+if complaining of Kutúzov.

+

+“You know, Michael Ilariónovich, we are not on the Empress’ Field

+where a parade does not begin till all the troops are assembled,” said

+the Tsar with another glance at the Emperor Francis, as if inviting

+him if not to join in at least to listen to what he was saying. But the

+Emperor Francis continued to look about him and did not listen.

+

+“That is just why I do not begin, sire,” said Kutúzov in a

+resounding voice, apparently to preclude the possibility of not being

+heard, and again something in his face twitched—“That is just why

+I do not begin, sire, because we are not on parade and not on the

+Empress’ Field,” said he clearly and distinctly.

+

+In the Emperor’s suite all exchanged rapid looks that expressed

+dissatisfaction and reproach. “Old though he may be, he should not, he

+certainly should not, speak like that,” their glances seemed to say.

+

+The Tsar looked intently and observantly into Kutúzov’s eye

+waiting to hear whether he would say anything more. But Kutúzov, with

+respectfully bowed head, seemed also to be waiting. The silence lasted

+for about a minute.

+

+“However, if you command it, Your Majesty,” said Kutúzov, lifting

+his head and again assuming his former tone of a dull, unreasoning, but

+submissive general.

+

+He touched his horse and having called Milorádovich, the commander of

+the column, gave him the order to advance.

+

+The troops again began to move, and two battalions of the Nóvgorod and

+one of the Ápsheron regiment went forward past the Emperor.

+

+As this Ápsheron battalion marched by, the red-faced Milorádovich,

+without his greatcoat, with his Orders on his breast and an enormous

+tuft of plumes in his cocked hat worn on one side with its corners front

+and back, galloped strenuously forward, and with a dashing salute reined

+in his horse before the Emperor.

+

+“God be with you, general!” said the Emperor.

+

+“Ma foi, sire, nous ferons ce qui sera dans notre possibilité,

+sire,” * he answered gaily, raising nevertheless ironic smiles among

+the gentlemen of the Tsar’s suite by his poor French.

+

+     * “Indeed, Sire, we shall do everything it is possible to

+     do, Sire.”

+

+

+Milorádovich wheeled his horse sharply and stationed himself a little

+behind the Emperor. The Ápsheron men, excited by the Tsar’s presence,

+passed in step before the Emperors and their suites at a bold, brisk

+pace.

+

+“Lads!” shouted Milorádovich in a loud, self-confident, and cheery

+voice, obviously so elated by the sound of firing, by the prospect of

+battle, and by the sight of the gallant Ápsherons, his comrades in

+Suvórov’s time, now passing so gallantly before the Emperors, that he

+forgot the sovereigns’ presence. “Lads, it’s not the first village

+you’ve had to take,” cried he.

+

+“Glad to do our best!” shouted the soldiers.

+

+The Emperor’s horse started at the sudden cry. This horse that had

+carried the sovereign at reviews in Russia bore him also here on the

+field of Austerlitz, enduring the heedless blows of his left foot and

+pricking its ears at the sound of shots just as it had done on the

+Empress’ Field, not understanding the significance of the firing, nor

+of the nearness of the Emperor Francis’ black cob, nor of all that was

+being said, thought, and felt that day by its rider.

+

+The Emperor turned with a smile to one of his followers and made a

+remark to him, pointing to the gallant Ápsherons.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XVI

+

+Kutúzov accompanied by his adjutants rode at a walking pace behind the

+carabineers.

+

+When he had gone less than half a mile in the rear of the column he

+stopped at a solitary, deserted house that had probably once been an

+inn, where two roads parted. Both of them led downhill and troops were

+marching along both.

+

+The fog had begun to clear and enemy troops were already dimly visible

+about a mile and a half off on the opposite heights. Down below, on

+the left, the firing became more distinct. Kutúzov had stopped and was

+speaking to an Austrian general. Prince Andrew, who was a little behind

+looking at them, turned to an adjutant to ask him for a field glass.

+

+“Look, look!” said this adjutant, looking not at the troops in the

+distance, but down the hill before him. “It’s the French!”

+

+The two generals and the adjutant took hold of the field glass, trying

+to snatch it from one another. The expression on all their faces

+suddenly changed to one of horror. The French were supposed to be a

+mile and a half away, but had suddenly and unexpectedly appeared just in

+front of us.

+

+“It’s the enemy?... No!... Yes, see it is!... for certain.... But

+how is that?” said different voices.

+

+With the naked eye Prince Andrew saw below them to the right, not more

+than five hundred paces from where Kutúzov was standing, a dense French

+column coming up to meet the Ápsherons.

+

+“Here it is! The decisive moment has arrived. My turn has come,”

+thought Prince Andrew, and striking his horse he rode up to Kutúzov.

+

+“The Ápsherons must be stopped, your excellency,” cried he. But at

+that very instant a cloud of smoke spread all round, firing was heard

+quite close at hand, and a voice of naïve terror barely two steps from

+Prince Andrew shouted, “Brothers! All’s lost!” And at this as if

+at a command, everyone began to run.

+

+Confused and ever-increasing crowds were running back to where five

+minutes before the troops had passed the Emperors. Not only would it

+have been difficult to stop that crowd, it was even impossible not to

+be carried back with it oneself. Bolkónski only tried not to lose

+touch with it, and looked around bewildered and unable to grasp what was

+happening in front of him. Nesvítski with an angry face, red and unlike

+himself, was shouting to Kutúzov that if he did not ride away at once

+he would certainly be taken prisoner. Kutúzov remained in the same

+place and without answering drew out a handkerchief. Blood was flowing

+from his cheek. Prince Andrew forced his way to him.

+

+“You are wounded?” he asked, hardly able to master the trembling of

+his lower jaw.

+

+“The wound is not here, it is there!” said Kutúzov, pressing the

+handkerchief to his wounded cheek and pointing to the fleeing soldiers.

+“Stop them!” he shouted, and at the same moment, probably realizing

+that it was impossible to stop them, spurred his horse and rode to the

+right.

+

+A fresh wave of the flying mob caught him and bore him back with it.

+

+The troops were running in such a dense mass that once surrounded by

+them it was difficult to get out again. One was shouting, “Get on!

+Why are you hindering us?” Another in the same place turned round and

+fired in the air; a third was striking the horse Kutúzov himself rode.

+Having by a great effort got away to the left from that flood of men,

+Kutúzov, with his suite diminished by more than half, rode toward a

+sound of artillery fire near by. Having forced his way out of the crowd

+of fugitives, Prince Andrew, trying to keep near Kutúzov, saw on the

+slope of the hill amid the smoke a Russian battery that was still firing

+and Frenchmen running toward it. Higher up stood some Russian infantry,

+neither moving forward to protect the battery nor backward with the

+fleeing crowd. A mounted general separated himself from the infantry and

+approached Kutúzov. Of Kutúzov’s suite only four remained. They were

+all pale and exchanged looks in silence.

+

+“Stop those wretches!” gasped Kutúzov to the regimental commander,

+pointing to the flying soldiers; but at that instant, as if to punish

+him for those words, bullets flew hissing across the regiment and across

+Kutúzov’s suite like a flock of little birds.

+

+The French had attacked the battery and, seeing Kutúzov, were firing

+at him. After this volley the regimental commander clutched at his leg;

+several soldiers fell, and a second lieutenant who was holding the

+flag let it fall from his hands. It swayed and fell, but caught on the

+muskets of the nearest soldiers. The soldiers started firing without

+orders.

+

+“Oh! Oh! Oh!” groaned Kutúzov despairingly and looked around....

+“Bolkónski!” he whispered, his voice trembling from a consciousness

+of the feebleness of age, “Bolkónski!” he whispered, pointing to

+the disordered battalion and at the enemy, “what’s that?”

+

+But before he had finished speaking, Prince Andrew, feeling tears of

+shame and anger choking him, had already leapt from his horse and run to

+the standard.

+

+“Forward, lads!” he shouted in a voice piercing as a child’s.

+

+“Here it is!” thought he, seizing the staff of the standard and

+hearing with pleasure the whistle of bullets evidently aimed at him.

+Several soldiers fell.

+

+“Hurrah!” shouted Prince Andrew, and, scarcely able to hold up

+the heavy standard, he ran forward with full confidence that the whole

+battalion would follow him.

+

+And really he only ran a few steps alone. One soldier moved and then

+another and soon the whole battalion ran forward shouting “Hurrah!”

+and overtook him. A sergeant of the battalion ran up and took the flag

+that was swaying from its weight in Prince Andrew’s hands, but he

+was immediately killed. Prince Andrew again seized the standard and,

+dragging it by the staff, ran on with the battalion. In front he saw our

+artillerymen, some of whom were fighting, while others, having abandoned

+their guns, were running toward him. He also saw French infantry

+soldiers who were seizing the artillery horses and turning the guns

+round. Prince Andrew and the battalion were already within twenty paces

+of the cannon. He heard the whistle of bullets above him unceasingly and

+to right and left of him soldiers continually groaned and dropped. But

+he did not look at them: he looked only at what was going on in front

+of him—at the battery. He now saw clearly the figure of a red-haired

+gunner with his shako knocked awry, pulling one end of a mop while

+a French soldier tugged at the other. He could distinctly see the

+distraught yet angry expression on the faces of these two men, who

+evidently did not realize what they were doing.

+

+“What are they about?” thought Prince Andrew as he gazed at them.

+“Why doesn’t the red-haired gunner run away as he is unarmed?

+Why doesn’t the Frenchman stab him? He will not get away before the

+Frenchman remembers his bayonet and stabs him....”

+

+And really another French soldier, trailing his musket, ran up to

+the struggling men, and the fate of the red-haired gunner, who had

+triumphantly secured the mop and still did not realize what awaited him,

+was about to be decided. But Prince Andrew did not see how it ended. It

+seemed to him as though one of the soldiers near him hit him on the head

+with the full swing of a bludgeon. It hurt a little, but the worst of

+it was that the pain distracted him and prevented his seeing what he had

+been looking at.

+

+“What’s this? Am I falling? My legs are giving way,” thought he,

+and fell on his back. He opened his eyes, hoping to see how the struggle

+of the Frenchmen with the gunners ended, whether the red-haired gunner

+had been killed or not and whether the cannon had been captured or

+saved. But he saw nothing. Above him there was now nothing but the

+sky—the lofty sky, not clear yet still immeasurably lofty, with gray

+clouds gliding slowly across it. “How quiet, peaceful, and solemn; not

+at all as I ran,” thought Prince Andrew—“not as we ran, shouting

+and fighting, not at all as the gunner and the Frenchman with frightened

+and angry faces struggled for the mop: how differently do those clouds

+glide across that lofty infinite sky! How was it I did not see that

+lofty sky before? And how happy I am to have found it at last! Yes! All

+is vanity, all falsehood, except that infinite sky. There is nothing,

+nothing, but that. But even it does not exist, there is nothing but

+quiet and peace. Thank God!...”

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XVII

+

+On our right flank commanded by Bagratión, at nine o’clock the battle

+had not yet begun. Not wishing to agree to Dolgorúkov’s demand to

+commence the action, and wishing to avert responsibility from himself,

+Prince Bagratión proposed to Dolgorúkov to send to inquire of the

+commander in chief. Bagratión knew that as the distance between the two

+flanks was more than six miles, even if the messenger were not killed

+(which he very likely would be), and found the commander in chief

+(which would be very difficult), he would not be able to get back before

+evening.

+

+Bagratión cast his large, expressionless, sleepy eyes round his suite,

+and the boyish face Rostóv, breathless with excitement and hope, was

+the first to catch his eye. He sent him.

+

+“And if I should meet His Majesty before I meet the commander in

+chief, your excellency?” said Rostóv, with his hand to his cap.

+

+“You can give the message to His Majesty,” said Dolgorúkov,

+hurriedly interrupting Bagratión.

+

+On being relieved from picket duty Rostóv had managed to get a few

+hours’ sleep before morning and felt cheerful, bold, and resolute,

+with elasticity of movement, faith in his good fortune, and generally in

+that state of mind which makes everything seem possible, pleasant, and

+easy.

+

+All his wishes were being fulfilled that morning: there was to be a

+general engagement in which he was taking part, more than that, he was

+orderly to the bravest general, and still more, he was going with a

+message to Kutúzov, perhaps even to the sovereign himself. The morning

+was bright, he had a good horse under him, and his heart was full of

+joy and happiness. On receiving the order he gave his horse the rein

+and galloped along the line. At first he rode along the line of

+Bagratión’s troops, which had not yet advanced into action but were

+standing motionless; then he came to the region occupied by Uvárov’s

+cavalry and here he noticed a stir and signs of preparation for battle;

+having passed Uvárov’s cavalry he clearly heard the sound of cannon

+and musketry ahead of him. The firing grew louder and louder.

+

+In the fresh morning air were now heard, not two or three musket shots

+at irregular intervals as before, followed by one or two cannon shots,

+but a roll of volleys of musketry from the slopes of the hill before

+Pratzen, interrupted by such frequent reports of cannon that sometimes

+several of them were not separated from one another but merged into a

+general roar.

+

+He could see puffs of musketry smoke that seemed to chase one another

+down the hillsides, and clouds of cannon smoke rolling, spreading,

+and mingling with one another. He could also, by the gleam of bayonets

+visible through the smoke, make out moving masses of infantry and narrow

+lines of artillery with green caissons.

+

+Rostóv stopped his horse for a moment on a hillock to see what was

+going on, but strain his attention as he would he could not understand

+or make out anything of what was happening: there in the smoke men of

+some sort were moving about, in front and behind moved lines of troops;

+but why, whither, and who they were, it was impossible to make out.

+These sights and sounds had no depressing or intimidating effect on him;

+on the contrary, they stimulated his energy and determination.

+

+“Go on! Go on! Give it them!” he mentally exclaimed at these sounds,

+and again proceeded to gallop along the line, penetrating farther and

+farther into the region where the army was already in action.

+

+“How it will be there I don’t know, but all will be well!” thought

+Rostóv.

+

+After passing some Austrian troops he noticed that the next part of the

+line (the Guards) was already in action.

+

+“So much the better! I shall see it close,” he thought.

+

+He was riding almost along the front line. A handful of men came

+galloping toward him. They were our Uhlans who with disordered

+ranks were returning from the attack. Rostóv got out of their way,

+involuntarily noticed that one of them was bleeding, and galloped on.

+

+“That is no business of mine,” he thought. He had not ridden many

+hundred yards after that before he saw to his left, across the whole

+width of the field, an enormous mass of cavalry in brilliant white

+uniforms, mounted on black horses, trotting straight toward him and

+across his path. Rostóv put his horse to full gallop to get out of the

+way of these men, and he would have got clear had they continued at the

+same speed, but they kept increasing their pace, so that some of the

+horses were already galloping. Rostóv heard the thud of their hoofs

+and the jingle of their weapons and saw their horses, their figures, and

+even their faces, more and more distinctly. They were our Horse Guards,

+advancing to attack the French cavalry that was coming to meet them.

+

+The Horse Guards were galloping, but still holding in their horses.

+Rostóv could already see their faces and heard the command:

+“Charge!” shouted by an officer who was urging his thoroughbred to

+full speed. Rostóv, fearing to be crushed or swept into the attack on

+the French, galloped along the front as hard as his horse could go, but

+still was not in time to avoid them.

+

+The last of the Horse Guards, a huge pockmarked fellow, frowned angrily

+on seeing Rostóv before him, with whom he would inevitably collide.

+This Guardsman would certainly have bowled Rostóv and his Bedouin over

+(Rostóv felt himself quite tiny and weak compared to these gigantic men

+and horses) had it not occurred to Rostóv to flourish his whip before

+the eyes of the Guardsman’s horse. The heavy black horse, sixteen

+hands high, shied, throwing back its ears; but the pockmarked Guardsman

+drove his huge spurs in violently, and the horse, flourishing its tail

+and extending its neck, galloped on yet faster. Hardly had the Horse

+Guards passed Rostóv before he heard them shout, “Hurrah!” and

+looking back saw that their foremost ranks were mixed up with some

+foreign cavalry with red epaulets, probably French. He could see nothing

+more, for immediately afterwards cannon began firing from somewhere and

+smoke enveloped everything.

+

+At that moment, as the Horse Guards, having passed him, disappeared in

+the smoke, Rostóv hesitated whether to gallop after them or to go where

+he was sent. This was the brilliant charge of the Horse Guards that

+amazed the French themselves. Rostóv was horrified to hear later that

+of all that mass of huge and handsome men, of all those brilliant,

+rich youths, officers and cadets, who had galloped past him on their

+thousand-ruble horses, only eighteen were left after the charge.

+

+“Why should I envy them? My chance is not lost, and maybe I shall see

+the Emperor immediately!” thought Rostóv and galloped on.

+

+When he came level with the Foot Guards he noticed that about them and

+around them cannon balls were flying, of which he was aware not so

+much because he heard their sound as because he saw uneasiness on

+the soldiers’ faces and unnatural warlike solemnity on those of the

+officers.

+

+Passing behind one of the lines of a regiment of Foot Guards he heard a

+voice calling him by name.

+

+“Rostóv!”

+

+“What?” he answered, not recognizing Borís.

+

+“I say, we’ve been in the front line! Our regiment attacked!” said

+Borís with the happy smile seen on the faces of young men who have been

+under fire for the first time.

+

+Rostóv stopped.

+

+“Have you?” he said. “Well, how did it go?”

+

+“We drove them back!” said Borís with animation, growing talkative.

+“Can you imagine it?” and he began describing how the Guards, having

+taken up their position and seeing troops before them, thought they were

+Austrians, and all at once discovered from the cannon balls discharged

+by those troops that they were themselves in the front line and had

+unexpectedly to go into action. Rostóv without hearing Borís to the

+end spurred his horse.

+

+“Where are you off to?” asked Borís.

+

+“With a message to His Majesty.”

+

+“There he is!” said Borís, thinking Rostóv had said “His

+Highness,” and pointing to the Grand Duke who with his high shoulders

+and frowning brows stood a hundred paces away from them in his helmet

+and Horse Guards’ jacket, shouting something to a pale, white

+uniformed Austrian officer.

+

+“But that’s the Grand Duke, and I want the commander in chief or the

+Emperor,” said Rostóv, and was about to spur his horse.

+

+“Count! Count!” shouted Berg who ran up from the other side as eager

+as Borís. “Count! I am wounded in my right hand” (and he showed his

+bleeding hand with a handkerchief tied round it) “and I remained at

+the front. I held my sword in my left hand, Count. All our family—the

+von Bergs—have been knights!”

+

+He said something more, but Rostóv did not wait to hear it and rode

+away.

+

+Having passed the Guards and traversed an empty space, Rostóv, to avoid

+again getting in front of the first line as he had done when the Horse

+Guards charged, followed the line of reserves, going far round the place

+where the hottest musket fire and cannonade were heard. Suddenly he

+heard musket fire quite close in front of him and behind our troops,

+where he could never have expected the enemy to be.

+

+“What can it be?” he thought. “The enemy in the rear of our army?

+Impossible!” And suddenly he was seized by a panic of fear for himself

+and for the issue of the whole battle. “But be that what it may,”

+he reflected, “there is no riding round it now. I must look for the

+commander in chief here, and if all is lost it is for me to perish with

+the rest.”

+

+The foreboding of evil that had suddenly come over Rostóv was more and

+more confirmed the farther he rode into the region behind the village of

+Pratzen, which was full of troops of all kinds.

+

+“What does it mean? What is it? Whom are they firing at? Who is

+firing?” Rostóv kept asking as he came up to Russian and Austrian

+soldiers running in confused crowds across his path.

+

+“The devil knows! They’ve killed everybody! It’s all up now!”

+he was told in Russian, German, and Czech by the crowd of fugitives who

+understood what was happening as little as he did.

+

+“Kill the Germans!” shouted one.

+

+“May the devil take them—the traitors!”

+

+“Zum Henker diese Russen!” * muttered a German.

+

+    * “Hang these Russians!”

+

+

+Several wounded men passed along the road, and words of abuse, screams,

+and groans mingled in a general hubbub, then the firing died down.

+Rostóv learned later that Russian and Austrian soldiers had been firing

+at one another.

+

+“My God! What does it all mean?” thought he. “And here, where at

+any moment the Emperor may see them.... But no, these must be only a

+handful of scoundrels. It will soon be over, it can’t be that, it

+can’t be! Only to get past them quicker, quicker!”

+

+The idea of defeat and flight could not enter Rostóv’s head. Though

+he saw French cannon and French troops on the Pratzen Heights just where

+he had been ordered to look for the commander in chief, he could not,

+did not wish to, believe that.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XVIII

+

+Rostóv had been ordered to look for Kutúzov and the Emperor near the

+village of Pratzen. But neither they nor a single commanding officer

+were there, only disorganized crowds of troops of various kinds. He

+urged on his already weary horse to get quickly past these crowds, but

+the farther he went the more disorganized they were. The highroad on

+which he had come out was thronged with calèches, carriages of all

+sorts, and Russian and Austrian soldiers of all arms, some wounded and

+some not. This whole mass droned and jostled in confusion under the

+dismal influence of cannon balls flying from the French batteries

+stationed on the Pratzen Heights.

+

+“Where is the Emperor? Where is Kutúzov?” Rostóv kept asking

+everyone he could stop, but got no answer from anyone.

+

+At last seizing a soldier by his collar he forced him to answer.

+

+“Eh, brother! They’ve all bolted long ago!” said the soldier,

+laughing for some reason and shaking himself free.

+

+Having left that soldier who was evidently drunk, Rostóv stopped the

+horse of a batman or groom of some important personage and began to

+question him. The man announced that the Tsar had been driven in a

+carriage at full speed about an hour before along that very road and

+that he was dangerously wounded.

+

+“It can’t be!” said Rostóv. “It must have been someone else.”

+

+“I saw him myself,” replied the man with a self-confident smile of

+derision. “I ought to know the Emperor by now, after the times I’ve

+seen him in Petersburg. I saw him just as I see you.... There he sat in

+the carriage as pale as anything. How they made the four black horses

+fly! Gracious me, they did rattle past! It’s time I knew the Imperial

+horses and Ilyá Iványch. I don’t think Ilyá drives anyone except

+the Tsar!”

+

+Rostóv let go of the horse and was about to ride on, when a wounded

+officer passing by addressed him:

+

+“Who is it you want?” he asked. “The commander in chief? He was

+killed by a cannon ball—struck in the breast before our regiment.”

+

+“Not killed—wounded!” another officer corrected him.

+

+“Who? Kutúzov?” asked Rostóv.

+

+“Not Kutúzov, but what’s his name—well, never mind... there are

+not many left alive. Go that way, to that village, all the commanders

+are there,” said the officer, pointing to the village of Hosjeradek,

+and he walked on.

+

+Rostóv rode on at a footpace not knowing why or to whom he was now

+going. The Emperor was wounded, the battle lost. It was impossible to

+doubt it now. Rostóv rode in the direction pointed out to him, in which

+he saw turrets and a church. What need to hurry? What was he now to say

+to the Tsar or to Kutúzov, even if they were alive and unwounded?

+

+“Take this road, your honor, that way you will be killed at once!” a

+soldier shouted to him. “They’d kill you there!”

+

+“Oh, what are you talking about?” said another. “Where is he to

+go? That way is nearer.”

+

+Rostóv considered, and then went in the direction where they said he

+would be killed.

+

+“It’s all the same now. If the Emperor is wounded, am I to try to

+save myself?” he thought. He rode on to the region where the greatest

+number of men had perished in fleeing from Pratzen. The French had not

+yet occupied that region, and the Russians—the uninjured and slightly

+wounded—had left it long ago. All about the field, like heaps of

+manure on well-kept plowland, lay from ten to fifteen dead and wounded

+to each couple of acres. The wounded crept together in twos and threes

+and one could hear their distressing screams and groans, sometimes

+feigned—or so it seemed to Rostóv. He put his horse to a trot to

+avoid seeing all these suffering men, and he felt afraid—afraid not

+for his life, but for the courage he needed and which he knew would not

+stand the sight of these unfortunates.

+

+The French, who had ceased firing at this field strewn with dead and

+wounded where there was no one left to fire at, on seeing an adjutant

+riding over it trained a gun on him and fired several shots. The

+sensation of those terrible whistling sounds and of the corpses around

+him merged in Rostóv’s mind into a single feeling of terror and pity

+for himself. He remembered his mother’s last letter. “What would she

+feel,” thought he, “if she saw me here now on this field with the

+cannon aimed at me?”

+

+In the village of Hosjeradek there were Russian troops retiring from

+the field of battle, who though still in some confusion were less

+disordered. The French cannon did not reach there and the musketry fire

+sounded far away. Here everyone clearly saw and said that the battle

+was lost. No one whom Rostóv asked could tell him where the Emperor

+or Kutúzov was. Some said the report that the Emperor was wounded was

+correct, others that it was not, and explained the false rumor that had

+spread by the fact that the Emperor’s carriage had really galloped

+from the field of battle with the pale and terrified Ober-Hofmarschal

+Count Tolstóy, who had ridden out to the battlefield with others in

+the Emperor’s suite. One officer told Rostóv that he had seen someone

+from headquarters behind the village to the left, and thither Rostóv

+rode, not hoping to find anyone but merely to ease his conscience. When

+he had ridden about two miles and had passed the last of the Russian

+troops, he saw, near a kitchen garden with a ditch round it, two men

+on horseback facing the ditch. One with a white plume in his hat seemed

+familiar to Rostóv; the other on a beautiful chestnut horse (which

+Rostóv fancied he had seen before) rode up to the ditch, struck his

+horse with his spurs, and giving it the rein leaped lightly over. Only

+a little earth crumbled from the bank under the horse’s hind hoofs.

+Turning the horse sharply, he again jumped the ditch, and deferentially

+addressed the horseman with the white plumes, evidently suggesting

+that he should do the same. The rider, whose figure seemed familiar

+to Rostóv and involuntarily riveted his attention, made a gesture of

+refusal with his head and hand and by that gesture Rostóv instantly

+recognized his lamented and adored monarch.

+

+“But it can’t be he, alone in the midst of this empty field!”

+thought Rostóv. At that moment Alexander turned his head and Rostóv

+saw the beloved features that were so deeply engraved on his memory. The

+Emperor was pale, his cheeks sunken and his eyes hollow, but the charm,

+the mildness of his features, was all the greater. Rostóv was happy

+in the assurance that the rumors about the Emperor being wounded were

+false. He was happy to be seeing him. He knew that he might and even

+ought to go straight to him and give the message Dolgorúkov had ordered

+him to deliver.

+

+But as a youth in love trembles, is unnerved, and dares not utter the

+thoughts he has dreamed of for nights, but looks around for help or a

+chance of delay and flight when the longed-for moment comes and he is

+alone with her, so Rostóv, now that he had attained what he had longed

+for more than anything else in the world, did not know how to approach

+the Emperor, and a thousand reasons occurred to him why it would be

+inconvenient, unseemly, and impossible to do so.

+

+“What! It is as if I were glad of a chance to take advantage of

+his being alone and despondent! A strange face may seem unpleasant or

+painful to him at this moment of sorrow; besides, what can I say to him

+now, when my heart fails me and my mouth feels dry at the mere sight

+of him?” Not one of the innumerable speeches addressed to the Emperor

+that he had composed in his imagination could he now recall. Those

+speeches were intended for quite other conditions, they were for the

+most part to be spoken at a moment of victory and triumph, generally

+when he was dying of wounds and the sovereign had thanked him for heroic

+deeds, and while dying he expressed the love his actions had proved.

+

+“Besides how can I ask the Emperor for his instructions for the right

+flank now that it is nearly four o’clock and the battle is lost?

+No, certainly I must not approach him, I must not intrude on his

+reflections. Better die a thousand times than risk receiving an unkind

+look or bad opinion from him,” Rostóv decided; and sorrowfully and

+with a heart full despair he rode away, continually looking back at the

+Tsar, who still remained in the same attitude of indecision.

+

+While Rostóv was thus arguing with himself and riding sadly away,

+Captain von Toll chanced to ride to the same spot, and seeing the

+Emperor at once rode up to him, offered his services, and assisted him

+to cross the ditch on foot. The Emperor, wishing to rest and feeling

+unwell, sat down under an apple tree and von Toll remained beside him.

+Rostóv from a distance saw with envy and remorse how von Toll spoke

+long and warmly to the Emperor and how the Emperor, evidently weeping,

+covered his eyes with his hand and pressed von Toll’s hand.

+

+“And I might have been in his place!” thought Rostóv, and hardly

+restraining his tears of pity for the Emperor, he rode on in utter

+despair, not knowing where to or why he was now riding.

+

+His despair was all the greater from feeling that his own weakness was

+the cause of his grief.

+

+He might... not only might but should, have gone up to the sovereign. It

+was a unique chance to show his devotion to the Emperor and he had not

+made use of it.... “What have I done?” thought he. And he turned

+round and galloped back to the place where he had seen the Emperor, but

+there was no one beyond the ditch now. Only some carts and carriages

+were passing by. From one of the drivers he learned that Kutúzov’s

+staff were not far off, in the village the vehicles were going to.

+Rostóv followed them. In front of him walked Kutúzov’s groom leading

+horses in horsecloths. Then came a cart, and behind that walked an old,

+bandy-legged domestic serf in a peaked cap and sheepskin coat.

+

+“Tit! I say, Tit!” said the groom.

+

+“What?” answered the old man absent-mindedly.

+

+“Go, Tit! Thresh a bit!”

+

+“Oh, you fool!” said the old man, spitting angrily. Some time passed

+in silence, and then the same joke was repeated.

+

+

+Before five in the evening the battle had been lost at all points. More

+than a hundred cannon were already in the hands of the French.

+

+Przebyszéwski and his corps had laid down their arms. Other columns

+after losing half their men were retreating in disorderly confused

+masses.

+

+The remains of Langeron’s and Dokhtúrov’s mingled forces were

+crowding around the dams and banks of the ponds near the village of

+Augesd.

+

+After five o’clock it was only at the Augesd Dam that a hot cannonade

+(delivered by the French alone) was still to be heard from numerous

+batteries ranged on the slopes of the Pratzen Heights, directed at our

+retreating forces.

+

+In the rearguard, Dokhtúrov and others rallying some battalions kept up

+a musketry fire at the French cavalry that was pursuing our troops. It

+was growing dusk. On the narrow Augesd Dam where for so many years the

+old miller had been accustomed to sit in his tasseled cap peacefully

+angling, while his grandson, with shirt sleeves rolled up, handled the

+floundering silvery fish in the watering can, on that dam over which for

+so many years Moravians in shaggy caps and blue jackets had peacefully

+driven their two-horse carts loaded with wheat and had returned dusty

+with flour whitening their carts—on that narrow dam amid the wagons

+and the cannon, under the horses’ hoofs and between the wagon wheels,

+men disfigured by fear of death now crowded together, crushing one

+another, dying, stepping over the dying and killing one another, only to

+move on a few steps and be killed themselves in the same way.

+

+Every ten seconds a cannon ball flew compressing the air around, or

+a shell burst in the midst of that dense throng, killing some and

+splashing with blood those near them.

+

+Dólokhov—now an officer—wounded in the arm, and on foot, with

+the regimental commander on horseback and some ten men of his company,

+represented all that was left of that whole regiment. Impelled by the

+crowd, they had got wedged in at the approach to the dam and, jammed in

+on all sides, had stopped because a horse in front had fallen under a

+cannon and the crowd were dragging it out. A cannon ball killed someone

+behind them, another fell in front and splashed Dólokhov with blood.

+The crowd, pushing forward desperately, squeezed together, moved a few

+steps, and again stopped.

+

+“Move on a hundred yards and we are certainly saved, remain here

+another two minutes and it is certain death,” thought each one.

+

+Dólokhov who was in the midst of the crowd forced his way to the edge

+of the dam, throwing two soldiers off their feet, and ran onto the

+slippery ice that covered the millpool.

+

+“Turn this way!” he shouted, jumping over the ice which creaked

+under him; “turn this way!” he shouted to those with the gun. “It

+bears!...”

+

+The ice bore him but it swayed and creaked, and it was plain that it

+would give way not only under a cannon or a crowd, but very soon even

+under his weight alone. The men looked at him and pressed to the

+bank, hesitating to step onto the ice. The general on horseback at the

+entrance to the dam raised his hand and opened his mouth to address

+Dólokhov. Suddenly a cannon ball hissed so low above the crowd that

+everyone ducked. It flopped into something moist, and the general fell

+from his horse in a pool of blood. Nobody gave him a look or thought of

+raising him.

+

+“Get onto the ice, over the ice! Go on! Turn! Don’t you hear? Go

+on!” innumerable voices suddenly shouted after the ball had struck

+the general, the men themselves not knowing what, or why, they were

+shouting.

+

+One of the hindmost guns that was going onto the dam turned off onto the

+ice. Crowds of soldiers from the dam began running onto the frozen pond.

+The ice gave way under one of the foremost soldiers, and one leg slipped

+into the water. He tried to right himself but fell in up to his waist.

+The nearest soldiers shrank back, the gun driver stopped his horse, but

+from behind still came the shouts: “Onto the ice, why do you stop? Go

+on! Go on!” And cries of horror were heard in the crowd. The soldiers

+near the gun waved their arms and beat the horses to make them turn and

+move on. The horses moved off the bank. The ice, that had held under

+those on foot, collapsed in a great mass, and some forty men who were on

+it dashed, some forward and some back, drowning one another.

+

+Still the cannon balls continued regularly to whistle and flop onto the

+ice and into the water and oftenest of all among the crowd that covered

+the dam, the pond, and the bank.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XIX

+

+On the Pratzen Heights, where he had fallen with the flagstaff in his

+hand, lay Prince Andrew Bolkónski bleeding profusely and unconsciously

+uttering a gentle, piteous, and childlike moan.

+

+Toward evening he ceased moaning and became quite still. He did not know

+how long his unconsciousness lasted. Suddenly he again felt that he was

+alive and suffering from a burning, lacerating pain in his head.

+

+“Where is it, that lofty sky that I did not know till now, but saw

+today?” was his first thought. “And I did not know this suffering

+either,” he thought. “Yes, I did not know anything, anything at all

+till now. But where am I?”

+

+He listened and heard the sound of approaching horses, and voices

+speaking French. He opened his eyes. Above him again was the same lofty

+sky with clouds that had risen and were floating still higher, and

+between them gleamed blue infinity. He did not turn his head and did not

+see those who, judging by the sound of hoofs and voices, had ridden up

+and stopped near him.

+

+It was Napoleon accompanied by two aides-de-camp. Bonaparte riding

+over the battlefield had given final orders to strengthen the batteries

+firing at the Augesd Dam and was looking at the killed and wounded left

+on the field.

+

+“Fine men!” remarked Napoleon, looking at a dead Russian grenadier,

+who, with his face buried in the ground and a blackened nape, lay on his

+stomach with an already stiffened arm flung wide.

+

+“The ammunition for the guns in position is exhausted, Your

+Majesty,” said an adjutant who had come from the batteries that were

+firing at Augesd.

+

+“Have some brought from the reserve,” said Napoleon, and having gone

+on a few steps he stopped before Prince Andrew, who lay on his back with

+the flagstaff that had been dropped beside him. (The flag had already

+been taken by the French as a trophy.)

+

+“That’s a fine death!” said Napoleon as he gazed at Bolkónski.

+

+Prince Andrew understood that this was said of him and that it was

+Napoleon who said it. He heard the speaker addressed as Sire. But he

+heard the words as he might have heard the buzzing of a fly. Not only

+did they not interest him, but he took no notice of them and at once

+forgot them. His head was burning, he felt himself bleeding to death,

+and he saw above him the remote, lofty, and everlasting sky. He knew it

+was Napoleon—his hero—but at that moment Napoleon seemed to him

+such a small, insignificant creature compared with what was passing now

+between himself and that lofty infinite sky with the clouds flying over

+it. At that moment it meant nothing to him who might be standing over

+him, or what was said of him; he was only glad that people were standing

+near him and only wished that they would help him and bring him back to

+life, which seemed to him so beautiful now that he had today learned to

+understand it so differently. He collected all his strength, to stir and

+utter a sound. He feebly moved his leg and uttered a weak, sickly groan

+which aroused his own pity.

+

+“Ah! He is alive,” said Napoleon. “Lift this young man up and

+carry him to the dressing station.”

+

+Having said this, Napoleon rode on to meet Marshal Lannes, who, hat in

+hand, rode up smiling to the Emperor to congratulate him on the victory.

+

+Prince Andrew remembered nothing more: he lost consciousness from the

+terrible pain of being lifted onto the stretcher, the jolting while

+being moved, and the probing of his wound at the dressing station.

+He did not regain consciousness till late in the day, when with other

+wounded and captured Russian officers he was carried to the hospital.

+During this transfer he felt a little stronger and was able to look

+about him and even speak.

+

+The first words he heard on coming to his senses were those of a French

+convoy officer, who said rapidly: “We must halt here: the Emperor

+will pass here immediately; it will please him to see these gentlemen

+prisoners.”

+

+“There are so many prisoners today, nearly the whole Russian army,

+that he is probably tired of them,” said another officer.

+

+“All the same! They say this one is the commander of all the Emperor

+Alexander’s Guards,” said the first one, indicating a Russian

+officer in the white uniform of the Horse Guards.

+

+Bolkónski recognized Prince Repnín whom he had met in Petersburg

+society. Beside him stood a lad of nineteen, also a wounded officer of

+the Horse Guards.

+

+Bonaparte, having come up at a gallop, stopped his horse.

+

+“Which is the senior?” he asked, on seeing the prisoners.

+

+They named the colonel, Prince Repnín.

+

+“You are the commander of the Emperor Alexander’s regiment of Horse

+Guards?” asked Napoleon.

+

+“I commanded a squadron,” replied Repnín.

+

+“Your regiment fulfilled its duty honorably,” said Napoleon.

+

+“The praise of a great commander is a soldier’s highest reward,”

+said Repnín.

+

+“I bestow it with pleasure,” said Napoleon. “And who is that young

+man beside you?”

+

+Prince Repnín named Lieutenant Sukhtélen.

+

+After looking at him Napoleon smiled.

+

+“He’s very young to come to meddle with us.”

+

+“Youth is no hindrance to courage,” muttered Sukhtélen in a failing

+voice.

+

+“A splendid reply!” said Napoleon. “Young man, you will go far!”

+

+Prince Andrew, who had also been brought forward before the Emperor’s

+eyes to complete the show of prisoners, could not fail to attract his

+attention. Napoleon apparently remembered seeing him on the battlefield

+and, addressing him, again used the epithet “young man” that was

+connected in his memory with Prince Andrew.

+

+“Well, and you, young man,” said he. “How do you feel, mon

+brave?”

+

+Though five minutes before, Prince Andrew had been able to say a few

+words to the soldiers who were carrying him, now with his eyes fixed

+straight on Napoleon, he was silent.... So insignificant at that moment

+seemed to him all the interests that engrossed Napoleon, so mean did his

+hero himself with his paltry vanity and joy in victory appear,

+compared to the lofty, equitable, and kindly sky which he had seen and

+understood, that he could not answer him.

+

+Everything seemed so futile and insignificant in comparison with the

+stern and solemn train of thought that weakness from loss of blood,

+suffering, and the nearness of death aroused in him. Looking into

+Napoleon’s eyes Prince Andrew thought of the insignificance of

+greatness, the unimportance of life which no one could understand, and

+the still greater unimportance of death, the meaning of which no one

+alive could understand or explain.

+

+The Emperor without waiting for an answer turned away and said to one of

+the officers as he went: “Have these gentlemen attended to and taken

+to my bivouac; let my doctor, Larrey, examine their wounds. Au revoir,

+Prince Repnín!” and he spurred his horse and galloped away.

+

+His face shone with self-satisfaction and pleasure.

+

+The soldiers who had carried Prince Andrew had noticed and taken the

+little gold icon Princess Mary had hung round her brother’s neck, but

+seeing the favor the Emperor showed the prisoners, they now hastened to

+return the holy image.

+

+Prince Andrew did not see how and by whom it was replaced, but the

+little icon with its thin gold chain suddenly appeared upon his chest

+outside his uniform.

+

+“It would be good,” thought Prince Andrew, glancing at the icon his

+sister had hung round his neck with such emotion and reverence, “it

+would be good if everything were as clear and simple as it seems to

+Mary. How good it would be to know where to seek for help in this life,

+and what to expect after it beyond the grave! How happy and calm I

+should be if I could now say: ‘Lord, have mercy on me!’... But to

+whom should I say that? Either to a Power indefinable, incomprehensible,

+which I not only cannot address but which I cannot even express in

+words—the Great All or Nothing-” said he to himself, “or to

+that God who has been sewn into this amulet by Mary! There is nothing

+certain, nothing at all except the unimportance of everything I

+understand, and the greatness of something incomprehensible but

+all-important.”

+

+The stretchers moved on. At every jolt he again felt unendurable pain;

+his feverishness increased and he grew delirious. Visions of his father,

+wife, sister, and future son, and the tenderness he had felt the night

+before the battle, the figure of the insignificant little Napoleon, and

+above all this the lofty sky, formed the chief subjects of his delirious

+fancies.

+

+The quiet home life and peaceful happiness of Bald Hills presented

+itself to him. He was already enjoying that happiness when that

+little Napoleon had suddenly appeared with his unsympathizing look of

+shortsighted delight at the misery of others, and doubts and torments

+had followed, and only the heavens promised peace. Toward morning

+all these dreams melted and merged into the chaos and darkness of

+unconciousness and oblivion which in the opinion of Napoleon’s doctor,

+Larrey, was much more likely to end in death than in convalescence.

+

+“He is a nervous, bilious subject,” said Larrey, “and will not

+recover.”

+

+And Prince Andrew, with others fatally wounded, was left to the care of

+the inhabitants of the district.

+

+

+

+

+

+BOOK FOUR: 1806

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER I

+

+Early in the year 1806 Nicholas Rostóv returned home on leave. Denísov

+was going home to Vorónezh and Rostóv persuaded him to travel with him

+as far as Moscow and to stay with him there. Meeting a comrade at

+the last post station but one before Moscow, Denísov had drunk three

+bottles of wine with him and, despite the jolting ruts across the

+snow-covered road, did not once wake up on the way to Moscow, but lay

+at the bottom of the sleigh beside Rostóv, who grew more and more

+impatient the nearer they got to Moscow.

+

+“How much longer? How much longer? Oh, these insufferable streets,

+shops, bakers’ signboards, street lamps, and sleighs!” thought

+Rostóv, when their leave permits had been passed at the town gate and

+they had entered Moscow.

+

+“Denísov! We’re here! He’s asleep,” he added, leaning forward

+with his whole body as if in that position he hoped to hasten the speed

+of the sleigh.

+

+Denísov gave no answer.

+

+“There’s the corner at the crossroads, where the cabman, Zakhár,

+has his stand, and there’s Zakhár himself and still the same horse!

+And here’s the little shop where we used to buy gingerbread! Can’t

+you hurry up? Now then!”

+

+“Which house is it?” asked the driver.

+

+“Why, that one, right at the end, the big one. Don’t you see?

+That’s our house,” said Rostóv. “Of course, it’s our house!

+Denísov, Denísov! We’re almost there!”

+

+Denísov raised his head, coughed, and made no answer.

+

+“Dmítri,” said Rostóv to his valet on the box, “those lights are

+in our house, aren’t they?”

+

+“Yes, sir, and there’s a light in your father’s study.”

+

+“Then they’ve not gone to bed yet? What do you think? Mind now,

+don’t forget to put out my new coat,” added Rostóv, fingering his

+new mustache. “Now then, get on,” he shouted to the driver. “Do

+wake up, Váska!” he went on, turning to Denísov, whose head

+was again nodding. “Come, get on! You shall have three rubles for

+vodka—get on!” Rostóv shouted, when the sleigh was only three

+houses from his door. It seemed to him the horses were not moving at

+all. At last the sleigh bore to the right, drew up at an entrance, and

+Rostóv saw overhead the old familiar cornice with a bit of plaster

+broken off, the porch, and the post by the side of the pavement. He

+sprang out before the sleigh stopped, and ran into the hall. The house

+stood cold and silent, as if quite regardless of who had come to it.

+There was no one in the hall. “Oh God! Is everyone all right?”

+he thought, stopping for a moment with a sinking heart, and then

+immediately starting to run along the hall and up the warped steps of

+the familiar staircase. The well-known old door handle, which always

+angered the countess when it was not properly cleaned, turned as loosely

+as ever. A solitary tallow candle burned in the anteroom.

+

+Old Michael was asleep on the chest. Prokófy, the footman, who was

+so strong that he could lift the back of the carriage from behind, sat

+plaiting slippers out of cloth selvedges. He looked up at the opening

+door and his expression of sleepy indifference suddenly changed to one

+of delighted amazement.

+

+“Gracious heavens! The young count!” he cried, recognizing his

+young master. “Can it be? My treasure!” and Prokófy, trembling with

+excitement, rushed toward the drawing room door, probably in order to

+announce him, but, changing his mind, came back and stooped to kiss the

+young man’s shoulder.

+

+“All well?” asked Rostóv, drawing away his arm.

+

+“Yes, God be thanked! Yes! They’ve just finished supper. Let me have

+a look at you, your excellency.”

+

+“Is everything quite all right?”

+

+“The Lord be thanked, yes!”

+

+Rostóv, who had completely forgotten Denísov, not wishing anyone to

+forestall him, threw off his fur coat and ran on tiptoe through the

+large dark ballroom. All was the same: there were the same old card

+tables and the same chandelier with a cover over it; but someone had

+already seen the young master, and, before he had reached the drawing

+room, something flew out from a side door like a tornado and began

+hugging and kissing him. Another and yet another creature of the same

+kind sprang from a second door and a third; more hugging, more kissing,

+more outcries, and tears of joy. He could not distinguish which was

+Papa, which Natásha, and which Pétya. Everyone shouted, talked, and

+kissed him at the same time. Only his mother was not there, he noticed

+that.

+

+“And I did not know... Nicholas... My darling!...”

+

+“Here he is... our own... Kólya, * dear fellow... How he has

+changed!... Where are the candles?... Tea!...”

+

+    * Nicholas.

+

+“And me, kiss me!”

+

+“Dearest... and me!”

+

+Sónya, Natásha, Pétya, Anna Mikháylovna, Véra, and the old count

+were all hugging him, and the serfs, men and maids, flocked into the

+room, exclaiming and oh-ing and ah-ing.

+

+Pétya, clinging to his legs, kept shouting, “And me too!”

+

+Natásha, after she had pulled him down toward her and covered his face

+with kisses, holding him tight by the skirt of his coat, sprang away and

+pranced up and down in one place like a goat and shrieked piercingly.

+

+All around were loving eyes glistening with tears of joy, and all around

+were lips seeking a kiss.

+

+Sónya too, all rosy red, clung to his arm and, radiant with bliss,

+looked eagerly toward his eyes, waiting for the look for which she

+longed. Sónya now was sixteen and she was very pretty, especially at

+this moment of happy, rapturous excitement. She gazed at him, not taking

+her eyes off him, and smiling and holding her breath. He gave her a

+grateful look, but was still expectant and looking for someone. The old

+countess had not yet come. But now steps were heard at the door, steps

+so rapid that they could hardly be his mother’s.

+

+Yet it was she, dressed in a new gown which he did not know, made since

+he had left. All the others let him go, and he ran to her. When they

+met, she fell on his breast, sobbing. She could not lift her face, but

+only pressed it to the cold braiding of his hussar’s jacket. Denísov,

+who had come into the room unnoticed by anyone, stood there and wiped

+his eyes at the sight.

+

+“Vasíli Denísov, your son’s friend,” he said, introducing

+himself to the count, who was looking inquiringly at him.

+

+“You are most welcome! I know, I know,” said the count, kissing and

+embracing Denísov. “Nicholas wrote us... Natásha, Véra, look! Here

+is Denísov!”

+

+The same happy, rapturous faces turned to the shaggy figure of Denísov.

+

+“Darling Denísov!” screamed Natásha, beside herself with rapture,

+springing to him, putting her arms round him, and kissing him. This

+escapade made everybody feel confused. Denísov blushed too, but smiled

+and, taking Natásha’s hand, kissed it.

+

+Denísov was shown to the room prepared for him, and the Rostóvs all

+gathered round Nicholas in the sitting room.

+

+The old countess, not letting go of his hand and kissing it every

+moment, sat beside him: the rest, crowding round him, watched every

+movement, word, or look of his, never taking their blissfully adoring

+eyes off him. His brother and sisters struggled for the places nearest

+to him and disputed with one another who should bring him his tea,

+handkerchief, and pipe.

+

+Rostóv was very happy in the love they showed him; but the first

+moment of meeting had been so beatific that his present joy seemed

+insufficient, and he kept expecting something more, more and yet more.

+

+Next morning, after the fatigues of their journey, the travelers slept

+till ten o’clock.

+

+In the room next their bedroom there was a confusion of sabers,

+satchels, sabretaches, open portmanteaus, and dirty boots. Two freshly

+cleaned pairs with spurs had just been placed by the wall. The servants

+were bringing in jugs and basins, hot water for shaving, and their

+well-brushed clothes. There was a masculine odor and a smell of tobacco.

+

+“Hallo, Gwíska—my pipe!” came Vasíli Denísov’s husky voice.

+“Wostóv, get up!”

+

+Rostóv, rubbing his eyes that seemed glued together, raised his

+disheveled head from the hot pillow.

+

+“Why, is it late?”

+

+“Late! It’s nearly ten o’clock,” answered Natásha’s voice.

+A rustle of starched petticoats and the whispering and laughter of

+girls’ voices came from the adjoining room. The door was opened a

+crack and there was a glimpse of something blue, of ribbons, black hair,

+and merry faces. It was Natásha, Sónya, and Pétya, who had come to

+see whether they were getting up.

+

+“Nicholas! Get up!” Natásha’s voice was again heard at the door.

+

+“Directly!”

+

+Meanwhile, Pétya, having found and seized the sabers in the outer room,

+with the delight boys feel at the sight of a military elder brother, and

+forgetting that it was unbecoming for the girls to see men undressed,

+opened the bedroom door.

+

+“Is this your saber?” he shouted.

+

+The girls sprang aside. Denísov hid his hairy legs under the blanket,

+looking with a scared face at his comrade for help. The door, having let

+Pétya in, closed again. A sound of laughter came from behind it.

+

+“Nicholas! Come out in your dressing gown!” said Natásha’s voice.

+

+“Is this your saber?” asked Pétya. “Or is it yours?” he said,

+addressing the black-mustached Denísov with servile deference.

+

+Rostóv hurriedly put something on his feet, drew on his dressing gown,

+and went out. Natásha had put on one spurred boot and was just getting

+her foot into the other. Sónya, when he came in, was twirling round and

+was about to expand her dresses into a balloon and sit down. They were

+dressed alike, in new pale-blue frocks, and were both fresh, rosy, and

+bright. Sónya ran away, but Natásha, taking her brother’s arm, led

+him into the sitting room, where they began talking. They hardly gave

+one another time to ask questions and give replies concerning a thousand

+little matters which could not interest anyone but themselves. Natásha

+laughed at every word he said or that she said herself, not because what

+they were saying was amusing, but because she felt happy and was unable

+to control her joy which expressed itself by laughter.

+

+“Oh, how nice, how splendid!” she said to everything.

+

+Rostóv felt that, under the influence of the warm rays of love, that

+childlike smile which had not once appeared on his face since he left

+home now for the first time after eighteen months again brightened his

+soul and his face.

+

+“No, but listen,” she said, “now you are quite a man, aren’t

+you? I’m awfully glad you’re my brother.” She touched his

+mustache. “I want to know what you men are like. Are you the same as

+we? No?”

+

+“Why did Sónya run away?” asked Rostóv.

+

+“Ah, yes! That’s a whole long story! How are you going to speak to

+her—thou or you?”

+

+“As may happen,” said Rostóv.

+

+“No, call her you, please! I’ll tell you all about it some other

+time. No, I’ll tell you now. You know Sónya’s my dearest friend.

+Such a friend that I burned my arm for her sake. Look here!”

+

+She pulled up her muslin sleeve and showed him a red scar on her long,

+slender, delicate arm, high above the elbow on that part that is covered

+even by a ball dress.

+

+“I burned this to prove my love for her. I just heated a ruler in the

+fire and pressed it there!”

+

+Sitting on the sofa with the little cushions on its arms, in what used

+to be his old schoolroom, and looking into Natásha’s wildly bright

+eyes, Rostóv re-entered that world of home and childhood which had no

+meaning for anyone else, but gave him some of the best joys of his life;

+and the burning of an arm with a ruler as a proof of love did not seem

+to him senseless, he understood and was not surprised at it.

+

+“Well, and is that all?” he asked.

+

+“We are such friends, such friends! All that ruler business was just

+nonsense, but we are friends forever. She, if she loves anyone, does it

+for life, but I don’t understand that, I forget quickly.”

+

+“Well, what then?”

+

+“Well, she loves me and you like that.”

+

+Natásha suddenly flushed.

+

+“Why, you remember before you went away?... Well, she says you are to

+forget all that.... She says: ‘I shall love him always, but let him be

+free.’ Isn’t that lovely and noble! Yes, very noble? Isn’t it?”

+asked Natásha, so seriously and excitedly that it was evident that what

+she was now saying she had talked of before, with tears.

+

+Rostóv became thoughtful.

+

+“I never go back on my word,” he said. “Besides, Sónya is so

+charming that only a fool would renounce such happiness.”

+

+“No, no!” cried Natásha, “she and I have already talked it over.

+We knew you’d say so. But it won’t do, because you see, if you say

+that—if you consider yourself bound by your promise—it will seem as

+if she had not meant it seriously. It makes it as if you were marrying

+her because you must, and that wouldn’t do at all.”

+

+Rostóv saw that it had been well considered by them. Sónya had already

+struck him by her beauty on the preceding day. Today, when he had caught

+a glimpse of her, she seemed still more lovely. She was a charming girl

+of sixteen, evidently passionately in love with him (he did not doubt

+that for an instant). Why should he not love her now, and even marry

+her, Rostóv thought, but just now there were so many other pleasures

+and interests before him! “Yes, they have taken a wise decision,” he

+thought, “I must remain free.”

+

+“Well then, that’s excellent,” said he. “We’ll talk it over

+later on. Oh, how glad I am to have you!”

+

+“Well, and are you still true to Borís?” he continued.

+

+“Oh, what nonsense!” cried Natásha, laughing. “I don’t think

+about him or anyone else, and I don’t want anything of the kind.”

+

+“Dear me! Then what are you up to now?”

+

+“Now?” repeated Natásha, and a happy smile lit up her face. “Have

+you seen Duport?”

+

+“No.”

+

+“Not seen Duport—the famous dancer? Well then, you won’t

+understand. That’s what I’m up to.”

+

+Curving her arms, Natásha held out her skirts as dancers do, ran back

+a few steps, turned, cut a caper, brought her little feet sharply

+together, and made some steps on the very tips of her toes.

+

+“See, I’m standing! See!” she said, but could not maintain herself

+on her toes any longer. “So that’s what I’m up to! I’ll never

+marry anyone, but will be a dancer. Only don’t tell anyone.”

+

+Rostóv laughed so loud and merrily that Denísov, in his bedroom, felt

+envious and Natásha could not help joining in.

+

+“No, but don’t you think it’s nice?” she kept repeating.

+

+“Nice! And so you no longer wish to marry Borís?”

+

+Natásha flared up. “I don’t want to marry anyone. And I’ll tell

+him so when I see him!”

+

+“Dear me!” said Rostóv.

+

+“But that’s all rubbish,” Natásha chattered on. “And is

+Denísov nice?” she asked.

+

+“Yes, indeed!”

+

+“Oh, well then, good-by: go and dress. Is he very terrible,

+Denísov?”

+

+“Why terrible?” asked Nicholas. “No, Váska is a splendid

+fellow.”

+

+“You call him Váska? That’s funny! And is he very nice?”

+

+“Very.”

+

+“Well then, be quick. We’ll all have breakfast together.”

+

+And Natásha rose and went out of the room on tiptoe, like a ballet

+dancer, but smiling as only happy girls of fifteen can smile. When

+Rostóv met Sónya in the drawing room, he reddened. He did not know

+how to behave with her. The evening before, in the first happy moment of

+meeting, they had kissed each other, but today they felt it could not

+be done; he felt that everybody, including his mother and sisters, was

+looking inquiringly at him and watching to see how he would behave

+with her. He kissed her hand and addressed her not as thou but as

+you—Sónya. But their eyes met and said thou, and exchanged tender

+kisses. Her looks asked him to forgive her for having dared, by

+Natásha’s intermediacy, to remind him of his promise, and then

+thanked him for his love. His looks thanked her for offering him his

+freedom and told her that one way or another he would never cease to

+love her, for that would be impossible.

+

+“How strange it is,” said Véra, selecting a moment when all were

+silent, “that Sónya and Nicholas now say you to one another and meet

+like strangers.”

+

+Véra’s remark was correct, as her remarks always were, but, like

+most of her observations, it made everyone feel uncomfortable, not

+only Sónya, Nicholas, and Natásha, but even the old countess,

+who—dreading this love affair which might hinder Nicholas from making

+a brilliant match—blushed like a girl.

+

+Denísov, to Rostóv’s surprise, appeared in the drawing room with

+pomaded hair, perfumed, and in a new uniform, looking just as smart as

+he made himself when going into battle, and he was more amiable to the

+ladies and gentlemen than Rostóv had ever expected to see him.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER II

+

+On his return to Moscow from the army, Nicholas Rostóv was welcomed

+by his home circle as the best of sons, a hero, and their darling

+Nikólenka; by his relations as a charming, attractive, and polite young

+man; by his acquaintances as a handsome lieutenant of hussars, a good

+dancer, and one of the best matches in the city.

+

+The Rostóvs knew everybody in Moscow. The old count had money enough

+that year, as all his estates had been remortgaged, and so Nicholas,

+acquiring a trotter of his own, very stylish riding breeches of the

+latest cut, such as no one else yet had in Moscow, and boots of the

+latest fashion, with extremely pointed toes and small silver spurs,

+passed his time very gaily. After a short period of adapting himself

+to the old conditions of life, Nicholas found it very pleasant to be

+at home again. He felt that he had grown up and matured very much. His

+despair at failing in a Scripture examination, his borrowing money from

+Gavríl to pay a sleigh driver, his kissing Sónya on the sly—he now

+recalled all this as childishness he had left immeasurably behind.

+Now he was a lieutenant of hussars, in a jacket laced with silver, and

+wearing the Cross of St. George, awarded to soldiers for bravery in

+action, and in the company of well-known, elderly, and respected racing

+men was training a trotter of his own for a race. He knew a lady on one

+of the boulevards whom he visited of an evening. He led the mazurka

+at the Arkhárovs’ ball, talked about the war with Field Marshal

+Kámenski, visited the English Club, and was on intimate terms with a

+colonel of forty to whom Denísov had introduced him.

+

+His passion for the Emperor had cooled somewhat in Moscow. But still, as

+he did not see him and had no opportunity of seeing him, he often spoke

+about him and about his love for him, letting it be understood that he

+had not told all and that there was something in his feelings for the

+Emperor not everyone could understand, and with his whole soul he shared

+the adoration then common in Moscow for the Emperor, who was spoken of

+as the “angel incarnate.”

+

+During Rostóv’s short stay in Moscow, before rejoining the army, he

+did not draw closer to Sónya, but rather drifted away from her. She was

+very pretty and sweet, and evidently deeply in love with him, but he was

+at the period of youth when there seems so much to do that there is no

+time for that sort of thing and a young man fears to bind himself and

+prizes his freedom which he needs for so many other things. When he

+thought of Sónya, during this stay in Moscow, he said to himself,

+“Ah, there will be, and there are, many more such girls somewhere whom

+I do not yet know. There will be time enough to think about love when I

+want to, but now I have no time.” Besides, it seemed to him that the

+society of women was rather derogatory to his manhood. He went to balls

+and into ladies’ society with an affectation of doing so against his

+will. The races, the English Club, sprees with Denísov, and visits to

+a certain house—that was another matter and quite the thing for a

+dashing young hussar!

+

+At the beginning of March, old Count Ilyá Rostóv was very busy

+arranging a dinner in honor of Prince Bagratión at the English Club.

+

+The count walked up and down the hall in his dressing gown, giving

+orders to the club steward and to the famous Feoktíst, the club’s

+head cook, about asparagus, fresh cucumbers, strawberries, veal, and

+fish for this dinner. The count had been a member and on the committee

+of the club from the day it was founded. To him the club entrusted the

+arrangement of the festival in honor of Bagratión, for few men knew

+so well how to arrange a feast on an open-handed, hospitable scale,

+and still fewer men would be so well able and willing to make up out of

+their own resources what might be needed for the success of the fete.

+The club cook and the steward listened to the count’s orders with

+pleased faces, for they knew that under no other management could they

+so easily extract a good profit for themselves from a dinner costing

+several thousand rubles.

+

+“Well then, mind and have cocks’ comb in the turtle soup, you

+know!”

+

+“Shall we have three cold dishes then?” asked the cook.

+

+The count considered.

+

+“We can’t have less—yes, three... the mayonnaise, that’s one,”

+said he, bending down a finger.

+

+“Then am I to order those large sterlets?” asked the steward.

+

+“Yes, it can’t be helped if they won’t take less. Ah, dear me! I

+was forgetting. We must have another entrée. Ah, goodness gracious!”

+he clutched at his head. “Who is going to get me the flowers? Dmítri!

+Eh, Dmítri! Gallop off to our Moscow estate,” he said to the factotum

+who appeared at his call. “Hurry off and tell Maksím, the gardener,

+to set the serfs to work. Say that everything out of the hothouses must

+be brought here well wrapped up in felt. I must have two hundred pots

+here on Friday.”

+

+Having given several more orders, he was about to go to his “little

+countess” to have a rest, but remembering something else of

+importance, he returned again, called back the cook and the club

+steward, and again began giving orders. A light footstep and the

+clinking of spurs were heard at the door, and the young count, handsome,

+rosy, with a dark little mustache, evidently rested and made sleeker by

+his easy life in Moscow, entered the room.

+

+“Ah, my boy, my head’s in a whirl!” said the old man with a smile,

+as if he felt a little confused before his son. “Now, if you would

+only help a bit! I must have singers too. I shall have my own orchestra,

+but shouldn’t we get the gypsy singers as well? You military men like

+that sort of thing.”

+

+“Really, Papa, I believe Prince Bagratión worried himself less before

+the battle of Schön Grabern than you do now,” said his son with a

+smile.

+

+The old count pretended to be angry.

+

+“Yes, you talk, but try it yourself!”

+

+And the count turned to the cook, who, with a shrewd and respectful

+expression, looked observantly and sympathetically at the father and

+son.

+

+“What have the young people come to nowadays, eh, Feoktíst?” said

+he. “Laughing at us old fellows!”

+

+“That’s so, your excellency, all they have to do is to eat a good

+dinner, but providing it and serving it all up, that’s not their

+business!”

+

+“That’s it, that’s it!” exclaimed the count, and gaily seizing

+his son by both hands, he cried, “Now I’ve got you, so take the

+sleigh and pair at once, and go to Bezúkhov’s, and tell him ‘Count

+Ilyá has sent you to ask for strawberries and fresh pineapples.’ We

+can’t get them from anyone else. He’s not there himself, so you’ll

+have to go in and ask the princesses; and from there go on to the

+Rasgulyáy—the coachman Ipátka knows—and look up the gypsy

+Ilyúshka, the one who danced at Count Orlóv’s, you remember, in a

+white Cossack coat, and bring him along to me.”

+

+“And am I to bring the gypsy girls along with him?” asked Nicholas,

+laughing. “Dear, dear!...”

+

+At that moment, with noiseless footsteps and with the businesslike,

+preoccupied, yet meekly Christian look which never left her face, Anna

+Mikháylovna entered the hall. Though she came upon the count in his

+dressing gown every day, he invariably became confused and begged her to

+excuse his costume.

+

+“No matter at all, my dear count,” she said, meekly closing her

+eyes. “But I’ll go to Bezúkhov’s myself. Pierre has arrived, and

+now we shall get anything we want from his hothouses. I have to see him

+in any case. He has forwarded me a letter from Borís. Thank God, Borís

+is now on the staff.”

+

+The count was delighted at Anna Mikháylovna’s taking upon herself one

+of his commissions and ordered the small closed carriage for her.

+

+“Tell Bezúkhov to come. I’ll put his name down. Is his wife with

+him?” he asked.

+

+Anna Mikháylovna turned up her eyes, and profound sadness was depicted

+on her face.

+

+“Ah, my dear friend, he is very unfortunate,” she said. “If what

+we hear is true, it is dreadful. How little we dreamed of such a thing

+when we were rejoicing at his happiness! And such a lofty angelic soul

+as young Bezúkhov! Yes, I pity him from my heart, and shall try to give

+him what consolation I can.”

+

+“Wh-what is the matter?” asked both the young and old Rostóv.

+

+Anna Mikháylovna sighed deeply.

+

+“Dólokhov, Mary Ivánovna’s son,” she said in a mysterious

+whisper, “has compromised her completely, they say. Pierre took him

+up, invited him to his house in Petersburg, and now... she has come here

+and that daredevil after her!” said Anna Mikháylovna, wishing to show

+her sympathy for Pierre, but by involuntary intonations and a half smile

+betraying her sympathy for the “daredevil,” as she called Dólokhov.

+“They say Pierre is quite broken by his misfortune.”

+

+“Dear, dear! But still tell him to come to the club—it will all blow

+over. It will be a tremendous banquet.”

+

+Next day, the third of March, soon after one o’clock, two hundred and

+fifty members of the English Club and fifty guests were awaiting the

+guest of honor and hero of the Austrian campaign, Prince Bagratión, to

+dinner.

+

+On the first arrival of the news of the battle of Austerlitz, Moscow had

+been bewildered. At that time, the Russians were so used to victories

+that on receiving news of the defeat some would simply not believe it,

+while others sought some extraordinary explanation of so strange an

+event. In the English Club, where all who were distinguished, important,

+and well informed foregathered when the news began to arrive in

+December, nothing was said about the war and the last battle, as

+though all were in a conspiracy of silence. The men who set the tone

+in conversation—Count Rostopchín, Prince Yúri Dolgorúkov, Valúev,

+Count Markóv, and Prince Vyázemski—did not show themselves at the

+club, but met in private houses in intimate circles, and the

+Moscovites who took their opinions from others—Ilyá Rostóv among

+them—remained for a while without any definite opinion on the subject

+of the war and without leaders. The Moscovites felt that something was

+wrong and that to discuss the bad news was difficult, and so it was best

+to be silent. But after a while, just as a jury comes out of its room,

+the bigwigs who guided the club’s opinion reappeared, and everybody

+began speaking clearly and definitely. Reasons were found for the

+incredible, unheard-of, and impossible event of a Russian defeat,

+everything became clear, and in all corners of Moscow the same things

+began to be said. These reasons were the treachery of the Austrians, a

+defective commissariat, the treachery of the Pole Przebyszéwski and of

+the Frenchman Langeron, Kutúzov’s incapacity, and (it was whispered)

+the youth and inexperience of the sovereign, who had trusted worthless

+and insignificant people. But the army, the Russian army, everyone

+declared, was extraordinary and had achieved miracles of valor. The

+soldiers, officers, and generals were heroes. But the hero of heroes was

+Prince Bagratión, distinguished by his Schön Grabern affair and by

+the retreat from Austerlitz, where he alone had withdrawn his column

+unbroken and had all day beaten back an enemy force twice as numerous

+as his own. What also conduced to Bagratión’s being selected as

+Moscow’s hero was the fact that he had no connections in the city

+and was a stranger there. In his person, honor was shown to a simple

+fighting Russian soldier without connections and intrigues, and to one

+who was associated by memories of the Italian campaign with the name of

+Suvórov. Moreover, paying such honor to Bagratión was the best way of

+expressing disapproval and dislike of Kutúzov.

+

+“Had there been no Bagratión, it would have been necessary to

+invent him,” said the wit Shinshín, parodying the words of Voltaire.

+Kutúzov no one spoke of, except some who abused him in whispers,

+calling him a court weathercock and an old satyr.

+

+All Moscow repeated Prince Dolgorúkov’s saying: “If you go on

+modeling and modeling you must get smeared with clay,” suggesting

+consolation for our defeat by the memory of former victories; and the

+words of Rostopchín, that French soldiers have to be incited to battle

+by highfalutin words, and Germans by logical arguments to show them

+that it is more dangerous to run away than to advance, but that Russian

+soldiers only need to be restrained and held back! On all sides, new and

+fresh anecdotes were heard of individual examples of heroism shown by

+our officers and men at Austerlitz. One had saved a standard, another

+had killed five Frenchmen, a third had loaded five cannon singlehanded.

+Berg was mentioned, by those who did not know him, as having, when

+wounded in the right hand, taken his sword in the left, and gone

+forward. Of Bolkónski, nothing was said, and only those who knew him

+intimately regretted that he had died so young, leaving a pregnant wife

+with his eccentric father.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER III

+

+On that third of March, all the rooms in the English Club were filled

+with a hum of conversation, like the hum of bees swarming in springtime.

+The members and guests of the club wandered hither and thither, sat,

+stood, met, and separated, some in uniform and some in evening dress,

+and a few here and there with powdered hair and in Russian kaftáns.

+Powdered footmen, in livery with buckled shoes and smart stockings,

+stood at every door anxiously noting visitors’ every movement in order

+to offer their services. Most of those present were elderly, respected

+men with broad, self-confident faces, fat fingers, and resolute gestures

+and voices. This class of guests and members sat in certain habitual

+places and met in certain habitual groups. A minority of those present

+were casual guests—chiefly young men, among whom were Denísov,

+Rostóv, and Dólokhov—who was now again an officer in the Semënov

+regiment. The faces of these young people, especially those who were

+military men, bore that expression of condescending respect for their

+elders which seems to say to the older generation, “We are prepared to

+respect and honor you, but all the same remember that the future belongs

+to us.”

+

+Nesvítski was there as an old member of the club. Pierre, who at his

+wife’s command had let his hair grow and abandoned his spectacles,

+went about the rooms fashionably dressed but looking sad and dull. Here,

+as elsewhere, he was surrounded by an atmosphere of subservience to

+his wealth, and being in the habit of lording it over these people, he

+treated them with absent-minded contempt.

+

+By his age he should have belonged to the younger men, but by his wealth

+and connections he belonged to the groups of old and honored guests, and

+so he went from one group to another. Some of the most important old men

+were the center of groups which even strangers approached respectfully

+to hear the voices of well-known men. The largest circles formed round

+Count Rostopchín, Valúev, and Narýshkin. Rostopchín was describing

+how the Russians had been overwhelmed by flying Austrians and had had to

+force their way through them with bayonets.

+

+Valúev was confidentially telling that Uvárov had been sent from

+Petersburg to ascertain what Moscow was thinking about Austerlitz.

+

+In the third circle, Narýshkin was speaking of the meeting of the

+Austrian Council of War at which Suvórov crowed like a cock in reply to

+the nonsense talked by the Austrian generals. Shinshín, standing close

+by, tried to make a joke, saying that Kutúzov had evidently failed to

+learn from Suvórov even so simple a thing as the art of crowing like a

+cock, but the elder members glanced severely at the wit, making him

+feel that in that place and on that day, it was improper to speak so of

+Kutúzov.

+

+Count Ilyá Rostóv, hurried and preoccupied, went about in his soft

+boots between the dining and drawing rooms, hastily greeting the

+important and unimportant, all of whom he knew, as if they were all

+equals, while his eyes occasionally sought out his fine well-set-up

+young son, resting on him and winking joyfully at him. Young Rostóv

+stood at a window with Dólokhov, whose acquaintance he had lately

+made and highly valued. The old count came up to them and pressed

+Dólokhov’s hand.

+

+“Please come and visit us... you know my brave boy... been together

+out there... both playing the hero... Ah, Vasíli Ignátovich...

+How d’ye do, old fellow?” he said, turning to an old man who was

+passing, but before he had finished his greeting there was a general

+stir, and a footman who had run in announced, with a frightened face:

+“He’s arrived!”

+

+Bells rang, the stewards rushed forward, and—like rye shaken together

+in a shovel—the guests who had been scattered about in different rooms

+came together and crowded in the large drawing room by the door of the

+ballroom.

+

+Bagratión appeared in the doorway of the anteroom without hat or sword,

+which, in accord with the club custom, he had given up to the hall

+porter. He had no lambskin cap on his head, nor had he a loaded whip

+over his shoulder, as when Rostóv had seen him on the eve of the battle

+of Austerlitz, but wore a tight new uniform with Russian and foreign

+Orders, and the Star of St. George on his left breast. Evidently just

+before coming to the dinner he had had his hair and whiskers trimmed,

+which changed his appearance for the worse. There was something naïvely

+festive in his air, which, in conjunction with his firm and virile

+features, gave him a rather comical expression. Bekleshëv and Theodore

+Uvárov, who had arrived with him, paused at the doorway to allow him,

+as the guest of honor, to enter first. Bagratión was embarrassed, not

+wishing to avail himself of their courtesy, and this caused some delay

+at the doors, but after all he did at last enter first. He walked shyly

+and awkwardly over the parquet floor of the reception room, not knowing

+what to do with his hands; he was more accustomed to walk over a plowed

+field under fire, as he had done at the head of the Kursk regiment at

+Schön Grabern—and he would have found that easier. The committeemen

+met him at the first door and, expressing their delight at seeing such a

+highly honored guest, took possession of him as it were, without waiting

+for his reply, surrounded him, and led him to the drawing room. It was

+at first impossible to enter the drawing room door for the crowd of

+members and guests jostling one another and trying to get a good look

+at Bagratión over each other’s shoulders, as if he were some rare

+animal. Count Ilyá Rostóv, laughing and repeating the words, “Make

+way, dear boy! Make way, make way!” pushed through the crowd more

+energetically than anyone, led the guests into the drawing room, and

+seated them on the center sofa. The bigwigs, the most respected members

+of the club, beset the new arrivals. Count Ilyá, again thrusting his

+way through the crowd, went out of the drawing room and reappeared a

+minute later with another committeeman, carrying a large silver salver

+which he presented to Prince Bagratión. On the salver lay some verses

+composed and printed in the hero’s honor. Bagratión, on seeing the

+salver, glanced around in dismay, as though seeking help. But all eyes

+demanded that he should submit. Feeling himself in their power, he

+resolutely took the salver with both hands and looked sternly and

+reproachfully at the count who had presented it to him. Someone

+obligingly took the dish from Bagratión (or he would, it seemed, have

+held it till evening and have gone in to dinner with it) and drew his

+attention to the verses.

+

+“Well, I will read them, then!” Bagratión seemed to say, and,

+fixing his weary eyes on the paper, began to read them with a fixed and

+serious expression. But the author himself took the verses and began

+reading them aloud. Bagratión bowed his head and listened:

+

+   Bring glory then to Alexander’s reign

+   And on the throne our Titus shield.

+   A dreaded foe be thou, kindhearted as a man,

+   A Rhipheus at home, a Caesar in the field!

+   E’en fortunate Napoleon

+   Knows by experience, now, Bagratión,

+   And dare not Herculean Russians trouble...

+

+But before he had finished reading, a stentorian major-domo announced

+that dinner was ready! The door opened, and from the dining room came

+the resounding strains of the polonaise:

+

+   Conquest’s joyful thunder waken,

+   Triumph, valiant Russians, now!...

+

+and Count Rostóv, glancing angrily at the author who went on reading

+his verses, bowed to Bagratión. Everyone rose, feeling that dinner

+was more important than verses, and Bagratión, again preceding all the

+rest, went in to dinner. He was seated in the place of honor between

+two Alexanders—Bekleshëv and Narýshkin—which was a significant

+allusion to the name of the sovereign. Three hundred persons took their

+seats in the dining room, according to their rank and importance: the

+more important nearer to the honored guest, as naturally as water flows

+deepest where the land lies lowest.

+

+Just before dinner, Count Ilyá Rostóv presented his son to Bagratión,

+who recognized him and said a few words to him, disjointed and awkward,

+as were all the words he spoke that day, and Count Ilyá looked joyfully

+and proudly around while Bagratión spoke to his son.

+

+Nicholas Rostóv, with Denísov and his new acquaintance, Dólokhov, sat

+almost at the middle of the table. Facing them sat Pierre, beside Prince

+Nesvítski. Count Ilyá Rostóv with the other members of the committee

+sat facing Bagratión and, as the very personification of Moscow

+hospitality, did the honors to the prince.

+

+His efforts had not been in vain. The dinner, both the Lenten and the

+other fare, was splendid, yet he could not feel quite at ease till the

+end of the meal. He winked at the butler, whispered directions to the

+footmen, and awaited each expected dish with some anxiety. Everything

+was excellent. With the second course, a gigantic sterlet (at sight of

+which Ilyá Rostóv blushed with self-conscious pleasure), the footmen

+began popping corks and filling the champagne glasses. After the fish,

+which made a certain sensation, the count exchanged glances with

+the other committeemen. “There will be many toasts, it’s time to

+begin,” he whispered, and taking up his glass, he rose. All were

+silent, waiting for what he would say.

+

+“To the health of our Sovereign, the Emperor!” he cried, and at the

+same moment his kindly eyes grew moist with tears of joy and enthusiasm.

+The band immediately struck up “Conquest’s joyful thunder

+waken...” All rose and cried “Hurrah!” Bagratión also rose and

+shouted “Hurrah!” in exactly the same voice in which he had shouted

+it on the field at Schön Grabern. Young Rostóv’s ecstatic voice

+could be heard above the three hundred others. He nearly wept. “To the

+health of our Sovereign, the Emperor!” he roared, “Hurrah!” and

+emptying his glass at one gulp he dashed it to the floor. Many followed

+his example, and the loud shouting continued for a long time. When the

+voices subsided, the footmen cleared away the broken glass and everybody

+sat down again, smiling at the noise they had made and exchanging

+remarks. The old count rose once more, glanced at a note lying beside

+his plate, and proposed a toast, “To the health of the hero of our

+last campaign, Prince Peter Ivánovich Bagratión!” and again his blue

+eyes grew moist. “Hurrah!” cried the three hundred voices again,

+but instead of the band a choir began singing a cantata composed by Paul

+Ivánovich Kutúzov:

+

+   Russians! O’er all barriers on!

+   Courage conquest guarantees;

+   Have we not Bagratión?

+   He brings foemen to their knees,... etc.

+

+As soon as the singing was over, another and another toast was proposed

+and Count Ilyá Rostóv became more and more moved, more glass was

+smashed, and the shouting grew louder. They drank to Bekleshëv,

+Narýshkin, Uvárov, Dolgorúkov, Apráksin, Valúev, to the committee,

+to all the club members and to all the club guests, and finally to

+Count Ilyá Rostóv separately, as the organizer of the banquet. At that

+toast, the count took out his handkerchief and, covering his face, wept

+outright.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER IV

+

+Pierre sat opposite Dólokhov and Nicholas Rostóv. As usual, he ate and

+drank much, and eagerly. But those who knew him intimately noticed that

+some great change had come over him that day. He was silent all through

+dinner and looked about, blinking and scowling, or, with fixed eyes and

+a look of complete absent-mindedness, kept rubbing the bridge of his

+nose. His face was depressed and gloomy. He seemed to see and hear

+nothing of what was going on around him and to be absorbed by some

+depressing and unsolved problem.

+

+The unsolved problem that tormented him was caused by hints given by the

+princess, his cousin, at Moscow, concerning Dólokhov’s intimacy with

+his wife, and by an anonymous letter he had received that morning, which

+in the mean jocular way common to anonymous letters said that he saw

+badly through his spectacles, but that his wife’s connection with

+Dólokhov was a secret to no one but himself. Pierre absolutely

+disbelieved both the princess’ hints and the letter, but he feared

+now to look at Dólokhov, who was sitting opposite him. Every time

+he chanced to meet Dólokhov’s handsome insolent eyes, Pierre felt

+something terrible and monstrous rising in his soul and turned quickly

+away. Involuntarily recalling his wife’s past and her relations with

+Dólokhov, Pierre saw clearly that what was said in the letter might be

+true, or might at least seem to be true had it not referred to his wife.

+He involuntarily remembered how Dólokhov, who had fully recovered his

+former position after the campaign, had returned to Petersburg and come

+to him. Availing himself of his friendly relations with Pierre as a boon

+companion, Dólokhov had come straight to his house, and Pierre had put

+him up and lent him money. Pierre recalled how Hélène had smilingly

+expressed disapproval of Dólokhov’s living at their house, and how

+cynically Dólokhov had praised his wife’s beauty to him and from that

+time till they came to Moscow had not left them for a day.

+

+“Yes, he is very handsome,” thought Pierre, “and I know him. It

+would be particularly pleasant to him to dishonor my name and ridicule

+me, just because I have exerted myself on his behalf, befriended him,

+and helped him. I know and understand what a spice that would add to the

+pleasure of deceiving me, if it really were true. Yes, if it were true,

+but I do not believe it. I have no right to, and can’t, believe it.”

+He remembered the expression Dólokhov’s face assumed in his moments

+of cruelty, as when tying the policeman to the bear and dropping them

+into the water, or when he challenged a man to a duel without any

+reason, or shot a post-boy’s horse with a pistol. That expression

+was often on Dólokhov’s face when looking at him. “Yes, he is a

+bully,” thought Pierre, “to kill a man means nothing to him. It must

+seem to him that everyone is afraid of him, and that must please him.

+He must think that I, too, am afraid of him—and in fact I am afraid of

+him,” he thought, and again he felt something terrible and monstrous

+rising in his soul. Dólokhov, Denísov, and Rostóv were now sitting

+opposite Pierre and seemed very gay. Rostóv was talking merrily to his

+two friends, one of whom was a dashing hussar and the other a notorious

+duelist and rake, and every now and then he glanced ironically at

+Pierre, whose preoccupied, absent-minded, and massive figure was a very

+noticeable one at the dinner. Rostóv looked inimically at Pierre,

+first because Pierre appeared to his hussar eyes as a rich civilian, the

+husband of a beauty, and in a word—an old woman; and secondly because

+Pierre in his preoccupation and absent-mindedness had not recognized

+Rostóv and had not responded to his greeting. When the Emperor’s

+health was drunk, Pierre, lost in thought, did not rise or lift his

+glass.

+

+“What are you about?” shouted Rostóv, looking at him in an ecstasy

+of exasperation. “Don’t you hear it’s His Majesty the Emperor’s

+health?”

+

+Pierre sighed, rose submissively, emptied his glass, and, waiting till

+all were seated again, turned with his kindly smile to Rostóv.

+

+“Why, I didn’t recognize you!” he said. But Rostóv was otherwise

+engaged; he was shouting “Hurrah!”

+

+“Why don’t you renew the acquaintance?” said Dólokhov to Rostóv.

+

+“Confound him, he’s a fool!” said Rostóv.

+

+“One should make up to the husbands of pretty women,” said Denísov.

+

+Pierre did not catch what they were saying, but knew they were talking

+about him. He reddened and turned away.

+

+“Well, now to the health of handsome women!” said Dólokhov, and

+with a serious expression, but with a smile lurking at the corners of

+his mouth, he turned with his glass to Pierre.

+

+“Here’s to the health of lovely women, Peterkin—and their

+lovers!” he added.

+

+Pierre, with downcast eyes, drank out of his glass without looking at

+Dólokhov or answering him. The footman, who was distributing leaflets

+with Kutúzov’s cantata, laid one before Pierre as one of the

+principal guests. He was just going to take it when Dólokhov, leaning

+across, snatched it from his hand and began reading it. Pierre looked

+at Dólokhov and his eyes dropped, the something terrible and monstrous

+that had tormented him all dinnertime rose and took possession of him.

+He leaned his whole massive body across the table.

+

+“How dare you take it?” he shouted.

+

+Hearing that cry and seeing to whom it was addressed, Nesvítski and the

+neighbor on his right quickly turned in alarm to Bezúkhov.

+

+“Don’t! Don’t! What are you about?” whispered their frightened

+voices.

+

+Dólokhov looked at Pierre with clear, mirthful, cruel eyes, and that

+smile of his which seemed to say, “Ah! This is what I like!”

+

+“You shan’t have it!” he said distinctly.

+

+Pale, with quivering lips, Pierre snatched the copy.

+

+“You...! you... scoundrel! I challenge you!” he ejaculated, and,

+pushing back his chair, he rose from the table.

+

+At the very instant he did this and uttered those words, Pierre felt

+that the question of his wife’s guilt which had been tormenting him

+the whole day was finally and indubitably answered in the affirmative.

+He hated her and was forever sundered from her. Despite Denísov’s

+request that he would take no part in the matter, Rostóv agreed to be

+Dólokhov’s second, and after dinner he discussed the arrangements for

+the duel with Nesvítski, Bezúkhov’s second. Pierre went home, but

+Rostóv with Dólokhov and Denísov stayed on at the club till late,

+listening to the gypsies and other singers.

+

+“Well then, till tomorrow at Sokólniki,” said Dólokhov, as he took

+leave of Rostóv in the club porch.

+

+“And do you feel quite calm?” Rostóv asked.

+

+Dólokhov paused.

+

+“Well, you see, I’ll tell you the whole secret of dueling in two

+words. If you are going to fight a duel, and you make a will and write

+affectionate letters to your parents, and if you think you may be

+killed, you are a fool and are lost for certain. But go with the firm

+intention of killing your man as quickly and surely as possible, and

+then all will be right, as our bear huntsman at Kostromá used to tell

+me. ‘Everyone fears a bear,’ he says, ‘but when you see one your

+fear’s all gone, and your only thought is not to let him get away!’

+And that’s how it is with me. À demain, mon cher.” *

+

+    * Till tomorrow, my dear fellow.

+

+Next day, at eight in the morning, Pierre and Nesvítski drove to the

+Sokólniki forest and found Dólokhov, Denísov, and Rostóv already

+there. Pierre had the air of a man preoccupied with considerations which

+had no connection with the matter in hand. His haggard face was yellow.

+He had evidently not slept that night. He looked about distractedly and

+screwed up his eyes as if dazzled by the sun. He was entirely absorbed

+by two considerations: his wife’s guilt, of which after his sleepless

+night he had not the slightest doubt, and the guiltlessness of

+Dólokhov, who had no reason to preserve the honor of a man who was

+nothing to him.... “I should perhaps have done the same thing in his

+place,” thought Pierre. “It’s even certain that I should have done

+the same, then why this duel, this murder? Either I shall kill him, or

+he will hit me in the head, or elbow, or knee. Can’t I go away from

+here, run away, bury myself somewhere?” passed through his mind. But

+just at moments when such thoughts occurred to him, he would ask in a

+particularly calm and absent-minded way, which inspired the respect of

+the onlookers, “Will it be long? Are things ready?”

+

+When all was ready, the sabers stuck in the snow to mark the barriers,

+and the pistols loaded, Nesvítski went up to Pierre.

+

+“I should not be doing my duty, Count,” he said in timid tones,

+“and should not justify your confidence and the honor you have done

+me in choosing me for your second, if at this grave, this very

+grave, moment I did not tell you the whole truth. I think there is no

+sufficient ground for this affair, or for blood to be shed over it....

+You were not right, not quite in the right, you were impetuous...”

+

+“Oh yes, it is horribly stupid,” said Pierre.

+

+“Then allow me to express your regrets, and I am sure your opponent

+will accept them,” said Nesvítski (who like the others concerned in

+the affair, and like everyone in similar cases, did not yet believe that

+the affair had come to an actual duel). “You know, Count, it is much

+more honorable to admit one’s mistake than to let matters become

+irreparable. There was no insult on either side. Allow me to

+convey....”

+

+“No! What is there to talk about?” said Pierre. “It’s all the

+same.... Is everything ready?” he added. “Only tell me where to go

+and where to shoot,” he said with an unnaturally gentle smile.

+

+He took the pistol in his hand and began asking about the working of the

+trigger, as he had not before held a pistol in his hand—a fact that he

+did not wish to confess.

+

+“Oh yes, like that, I know, I only forgot,” said he.

+

+“No apologies, none whatever,” said Dólokhov to Denísov (who on

+his side had been attempting a reconciliation), and he also went up to

+the appointed place.

+

+The spot chosen for the duel was some eighty paces from the road,

+where the sleighs had been left, in a small clearing in the pine forest

+covered with melting snow, the frost having begun to break up during the

+last few days. The antagonists stood forty paces apart at the farther

+edge of the clearing. The seconds, measuring the paces, left tracks in

+the deep wet snow between the place where they had been standing and

+Nesvítski’s and Dólokhov’s sabers, which were stuck into the

+ground ten paces apart to mark the barrier. It was thawing and misty; at

+forty paces’ distance nothing could be seen. For three minutes all had

+been ready, but they still delayed and all were silent.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER V

+

+“Well begin!” said Dólokhov.

+

+“All right,” said Pierre, still smiling in the same way. A feeling

+of dread was in the air. It was evident that the affair so lightly begun

+could no longer be averted but was taking its course independently of

+men’s will.

+

+Denísov first went to the barrier and announced: “As the

+adve’sawies have wefused a weconciliation, please pwoceed. Take your

+pistols, and at the word thwee begin to advance.

+

+“O-ne! T-wo! Thwee!” he shouted angrily and stepped aside.

+

+The combatants advanced along the trodden tracks, nearer and nearer to

+one another, beginning to see one another through the mist. They had the

+right to fire when they liked as they approached the barrier. Dólokhov

+walked slowly without raising his pistol, looking intently with his

+bright, sparkling blue eyes into his antagonist’s face. His mouth wore

+its usual semblance of a smile.

+

+“So I can fire when I like!” said Pierre, and at the word

+“three,” he went quickly forward, missing the trodden path and

+stepping into the deep snow. He held the pistol in his right hand at

+arm’s length, apparently afraid of shooting himself with it. His left

+hand he held carefully back, because he wished to support his right

+hand with it and knew he must not do so. Having advanced six paces and

+strayed off the track into the snow, Pierre looked down at his feet,

+then quickly glanced at Dólokhov and, bending his finger as he had been

+shown, fired. Not at all expecting so loud a report, Pierre shuddered

+at the sound and then, smiling at his own sensations, stood still. The

+smoke, rendered denser by the mist, prevented him from seeing anything

+for an instant, but there was no second report as he had expected. He

+only heard Dólokhov’s hurried steps, and his figure came in view

+through the smoke. He was pressing one hand to his left side, while

+the other clutched his drooping pistol. His face was pale. Rostóv ran

+toward him and said something.

+

+“No-o-o!” muttered Dólokhov through his teeth, “no, it’s not

+over.” And after stumbling a few staggering steps right up to the

+saber, he sank on the snow beside it. His left hand was bloody; he wiped

+it on his coat and supported himself with it. His frowning face was

+pallid and quivered.

+

+“Plea...” began Dólokhov, but could not at first pronounce the

+word.

+

+“Please,” he uttered with an effort.

+

+Pierre, hardly restraining his sobs, began running toward Dólokhov and

+was about to cross the space between the barriers, when Dólokhov cried:

+

+“To your barrier!” and Pierre, grasping what was meant, stopped by

+his saber. Only ten paces divided them. Dólokhov lowered his head to

+the snow, greedily bit at it, again raised his head, adjusted himself,

+drew in his legs and sat up, seeking a firm center of gravity. He sucked

+and swallowed the cold snow, his lips quivered but his eyes, still

+smiling, glittered with effort and exasperation as he mustered his

+remaining strength. He raised his pistol and aimed.

+

+“Sideways! Cover yourself with your pistol!” ejaculated Nesvítski.

+

+“Cover yourself!” even Denísov cried to his adversary.

+

+Pierre, with a gentle smile of pity and remorse, his arms and legs

+helplessly spread out, stood with his broad chest directly facing

+Dólokhov and looked sorrowfully at him. Denísov, Rostóv, and

+Nesvítski closed their eyes. At the same instant they heard a report

+and Dólokhov’s angry cry.

+

+“Missed!” shouted Dólokhov, and he lay helplessly, face downwards

+on the snow.

+

+Pierre clutched his temples, and turning round went into the forest,

+trampling through the deep snow, and muttering incoherent words:

+

+“Folly... folly! Death... lies...” he repeated, puckering his face.

+

+Nesvítski stopped him and took him home.

+

+Rostóv and Denísov drove away with the wounded Dólokhov.

+

+The latter lay silent in the sleigh with closed eyes and did not answer

+a word to the questions addressed to him. But on entering Moscow he

+suddenly came to and, lifting his head with an effort, took Rostóv, who

+was sitting beside him, by the hand. Rostóv was struck by the

+totally altered and unexpectedly rapturous and tender expression on

+Dólokhov’s face.

+

+“Well? How do you feel?” he asked.

+

+“Bad! But it’s not that, my friend—” said Dólokhov with a

+gasping voice. “Where are we? In Moscow, I know. I don’t matter,

+but I have killed her, killed... She won’t get over it! She won’t

+survive....”

+

+“Who?” asked Rostóv.

+

+“My mother! My mother, my angel, my adored angel mother,” and

+Dólokhov pressed Rostóv’s hand and burst into tears.

+

+When he had become a little quieter, he explained to Rostóv that he was

+living with his mother, who, if she saw him dying, would not survive it.

+He implored Rostóv to go on and prepare her.

+

+Rostóv went on ahead to do what was asked, and to his great surprise

+learned that Dólokhov the brawler, Dólokhov the bully, lived in Moscow

+with an old mother and a hunchback sister, and was the most affectionate

+of sons and brothers.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER VI

+

+Pierre had of late rarely seen his wife alone. Both in Petersburg and in

+Moscow their house was always full of visitors. The night after the

+duel he did not go to his bedroom but, as he often did, remained in his

+father’s room, that huge room in which Count Bezúkhov had died.

+

+He lay down on the sofa meaning to fall asleep and forget all that

+had happened to him, but could not do so. Such a storm of feelings,

+thoughts, and memories suddenly arose within him that he could not fall

+asleep, nor even remain in one place, but had to jump up and pace the

+room with rapid steps. Now he seemed to see her in the early days of

+their marriage, with bare shoulders and a languid, passionate look on

+her face, and then immediately he saw beside her Dólokhov’s handsome,

+insolent, hard, and mocking face as he had seen it at the banquet, and

+then that same face pale, quivering, and suffering, as it had been when

+he reeled and sank on the snow.

+

+“What has happened?” he asked himself. “I have killed her lover,

+yes, killed my wife’s lover. Yes, that was it! And why? How did I come

+to do it?”—“Because you married her,” answered an inner voice.

+

+“But in what was I to blame?” he asked. “In marrying her without

+loving her; in deceiving yourself and her.” And he vividly recalled

+that moment after supper at Prince Vasíli’s, when he spoke those

+words he had found so difficult to utter: “I love you.” “It all

+comes from that! Even then I felt it,” he thought. “I felt then that

+it was not so, that I had no right to do it. And so it turns out.”

+

+He remembered his honeymoon and blushed at the recollection.

+Particularly vivid, humiliating, and shameful was the recollection of

+how one day soon after his marriage he came out of the bedroom into his

+study a little before noon in his silk dressing gown and found his head

+steward there, who, bowing respectfully, looked into his face and at

+his dressing gown and smiled slightly, as if expressing respectful

+understanding of his employer’s happiness.

+

+“But how often I have felt proud of her, proud of her majestic beauty

+and social tact,” thought he; “been proud of my house, in which she

+received all Petersburg, proud of her unapproachability and beauty. So

+this is what I was proud of! I then thought that I did not understand

+her. How often when considering her character I have told myself that

+I was to blame for not understanding her, for not understanding that

+constant composure and complacency and lack of all interests or desires,

+and the whole secret lies in the terrible truth that she is a depraved

+woman. Now I have spoken that terrible word to myself all has become

+clear.

+

+“Anatole used to come to borrow money from her and used to kiss her

+naked shoulders. She did not give him the money, but let herself be

+kissed. Her father in jest tried to rouse her jealousy, and she replied

+with a calm smile that she was not so stupid as to be jealous: ‘Let

+him do what he pleases,’ she used to say of me. One day I asked her if

+she felt any symptoms of pregnancy. She laughed contemptuously and said

+she was not a fool to want to have children, and that she was not going

+to have any children by me.”

+

+Then he recalled the coarseness and bluntness of her thoughts and the

+vulgarity of the expressions that were natural to her, though she had

+been brought up in the most aristocratic circles.

+

+“I’m not such a fool.... Just you try it on.... Allez-vous

+promener,” * she used to say. Often seeing the success she had with

+young and old men and women Pierre could not understand why he did not

+love her.

+

+    * “You clear out of this.”

+

+

+“Yes, I never loved her,” said he to himself; “I knew she was a

+depraved woman,” he repeated, “but dared not admit it to myself.

+And now there’s Dólokhov sitting in the snow with a forced smile and

+perhaps dying, while meeting my remorse with some forced bravado!”

+

+Pierre was one of those people who, in spite of an appearance of what

+is called weak character, do not seek a confidant in their troubles. He

+digested his sufferings alone.

+

+“It is all, all her fault,” he said to himself; “but what of that?

+Why did I bind myself to her? Why did I say ‘Je vous aime’ * to her,

+which was a lie, and worse than a lie? I am guilty and must endure...

+what? A slur on my name? A misfortune for life? Oh, that’s

+nonsense,” he thought. “The slur on my name and honor—that’s all

+apart from myself.”

+

+    * I love you.

+

+“Louis XVI was executed because they said he was dishonorable and a

+criminal,” came into Pierre’s head, “and from their point of

+view they were right, as were those too who canonized him and died a

+martyr’s death for his sake. Then Robespierre was beheaded for being

+a despot. Who is right and who is wrong? No one! But if you are

+alive—live: tomorrow you’ll die as I might have died an hour ago.

+And is it worth tormenting oneself, when one has only a moment of life

+in comparison with eternity?”

+

+But at the moment when he imagined himself calmed by such reflections,

+she suddenly came into his mind as she was at the moments when he had

+most strongly expressed his insincere love for her, and he felt the

+blood rush to his heart and had again to get up and move about and break

+and tear whatever came to his hand. “Why did I tell her that ‘Je

+vous aime’?” he kept repeating to himself. And when he had said it

+for the tenth time, Molière’s words: “Mais que diable allait-il

+faire dans cette galère?” * occurred to him, and he began to laugh at

+himself.

+

+      * “But what the devil was he doing in that galley?”

+

+

+In the night he called his valet and told him to pack up to go to

+Petersburg. He could not imagine how he could speak to her now. He

+resolved to go away next day and leave a letter informing her of his

+intention to part from her forever.

+

+Next morning when the valet came into the room with his coffee, Pierre

+was lying asleep on the ottoman with an open book in his hand.

+

+He woke up and looked round for a while with a startled expression,

+unable to realize where he was.

+

+“The countess told me to inquire whether your excellency was at

+home,” said the valet.

+

+But before Pierre could decide what answer he would send, the countess

+herself in a white satin dressing gown embroidered with silver and with

+simply dressed hair (two immense plaits twice round her lovely head like

+a coronet) entered the room, calm and majestic, except that there was

+a wrathful wrinkle on her rather prominent marble brow. With her

+imperturbable calm she did not begin to speak in front of the valet.

+She knew of the duel and had come to speak about it. She waited till the

+valet had set down the coffee things and left the room. Pierre looked

+at her timidly over his spectacles, and like a hare surrounded by hounds

+who lays back her ears and continues to crouch motionless before her

+enemies, he tried to continue reading. But feeling this to be senseless

+and impossible, he again glanced timidly at her. She did not sit down

+but looked at him with a contemptuous smile, waiting for the valet to

+go.

+

+“Well, what’s this now? What have you been up to now, I should like

+to know?” she asked sternly.

+

+“I? What have I...?” stammered Pierre.

+

+“So it seems you’re a hero, eh? Come now, what was this duel about?

+What is it meant to prove? What? I ask you.”

+

+Pierre turned over heavily on the ottoman and opened his mouth, but

+could not reply.

+

+“If you won’t answer, I’ll tell you...” Hélène went on. “You

+believe everything you’re told. You were told...” Hélène laughed,

+“that Dólokhov was my lover,” she said in French with her coarse

+plainness of speech, uttering the word amant as casually as any other

+word, “and you believed it! Well, what have you proved? What does this

+duel prove? That you’re a fool, que vous êtes un sot, but everybody

+knew that. What will be the result? That I shall be the laughingstock of

+all Moscow, that everyone will say that you, drunk and not knowing what

+you were about, challenged a man you are jealous of without cause.”

+Hélène raised her voice and became more and more excited, “A man

+who’s a better man than you in every way...”

+

+“Hm... Hm...!” growled Pierre, frowning without looking at her, and

+not moving a muscle.

+

+“And how could you believe he was my lover? Why? Because I like

+his company? If you were cleverer and more agreeable, I should prefer

+yours.”

+

+“Don’t speak to me... I beg you,” muttered Pierre hoarsely.

+

+“Why shouldn’t I speak? I can speak as I like, and I tell you

+plainly that there are not many wives with husbands such as you who

+would not have taken lovers (des amants), but I have not done so,”

+said she.

+

+Pierre wished to say something, looked at her with eyes whose strange

+expression she did not understand, and lay down again. He was suffering

+physically at that moment, there was a weight on his chest and he could

+not breathe. He knew that he must do something to put an end to this

+suffering, but what he wanted to do was too terrible.

+

+“We had better separate,” he muttered in a broken voice.

+

+“Separate? Very well, but only if you give me a fortune,” said

+Hélène. “Separate! That’s a thing to frighten me with!”

+

+Pierre leaped up from the sofa and rushed staggering toward her.

+

+“I’ll kill you!” he shouted, and seizing the marble top of a table

+with a strength he had never before felt, he made a step toward her

+brandishing the slab.

+

+Hélène’s face became terrible, she shrieked and sprang aside. His

+father’s nature showed itself in Pierre. He felt the fascination and

+delight of frenzy. He flung down the slab, broke it, and swooping

+down on her with outstretched hands shouted, “Get out!” in such a

+terrible voice that the whole house heard it with horror. God knows what

+he would have done at that moment had Hélène not fled from the room.

+

+

+A week later Pierre gave his wife full power to control all his estates

+in Great Russia, which formed the larger part of his property, and left

+for Petersburg alone.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER VII

+

+Two months had elapsed since the news of the battle of Austerlitz and

+the loss of Prince Andrew had reached Bald Hills, and in spite of the

+letters sent through the embassy and all the searches made, his body had

+not been found nor was he on the list of prisoners. What was worst of

+all for his relations was the fact that there was still a possibility of

+his having been picked up on the battlefield by the people of the

+place and that he might now be lying, recovering or dying, alone among

+strangers and unable to send news of himself. The gazettes from which

+the old prince first heard of the defeat at Austerlitz stated, as usual

+very briefly and vaguely, that after brilliant engagements the Russians

+had had to retreat and had made their withdrawal in perfect order. The

+old prince understood from this official report that our army had been

+defeated. A week after the gazette report of the battle of Austerlitz

+came a letter from Kutúzov informing the prince of the fate that had

+befallen his son.

+

+“Your son,” wrote Kutúzov, “fell before my eyes, a standard in

+his hand and at the head of a regiment—he fell as a hero, worthy of

+his father and his fatherland. To the great regret of myself and of the

+whole army it is still uncertain whether he is alive or not. I comfort

+myself and you with the hope that your son is alive, for otherwise

+he would have been mentioned among the officers found on the field of

+battle, a list of whom has been sent me under flag of truce.”

+

+After receiving this news late in the evening, when he was alone in his

+study, the old prince went for his walk as usual next morning, but he

+was silent with his steward, the gardener, and the architect, and though

+he looked very grim he said nothing to anyone.

+

+When Princess Mary went to him at the usual hour he was working at his

+lathe and, as usual, did not look round at her.

+

+“Ah, Princess Mary!” he said suddenly in an unnatural voice,

+throwing down his chisel. (The wheel continued to revolve by its own

+impetus, and Princess Mary long remembered the dying creak of that

+wheel, which merged in her memory with what followed.)

+

+She approached him, saw his face, and something gave way within her. Her

+eyes grew dim. By the expression of her father’s face, not sad, not

+crushed, but angry and working unnaturally, she saw that hanging over

+her and about to crush her was some terrible misfortune, the worst

+in life, one she had not yet experienced, irreparable and

+incomprehensible—the death of one she loved.

+

+“Father! Andrew!”—said the ungraceful, awkward princess with such

+an indescribable charm of sorrow and self-forgetfulness that her father

+could not bear her look but turned away with a sob.

+

+“Bad news! He’s not among the prisoners nor among the killed!

+Kutúzov writes...” and he screamed as piercingly as if he wished to

+drive the princess away by that scream... “Killed!”

+

+The princess did not fall down or faint. She was already pale, but on

+hearing these words her face changed and something brightened in her

+beautiful, radiant eyes. It was as if joy—a supreme joy apart from the

+joys and sorrows of this world—overflowed the great grief within her.

+She forgot all fear of her father, went up to him, took his hand, and

+drawing him down put her arm round his thin, scraggy neck.

+

+“Father,” she said, “do not turn away from me, let us weep

+together.”

+

+“Scoundrels! Blackguards!” shrieked the old man, turning his face

+away from her. “Destroying the army, destroying the men! And why? Go,

+go and tell Lise.”

+

+The princess sank helplessly into an armchair beside her father and

+wept. She saw her brother now as he had been at the moment when he took

+leave of her and of Lise, his look tender yet proud. She saw him tender

+and amused as he was when he put on the little icon. “Did he believe?

+Had he repented of his unbelief? Was he now there? There in the realms

+of eternal peace and blessedness?” she thought.

+

+“Father, tell me how it happened,” she asked through her tears.

+

+“Go! Go! Killed in battle, where the best of Russian men and

+Russia’s glory were led to destruction. Go, Princess Mary. Go and tell

+Lise. I will follow.”

+

+When Princess Mary returned from her father, the little princess sat

+working and looked up with that curious expression of inner, happy calm

+peculiar to pregnant women. It was evident that her eyes did not see

+Princess Mary but were looking within... into herself... at something

+joyful and mysterious taking place within her.

+

+“Mary,” she said, moving away from the embroidery frame and lying

+back, “give me your hand.” She took her sister-in-law’s hand and

+held it below her waist.

+

+Her eyes were smiling expectantly, her downy lip rose and remained

+lifted in childlike happiness.

+

+Princess Mary knelt down before her and hid her face in the folds of her

+sister-in-law’s dress.

+

+“There, there! Do you feel it? I feel so strange. And do you know,

+Mary, I am going to love him very much,” said Lise, looking with

+bright and happy eyes at her sister-in-law.

+

+Princess Mary could not lift her head, she was weeping.

+

+“What is the matter, Mary?”

+

+“Nothing... only I feel sad... sad about Andrew,” she said, wiping

+away her tears on her sister-in-law’s knee.

+

+Several times in the course of the morning Princess Mary began trying to

+prepare her sister-in-law, and every time began to cry. Unobservant as

+was the little princess, these tears, the cause of which she did not

+understand, agitated her. She said nothing but looked about uneasily as

+if in search of something. Before dinner the old prince, of whom she was

+always afraid, came into her room with a peculiarly restless and malign

+expression and went out again without saying a word. She looked at

+Princess Mary, then sat thinking for a while with that expression of

+attention to something within her that is only seen in pregnant women,

+and suddenly began to cry.

+

+“Has anything come from Andrew?” she asked.

+

+“No, you know it’s too soon for news. But my father is anxious and I

+feel afraid.”

+

+“So there’s nothing?”

+

+“Nothing,” answered Princess Mary, looking firmly with her radiant

+eyes at her sister-in-law.

+

+She had determined not to tell her and persuaded her father to hide the

+terrible news from her till after her confinement, which was expected

+within a few days. Princess Mary and the old prince each bore and hid

+their grief in their own way. The old prince would not cherish any hope:

+he made up his mind that Prince Andrew had been killed, and though he

+sent an official to Austria to seek for traces of his son, he ordered a

+monument from Moscow which he intended to erect in his own garden to his

+memory, and he told everybody that his son had been killed. He tried not

+to change his former way of life, but his strength failed him. He walked

+less, ate less, slept less, and became weaker every day. Princess Mary

+hoped. She prayed for her brother as living and was always awaiting news

+of his return.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER VIII

+

+“Dearest,” said the little princess after breakfast on the morning

+of the nineteenth March, and her downy little lip rose from old habit,

+but as sorrow was manifest in every smile, the sound of every word, and

+even every footstep in that house since the terrible news had come, so

+now the smile of the little princess—influenced by the general mood

+though without knowing its cause—was such as to remind one still more

+of the general sorrow.

+

+“Dearest, I’m afraid this morning’s fruschtique *—as Fóka the

+cook calls it—has disagreed with me.”

+

+    * Frühstück: breakfast.

+

+“What is the matter with you, my darling? You look pale. Oh, you

+are very pale!” said Princess Mary in alarm, running with her soft,

+ponderous steps up to her sister-in-law.

+

+“Your excellency, should not Mary Bogdánovna be sent for?” said one

+of the maids who was present. (Mary Bogdánovna was a midwife from the

+neighboring town, who had been at Bald Hills for the last fortnight.)

+

+“Oh yes,” assented Princess Mary, “perhaps that’s it. I’ll go.

+Courage, my angel.” She kissed Lise and was about to leave the room.

+

+“Oh, no, no!” And besides the pallor and the physical suffering

+on the little princess’ face, an expression of childish fear of

+inevitable pain showed itself.

+

+“No, it’s only indigestion?... Say it’s only indigestion, say so,

+Mary! Say...” And the little princess began to cry capriciously like

+a suffering child and to wring her little hands even with some

+affectation. Princess Mary ran out of the room to fetch Mary

+Bogdánovna.

+

+“Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! Oh!” she heard as she left the room.

+

+The midwife was already on her way to meet her, rubbing her small, plump

+white hands with an air of calm importance.

+

+“Mary Bogdánovna, I think it’s beginning!” said Princess Mary

+looking at the midwife with wide-open eyes of alarm.

+

+“Well, the Lord be thanked, Princess,” said Mary Bogdánovna, not

+hastening her steps. “You young ladies should not know anything about

+it.”

+

+“But how is it the doctor from Moscow is not here yet?” said the

+princess. (In accordance with Lise’s and Prince Andrew’s wishes they

+had sent in good time to Moscow for a doctor and were expecting him at

+any moment.)

+

+“No matter, Princess, don’t be alarmed,” said Mary Bogdánovna.

+“We’ll manage very well without a doctor.”

+

+Five minutes later Princess Mary from her room heard something heavy

+being carried by. She looked out. The men servants were carrying the

+large leather sofa from Prince Andrew’s study into the bedroom. On

+their faces was a quiet and solemn look.

+

+Princess Mary sat alone in her room listening to the sounds in the

+house, now and then opening her door when someone passed and watching

+what was going on in the passage. Some women passing with quiet steps in

+and out of the bedroom glanced at the princess and turned away. She did

+not venture to ask any questions, and shut the door again, now sitting

+down in her easy chair, now taking her prayer book, now kneeling before

+the icon stand. To her surprise and distress she found that her prayers

+did not calm her excitement. Suddenly her door opened softly and her old

+nurse, Praskóvya Sávishna, who hardly ever came to that room as the

+old prince had forbidden it, appeared on the threshold with a shawl

+round her head.

+

+“I’ve come to sit with you a bit, Másha,” said the nurse, “and

+here I’ve brought the prince’s wedding candles to light before his

+saint, my angel,” she said with a sigh.

+

+“Oh, nurse, I’m so glad!”

+

+“God is merciful, birdie.”

+

+The nurse lit the gilt candles before the icons and sat down by the door

+with her knitting. Princess Mary took a book and began reading. Only

+when footsteps or voices were heard did they look at one another, the

+princess anxious and inquiring, the nurse encouraging. Everyone in the

+house was dominated by the same feeling that Princess Mary experienced

+as she sat in her room. But owing to the superstition that the fewer

+the people who know of it the less a woman in travail suffers, everyone

+tried to pretend not to know; no one spoke of it, but apart from the

+ordinary staid and respectful good manners habitual in the prince’s

+household, a common anxiety, a softening of the heart, and a

+consciousness that something great and mysterious was being accomplished

+at that moment made itself felt.

+

+There was no laughter in the maids’ large hall. In the men servants’

+hall all sat waiting, silently and alert. In the outlying serfs’

+quarters torches and candles were burning and no one slept. The old

+prince, stepping on his heels, paced up and down his study and sent

+Tíkhon to ask Mary Bogdánovna what news.—“Say only that ‘the

+prince told me to ask,’ and come and tell me her answer.”

+

+“Inform the prince that labor has begun,” said Mary Bogdánovna,

+giving the messenger a significant look.

+

+Tíkhon went and told the prince.

+

+“Very good!” said the prince closing the door behind him, and

+Tíkhon did not hear the slightest sound from the study after that.

+

+After a while he re-entered it as if to snuff the candles, and, seeing

+the prince was lying on the sofa, looked at him, noticed his perturbed

+face, shook his head, and going up to him silently kissed him on the

+shoulder and left the room without snuffing the candles or saying why he

+had entered. The most solemn mystery in the world continued its course.

+Evening passed, night came, and the feeling of suspense and softening of

+heart in the presence of the unfathomable did not lessen but increased.

+No one slept.

+

+It was one of those March nights when winter seems to wish to resume its

+sway and scatters its last snows and storms with desperate fury. A relay

+of horses had been sent up the highroad to meet the German doctor from

+Moscow who was expected every moment, and men on horseback with lanterns

+were sent to the crossroads to guide him over the country road with its

+hollows and snow-covered pools of water.

+

+Princess Mary had long since put aside her book: she sat silent, her

+luminous eyes fixed on her nurse’s wrinkled face (every line of which

+she knew so well), on the lock of gray hair that escaped from under the

+kerchief, and the loose skin that hung under her chin.

+

+Nurse Sávishna, knitting in hand, was telling in low tones, scarcely

+hearing or understanding her own words, what she had told hundreds of

+times before: how the late princess had given birth to Princess Mary

+in Kishenëv with only a Moldavian peasant woman to help instead of a

+midwife.

+

+“God is merciful, doctors are never needed,” she said.

+

+Suddenly a gust of wind beat violently against the casement of the

+window, from which the double frame had been removed (by order of the

+prince, one window frame was removed in each room as soon as the larks

+returned), and, forcing open a loosely closed latch, set the damask

+curtain flapping and blew out the candle with its chill, snowy draft.

+Princess Mary shuddered; her nurse, putting down the stocking she was

+knitting, went to the window and leaning out tried to catch the open

+casement. The cold wind flapped the ends of her kerchief and her loose

+locks of gray hair.

+

+“Princess, my dear, there’s someone driving up the avenue!” she

+said, holding the casement and not closing it. “With lanterns. Most

+likely the doctor.”

+

+“Oh, my God! thank God!” said Princess Mary. “I must go and meet

+him, he does not know Russian.”

+

+Princess Mary threw a shawl over her head and ran to meet the newcomer.

+As she was crossing the anteroom she saw through the window a carriage

+with lanterns, standing at the entrance. She went out on the stairs. On

+a banister post stood a tallow candle which guttered in the draft. On

+the landing below, Philip, the footman, stood looking scared and holding

+another candle. Still lower, beyond the turn of the staircase, one

+could hear the footstep of someone in thick felt boots, and a voice that

+seemed familiar to Princess Mary was saying something.

+

+“Thank God!” said the voice. “And Father?”

+

+“Gone to bed,” replied the voice of Demyán the house steward, who

+was downstairs.

+

+Then the voice said something more, Demyán replied, and the steps in

+the felt boots approached the unseen bend of the staircase more rapidly.

+

+“It’s Andrew!” thought Princess Mary. “No it can’t be, that

+would be too extraordinary,” and at the very moment she thought this,

+the face and figure of Prince Andrew, in a fur cloak the deep collar of

+which covered with snow, appeared on the landing where the footman

+stood with the candle. Yes, it was he, pale, thin, with a changed and

+strangely softened but agitated expression on his face. He came up the

+stairs and embraced his sister.

+

+“You did not get my letter?” he asked, and not waiting for a

+reply—which he would not have received, for the princess was unable to

+speak—he turned back, rapidly mounted the stairs again with the

+doctor who had entered the hall after him (they had met at the last post

+station), and again embraced his sister.

+

+“What a strange fate, Másha darling!” And having taken off his

+cloak and felt boots, he went to the little princess’ apartment.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER IX

+

+The little princess lay supported by pillows, with a white cap on her

+head (the pains had just left her). Strands of her black hair lay round

+her inflamed and perspiring cheeks, her charming rosy mouth with its

+downy lip was open and she was smiling joyfully. Prince Andrew entered

+and paused facing her at the foot of the sofa on which she was lying.

+Her glittering eyes, filled with childlike fear and excitement, rested

+on him without changing their expression. “I love you all and have

+done no harm to anyone; why must I suffer so? Help me!” her look

+seemed to say. She saw her husband, but did not realize the significance

+of his appearance before her now. Prince Andrew went round the sofa and

+kissed her forehead.

+

+“My darling!” he said—a word he had never used to her before.

+“God is merciful....”

+

+She looked at him inquiringly and with childlike reproach.

+

+“I expected help from you and I get none, none from you either!”

+said her eyes. She was not surprised at his having come; she did

+not realize that he had come. His coming had nothing to do with

+her sufferings or with their relief. The pangs began again and Mary

+Bogdánovna advised Prince Andrew to leave the room.

+

+The doctor entered. Prince Andrew went out and, meeting Princess Mary,

+again joined her. They began talking in whispers, but their talk broke

+off at every moment. They waited and listened.

+

+“Go, dear,” said Princess Mary.

+

+Prince Andrew went again to his wife and sat waiting in the room next

+to hers. A woman came from the bedroom with a frightened face and became

+confused when she saw Prince Andrew. He covered his face with his hands

+and remained so for some minutes. Piteous, helpless, animal moans came

+through the door. Prince Andrew got up, went to the door, and tried to

+open it. Someone was holding it shut.

+

+“You can’t come in! You can’t!” said a terrified voice from

+within.

+

+He began pacing the room. The screaming ceased, and a few more seconds

+went by. Then suddenly a terrible shriek—it could not be hers, she

+could not scream like that—came from the bedroom. Prince Andrew ran to

+the door; the scream ceased and he heard the wail of an infant.

+

+“What have they taken a baby in there for?” thought Prince Andrew in

+the first second. “A baby? What baby...? Why is there a baby there? Or

+is the baby born?”

+

+Then suddenly he realized the joyful significance of that wail; tears

+choked him, and leaning his elbows on the window sill he began to cry,

+sobbing like a child. The door opened. The doctor with his shirt sleeves

+tucked up, without a coat, pale and with a trembling jaw, came out

+of the room. Prince Andrew turned to him, but the doctor gave him a

+bewildered look and passed by without a word. A woman rushed out and

+seeing Prince Andrew stopped, hesitating on the threshold. He went into

+his wife’s room. She was lying dead, in the same position he had seen

+her in five minutes before and, despite the fixed eyes and the pallor of

+the cheeks, the same expression was on her charming childlike face with

+its upper lip covered with tiny black hair.

+

+“I love you all, and have done no harm to anyone; and what have you

+done to me?”—said her charming, pathetic, dead face.

+

+In a corner of the room something red and tiny gave a grunt and squealed

+in Mary Bogdánovna’s trembling white hands.

+

+

+Two hours later Prince Andrew, stepping softly, went into his father’s

+room. The old man already knew everything. He was standing close to

+the door and as soon as it opened his rough old arms closed like a vise

+round his son’s neck, and without a word he began to sob like a child.

+

+

+Three days later the little princess was buried, and Prince Andrew went

+up the steps to where the coffin stood, to give her the farewell kiss.

+And there in the coffin was the same face, though with closed eyes.

+“Ah, what have you done to me?” it still seemed to say, and Prince

+Andrew felt that something gave way in his soul and that he was guilty

+of a sin he could neither remedy nor forget. He could not weep. The

+old man too came up and kissed the waxen little hands that lay quietly

+crossed one on the other on her breast, and to him, too, her face seemed

+to say: “Ah, what have you done to me, and why?” And at the sight

+the old man turned angrily away.

+

+

+Another five days passed, and then the young Prince Nicholas Andréevich

+was baptized. The wet nurse supported the coverlet with her chin, while

+the priest with a goose feather anointed the boy’s little red and

+wrinkled soles and palms.

+

+His grandfather, who was his godfather, trembling and afraid of dropping

+him, carried the infant round the battered tin font and handed him over

+to the godmother, Princess Mary. Prince Andrew sat in another room,

+faint with fear lest the baby should be drowned in the font, and awaited

+the termination of the ceremony. He looked up joyfully at the baby when

+the nurse brought it to him and nodded approval when she told him that

+the wax with the baby’s hair had not sunk in the font but had floated.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER X

+

+Rostóv’s share in Dólokhov’s duel with Bezúkhov was hushed up by

+the efforts of the old count, and instead of being degraded to the ranks

+as he expected he was appointed an adjutant to the governor general of

+Moscow. As a result he could not go to the country with the rest of the

+family, but was kept all summer in Moscow by his new duties. Dólokhov

+recovered, and Rostóv became very friendly with him during his

+convalescence. Dólokhov lay ill at his mother’s who loved him

+passionately and tenderly, and old Mary Ivánovna, who had grown fond of

+Rostóv for his friendship to her Fédya, often talked to him about her

+son.

+

+“Yes, Count,” she would say, “he is too noble and pure-souled for

+our present, depraved world. No one now loves virtue; it seems like

+a reproach to everyone. Now tell me, Count, was it right, was it

+honorable, of Bezúkhov? And Fédya, with his noble spirit, loved him

+and even now never says a word against him. Those pranks in Petersburg

+when they played some tricks on a policeman, didn’t they do it

+together? And there! Bezúkhov got off scotfree, while Fédya had to

+bear the whole burden on his shoulders. Fancy what he had to go through!

+It’s true he has been reinstated, but how could they fail to do that?

+I think there were not many such gallant sons of the fatherland out

+there as he. And now—this duel! Have these people no feeling, or

+honor? Knowing him to be an only son, to challenge him and shoot so

+straight! It’s well God had mercy on us. And what was it for? Who

+doesn’t have intrigues nowadays? Why, if he was so jealous, as I see

+things he should have shown it sooner, but he lets it go on for months.

+And then to call him out, reckoning on Fédya not fighting because he

+owed him money! What baseness! What meanness! I know you understand

+Fédya, my dear count; that, believe me, is why I am so fond of you. Few

+people do understand him. He is such a lofty, heavenly soul!”

+

+Dólokhov himself during his convalescence spoke to Rostóv in a way no

+one would have expected of him.

+

+“I know people consider me a bad man!” he said. “Let them! I

+don’t care a straw about anyone but those I love; but those I love,

+I love so that I would give my life for them, and the others I’d

+throttle if they stood in my way. I have an adored, a priceless mother,

+and two or three friends—you among them—and as for the rest I only

+care about them in so far as they are harmful or useful. And most of

+them are harmful, especially the women. Yes, dear boy,” he continued,

+“I have met loving, noble, high-minded men, but I have not yet met

+any women—countesses or cooks—who were not venal. I have not yet met

+that divine purity and devotion I look for in women. If I found such a

+one I’d give my life for her! But those!...” and he made a gesture

+of contempt. “And believe me, if I still value my life it is

+only because I still hope to meet such a divine creature, who will

+regenerate, purify, and elevate me. But you don’t understand it.”

+

+“Oh, yes, I quite understand,” answered Rostóv, who was under his

+new friend’s influence.

+

+In the autumn the Rostóvs returned to Moscow. Early in the winter

+Denísov also came back and stayed with them. The first half of the

+winter of 1806, which Nicholas Rostóv spent in Moscow, was one of the

+happiest, merriest times for him and the whole family. Nicholas brought

+many young men to his parents’ house. Véra was a handsome girl

+of twenty; Sónya a girl of sixteen with all the charm of an opening

+flower; Natásha, half grown up and half child, was now childishly

+amusing, now girlishly enchanting.

+

+At that time in the Rostóvs’ house there prevailed an amorous

+atmosphere characteristic of homes where there are very young and very

+charming girls. Every young man who came to the house—seeing those

+impressionable, smiling young faces (smiling probably at their own

+happiness), feeling the eager bustle around him, and hearing the fitful

+bursts of song and music and the inconsequent but friendly prattle of

+young girls ready for anything and full of hope—experienced the same

+feeling; sharing with the young folk of the Rostóvs’ household a

+readiness to fall in love and an expectation of happiness.

+

+Among the young men introduced by Rostóv one of the first was

+Dólokhov, whom everyone in the house liked except Natásha. She almost

+quarreled with her brother about him. She insisted that he was a bad

+man, and that in the duel with Bezúkhov, Pierre was right and Dólokhov

+wrong, and further that he was disagreeable and unnatural.

+

+“There’s nothing for me to understand,” she cried out with

+resolute self-will, “he is wicked and heartless. There now, I like

+your Denísov though he is a rake and all that, still I like him; so

+you see I do understand. I don’t know how to put it... with this one

+everything is calculated, and I don’t like that. But Denísov...”

+

+“Oh, Denísov is quite different,” replied Nicholas, implying that

+even Denísov was nothing compared to Dólokhov—“you must understand

+what a soul there is in Dólokhov, you should see him with his mother.

+What a heart!”

+

+“Well, I don’t know about that, but I am uncomfortable with him. And

+do you know he has fallen in love with Sónya?”

+

+“What nonsense...”

+

+“I’m certain of it; you’ll see.”

+

+Natásha’s prediction proved true. Dólokhov, who did not usually care

+for the society of ladies, began to come often to the house, and the

+question for whose sake he came (though no one spoke of it) was soon

+settled. He came because of Sónya. And Sónya, though she would never

+have dared to say so, knew it and blushed scarlet every time Dólokhov

+appeared.

+

+Dólokhov often dined at the Rostóvs’, never missed a performance at

+which they were present, and went to Iogel’s balls for young people

+which the Rostóvs always attended. He was pointedly attentive to Sónya

+and looked at her in such a way that not only could she not bear his

+glances without coloring, but even the old countess and Natásha blushed

+when they saw his looks.

+

+It was evident that this strange, strong man was under the irresistible

+influence of the dark, graceful girl who loved another.

+

+Rostóv noticed something new in Dólokhov’s relations with Sónya,

+but he did not explain to himself what these new relations were.

+“They’re always in love with someone,” he thought of Sónya and

+Natásha. But he was not as much at ease with Sónya and Dólokhov as

+before and was less frequently at home.

+

+In the autumn of 1806 everybody had again begun talking of the war with

+Napoleon with even greater warmth than the year before. Orders were

+given to raise recruits, ten men in every thousand for the regular army,

+and besides this, nine men in every thousand for the militia. Everywhere

+Bonaparte was anathematized and in Moscow nothing but the coming war

+was talked of. For the Rostóv family the whole interest of these

+preparations for war lay in the fact that Nicholas would not hear of

+remaining in Moscow, and only awaited the termination of Denísov’s

+furlough after Christmas to return with him to their regiment. His

+approaching departure did not prevent his amusing himself, but rather

+gave zest to his pleasures. He spent the greater part of his time away

+from home, at dinners, parties, and balls.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XI

+

+On the third day after Christmas Nicholas dined at home, a thing he had

+rarely done of late. It was a grand farewell dinner, as he and Denísov

+were leaving to join their regiment after Epiphany. About twenty people

+were present, including Dólokhov and Denísov.

+

+Never had love been so much in the air, and never had the amorous

+atmosphere made itself so strongly felt in the Rostóvs’ house as at

+this holiday time. “Seize the moments of happiness, love and be loved!

+That is the only reality in the world, all else is folly. It is the one

+thing we are interested in here,” said the spirit of the place.

+

+Nicholas, having as usual exhausted two pairs of horses, without

+visiting all the places he meant to go to and where he had been invited,

+returned home just before dinner. As soon as he entered he noticed and

+felt the tension of the amorous air in the house, and also noticed a

+curious embarrassment among some of those present. Sónya, Dólokhov,

+and the old countess were especially disturbed, and to a lesser degree

+Natásha. Nicholas understood that something must have happened between

+Sónya and Dólokhov before dinner, and with the kindly sensitiveness

+natural to him was very gentle and wary with them both at dinner. On

+that same evening there was to be one of the balls that Iogel (the

+dancing master) gave for his pupils during the holidays.

+

+“Nicholas, will you come to Iogel’s? Please do!” said Natásha.

+“He asked you, and Vasíli Dmítrich * is also going.”

+

+    * Denísov.

+

+“Where would I not go at the countess’ command!” said Denísov,

+who at the Rostóvs’ had jocularly assumed the role of Natásha’s

+knight. “I’m even weady to dance the pas de châle.”

+

+“If I have time,” answered Nicholas. “But I promised the

+Arkhárovs; they have a party.”

+

+“And you?” he asked Dólokhov, but as soon as he had asked the

+question he noticed that it should not have been put.

+

+“Perhaps,” coldly and angrily replied Dólokhov, glancing at Sónya,

+and, scowling, he gave Nicholas just such a look as he had given Pierre

+at the club dinner.

+

+“There is something up,” thought Nicholas, and he was further

+confirmed in this conclusion by the fact that Dólokhov left immediately

+after dinner. He called Natásha and asked her what was the matter.

+

+“And I was looking for you,” said Natásha running out to him. “I

+told you, but you would not believe it,” she said triumphantly. “He

+has proposed to Sónya!”

+

+Little as Nicholas had occupied himself with Sónya of late, something

+seemed to give way within him at this news. Dólokhov was a suitable and

+in some respects a brilliant match for the dowerless, orphan girl. From

+the point of view of the old countess and of society it was out of the

+question for her to refuse him. And therefore Nicholas’ first feeling

+on hearing the news was one of anger with Sónya.... He tried to say,

+“That’s capital; of course she’ll forget her childish promises

+and accept the offer,” but before he had time to say it Natásha began

+again.

+

+“And fancy! she refused him quite definitely!” adding, after a

+pause, “she told him she loved another.”

+

+“Yes, my Sónya could not have done otherwise!” thought Nicholas.

+

+“Much as Mamma pressed her, she refused, and I know she won’t change

+once she has said...”

+

+“And Mamma pressed her!” said Nicholas reproachfully.

+

+“Yes,” said Natásha. “Do you know, Nicholas—don’t be

+angry—but I know you will not marry her. I know, heaven knows how, but

+I know for certain that you won’t marry her.”

+

+“Now you don’t know that at all!” said Nicholas. “But I must

+talk to her. What a darling Sónya is!” he added with a smile.

+

+“Ah, she is indeed a darling! I’ll send her to you.”

+

+And Natásha kissed her brother and ran away.

+

+A minute later Sónya came in with a frightened, guilty, and scared

+look. Nicholas went up to her and kissed her hand. This was the first

+time since his return that they had talked alone and about their love.

+

+“Sophie,” he began, timidly at first and then more and more

+boldly, “if you wish to refuse one who is not only a brilliant and

+advantageous match but a splendid, noble fellow... he is my friend...”

+

+Sónya interrupted him.

+

+“I have already refused,” she said hurriedly.

+

+“If you are refusing for my sake, I am afraid that I...”

+

+Sónya again interrupted. She gave him an imploring, frightened look.

+

+“Nicholas, don’t tell me that!” she said.

+

+“No, but I must. It may be arrogant of me, but still it is best to say

+it. If you refuse him on my account, I must tell you the whole truth. I

+love you, and I think I love you more than anyone else....”

+

+“That is enough for me,” said Sónya, blushing.

+

+“No, but I have been in love a thousand times and shall fall in

+love again, though for no one have I such a feeling of friendship,

+confidence, and love as I have for you. Then I am young. Mamma does

+not wish it. In a word, I make no promise. And I beg you to consider

+Dólokhov’s offer,” he said, articulating his friend’s name with

+difficulty.

+

+“Don’t say that to me! I want nothing. I love you as a brother and

+always shall, and I want nothing more.”

+

+“You are an angel: I am not worthy of you, but I am afraid of

+misleading you.”

+

+And Nicholas again kissed her hand.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XII

+

+Iogel’s were the most enjoyable balls in Moscow. So said the mothers

+as they watched their young people executing their newly learned steps,

+and so said the youths and maidens themselves as they danced till they

+were ready to drop, and so said the grown-up young men and women who

+came to these balls with an air of condescension and found them most

+enjoyable. That year two marriages had come of these balls. The two

+pretty young Princesses Gorchakóv met suitors there and were married

+and so further increased the fame of these dances. What distinguished

+them from others was the absence of host or hostess and the presence of

+the good-natured Iogel, flying about like a feather and bowing according

+to the rules of his art, as he collected the tickets from all his

+visitors. There was the fact that only those came who wished to dance

+and amuse themselves as girls of thirteen and fourteen do who are

+wearing long dresses for the first time. With scarcely any exceptions

+they all were, or seemed to be, pretty—so rapturous were their smiles

+and so sparkling their eyes. Sometimes the best of the pupils, of whom

+Natásha, who was exceptionally graceful, was first, even danced the pas

+de châle, but at this last ball only the écossaise, the anglaise, and

+the mazurka, which was just coming into fashion, were danced. Iogel had

+taken a ballroom in Bezúkhov’s house, and the ball, as everyone said,

+was a great success. There were many pretty girls and the Rostóv girls

+were among the prettiest. They were both particularly happy and gay.

+That evening, proud of Dólokhov’s proposal, her refusal, and her

+explanation with Nicholas, Sónya twirled about before she left home

+so that the maid could hardly get her hair plaited, and she was

+transparently radiant with impulsive joy.

+

+Natásha no less proud of her first long dress and of being at a real

+ball was even happier. They were both dressed in white muslin with pink

+ribbons.

+

+Natásha fell in love the very moment she entered the ballroom. She

+was not in love with anyone in particular, but with everyone. Whatever

+person she happened to look at she was in love with for that moment.

+

+“Oh, how delightful it is!” she kept saying, running up to Sónya.

+

+Nicholas and Denísov were walking up and down, looking with kindly

+patronage at the dancers.

+

+“How sweet she is—she will be a weal beauty!” said Denísov.

+

+“Who?”

+

+“Countess Natásha,” answered Denísov.

+

+“And how she dances! What gwace!” he said again after a pause.

+

+“Who are you talking about?”

+

+“About your sister,” ejaculated Denísov testily.

+

+Rostóv smiled.

+

+“My dear count, you were one of my best pupils—you must dance,”

+said little Iogel coming up to Nicholas. “Look how many charming young

+ladies—” He turned with the same request to Denísov who was also a

+former pupil of his.

+

+“No, my dear fellow, I’ll be a wallflower,” said Denísov.

+“Don’t you wecollect what bad use I made of your lessons?”

+

+“Oh no!” said Iogel, hastening to reassure him. “You were only

+inattentive, but you had talent—oh yes, you had talent!”

+

+The band struck up the newly introduced mazurka. Nicholas could not

+refuse Iogel and asked Sónya to dance. Denísov sat down by the old

+ladies and, leaning on his saber and beating time with his foot, told

+them something funny and kept them amused, while he watched the young

+people dancing, Iogel with Natásha, his pride and his best pupil, were

+the first couple. Noiselessly, skillfully stepping with his little

+feet in low shoes, Iogel flew first across the hall with Natásha, who,

+though shy, went on carefully executing her steps. Denísov did not

+take his eyes off her and beat time with his saber in a way that clearly

+indicated that if he was not dancing it was because he would not and not

+because he could not. In the middle of a figure he beckoned to Rostóv

+who was passing:

+

+“This is not at all the thing,” he said. “What sort of Polish

+mazuwka is this? But she does dance splendidly.”

+

+Knowing that Denísov had a reputation even in Poland for the masterly

+way in which he danced the mazurka, Nicholas ran up to Natásha:

+

+“Go and choose Denísov. He is a real dancer, a wonder!” he said.

+

+When it came to Natásha’s turn to choose a partner, she rose and,

+tripping rapidly across in her little shoes trimmed with bows, ran

+timidly to the corner where Denísov sat. She saw that everybody was

+looking at her and waiting. Nicholas saw that Denísov was refusing

+though he smiled delightedly. He ran up to them.

+

+“Please, Vasíli Dmítrich,” Natásha was saying, “do come!”

+

+“Oh no, let me off, Countess,” Denísov replied.

+

+“Now then, Váska,” said Nicholas.

+

+“They coax me as if I were Váska the cat!” said Denísov jokingly.

+

+“I’ll sing for you a whole evening,” said Natásha.

+

+“Oh, the faiwy! She can do anything with me!” said Denísov, and

+he unhooked his saber. He came out from behind the chairs, clasped his

+partner’s hand firmly, threw back his head, and advanced his foot,

+waiting for the beat. Only on horse back and in the mazurka was

+Denísov’s short stature not noticeable and he looked the fine fellow

+he felt himself to be. At the right beat of the music he looked sideways

+at his partner with a merry and triumphant air, suddenly stamped with

+one foot, bounded from the floor like a ball, and flew round the room

+taking his partner with him. He glided silently on one foot half across

+the room, and seeming not to notice the chairs was dashing straight at

+them, when suddenly, clinking his spurs and spreading out his legs,

+he stopped short on his heels, stood so a second, stamped on the spot

+clanking his spurs, whirled rapidly round, and, striking his left heel

+against his right, flew round again in a circle. Natásha guessed what

+he meant to do, and abandoning herself to him followed his lead hardly

+knowing how. First he spun her round, holding her now with his left, now

+with his right hand, then falling on one knee he twirled her round him,

+and again jumping up, dashed so impetuously forward that it seemed as if

+he would rush through the whole suite of rooms without drawing breath,

+and then he suddenly stopped and performed some new and unexpected

+steps. When at last, smartly whirling his partner round in front of her

+chair, he drew up with a click of his spurs and bowed to her, Natásha

+did not even make him a curtsy. She fixed her eyes on him in amazement,

+smiling as if she did not recognize him.

+

+“What does this mean?” she brought out.

+

+Although Iogel did not acknowledge this to be the real mazurka, everyone

+was delighted with Denísov’s skill, he was asked again and again as

+a partner, and the old men began smilingly to talk about Poland and the

+good old days. Denísov, flushed after the mazurka and mopping himself

+with his handkerchief, sat down by Natásha and did not leave her for

+the rest of the evening.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XIII

+

+For two days after that Rostóv did not see Dólokhov at his own or at

+Dólokhov’s home: on the third day he received a note from him:

+

+As I do not intend to be at your house again for reasons you know

+of, and am going to rejoin my regiment, I am giving a farewell supper

+tonight to my friends—come to the English Hotel.

+

+About ten o’clock Rostóv went to the English Hotel straight from the

+theater, where he had been with his family and Denísov. He was at once

+shown to the best room, which Dólokhov had taken for that evening. Some

+twenty men were gathered round a table at which Dólokhov sat between

+two candles. On the table was a pile of gold and paper money, and he

+was keeping the bank. Rostóv had not seen him since his proposal and

+Sónya’s refusal and felt uncomfortable at the thought of how they

+would meet.

+

+Dólokhov’s clear, cold glance met Rostóv as soon as he entered the

+door, as though he had long expected him.

+

+“It’s a long time since we met,” he said. “Thanks for coming.

+I’ll just finish dealing, and then Ilyúshka will come with his

+chorus.”

+

+“I called once or twice at your house,” said Rostóv, reddening.

+

+Dólokhov made no reply.

+

+“You may punt,” he said.

+

+Rostóv recalled at that moment a strange conversation he had once had

+with Dólokhov. “None but fools trust to luck in play,” Dólokhov

+had then said.

+

+“Or are you afraid to play with me?” Dólokhov now asked as if

+guessing Rostóv’s thought.

+

+Beneath his smile Rostóv saw in him the mood he had shown at the club

+dinner and at other times, when as if tired of everyday life he had felt

+a need to escape from it by some strange, and usually cruel, action.

+

+Rostóv felt ill at ease. He tried, but failed, to find some joke with

+which to reply to Dólokhov’s words. But before he had thought of

+anything, Dólokhov, looking straight in his face, said slowly and

+deliberately so that everyone could hear:

+

+“Do you remember we had a talk about cards... ‘He’s a fool who

+trusts to luck, one should make certain,’ and I want to try.”

+

+“To try his luck or the certainty?” Rostóv asked himself.

+

+“Well, you’d better not play,” Dólokhov added, and springing a

+new pack of cards said: “Bank, gentlemen!”

+

+Moving the money forward he prepared to deal. Rostóv sat down by his

+side and at first did not play. Dólokhov kept glancing at him.

+

+“Why don’t you play?” he asked.

+

+And strange to say Nicholas felt that he could not help taking up a

+card, putting a small stake on it, and beginning to play.

+

+“I have no money with me,” he said.

+

+“I’ll trust you.”

+

+Rostóv staked five rubles on a card and lost, staked again, and again

+lost. Dólokhov “killed,” that is, beat, ten cards of Rostóv’s

+running.

+

+“Gentlemen,” said Dólokhov after he had dealt for some time.

+“Please place your money on the cards or I may get muddled in the

+reckoning.”

+

+One of the players said he hoped he might be trusted.

+

+“Yes, you might, but I am afraid of getting the accounts mixed. So I

+ask you to put the money on your cards,” replied Dólokhov. “Don’t

+stint yourself, we’ll settle afterwards,” he added, turning to

+Rostóv.

+

+The game continued; a waiter kept handing round champagne.

+

+All Rostóv’s cards were beaten and he had eight hundred rubles scored

+up against him. He wrote “800 rubles” on a card, but while the

+waiter filled his glass he changed his mind and altered it to his usual

+stake of twenty rubles.

+

+“Leave it,” said Dólokhov, though he did not seem to be even

+looking at Rostóv, “you’ll win it back all the sooner. I lose to

+the others but win from you. Or are you afraid of me?” he asked again.

+

+Rostóv submitted. He let the eight hundred remain and laid down a seven

+of hearts with a torn corner, which he had picked up from the floor. He

+well remembered that seven afterwards. He laid down the seven of hearts,

+on which with a broken bit of chalk he had written “800 rubles” in

+clear upright figures; he emptied the glass of warm champagne that was

+handed him, smiled at Dólokhov’s words, and with a sinking heart,

+waiting for a seven to turn up, gazed at Dólokhov’s hands which held

+the pack. Much depended on Rostóv’s winning or losing on that seven

+of hearts. On the previous Sunday the old count had given his son

+two thousand rubles, and though he always disliked speaking of money

+difficulties had told Nicholas that this was all he could let him have

+till May, and asked him to be more economical this time. Nicholas had

+replied that it would be more than enough for him and that he gave his

+word of honor not to take anything more till the spring. Now only twelve

+hundred rubles was left of that money, so that this seven of hearts

+meant for him not only the loss of sixteen hundred rubles, but the

+necessity of going back on his word. With a sinking heart he watched

+Dólokhov’s hands and thought, “Now then, make haste and let me have

+this card and I’ll take my cap and drive home to supper with Denísov,

+Natásha, and Sónya, and will certainly never touch a card again.” At

+that moment his home life, jokes with Pétya, talks with Sónya, duets

+with Natásha, piquet with his father, and even his comfortable bed

+in the house on the Povarskáya rose before him with such vividness,

+clearness, and charm that it seemed as if it were all a lost and

+unappreciated bliss, long past. He could not conceive that a stupid

+chance, letting the seven be dealt to the right rather than to the left,

+might deprive him of all this happiness, newly appreciated and newly

+illumined, and plunge him into the depths of unknown and undefined

+misery. That could not be, yet he awaited with a sinking heart the

+movement of Dólokhov’s hands. Those broad, reddish hands, with hairy

+wrists visible from under the shirt cuffs, laid down the pack and took

+up a glass and a pipe that were handed him.

+

+“So you are not afraid to play with me?” repeated Dólokhov, and as

+if about to tell a good story he put down the cards, leaned back in his

+chair, and began deliberately with a smile:

+

+“Yes, gentlemen, I’ve been told there’s a rumor going about Moscow

+that I’m a sharper, so I advise you to be careful.”

+

+“Come now, deal!” exclaimed Rostóv.

+

+“Oh, those Moscow gossips!” said Dólokhov, and he took up the cards

+with a smile.

+

+“Aah!” Rostóv almost screamed lifting both hands to his head. The

+seven he needed was lying uppermost, the first card in the pack. He had

+lost more than he could pay.

+

+“Still, don’t ruin yourself!” said Dólokhov with a side glance at

+Rostóv as he continued to deal.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XIV

+

+An hour and a half later most of the players were but little interested

+in their own play.

+

+The whole interest was concentrated on Rostóv. Instead of sixteen

+hundred rubles he had a long column of figures scored against him,

+which he had reckoned up to ten thousand, but that now, as he vaguely

+supposed, must have risen to fifteen thousand. In reality it already

+exceeded twenty thousand rubles. Dólokhov was no longer listening to

+stories or telling them, but followed every movement of Rostóv’s

+hands and occasionally ran his eyes over the score against him. He had

+decided to play until that score reached forty-three thousand. He

+had fixed on that number because forty-three was the sum of his and

+Sónya’s joint ages. Rostóv, leaning his head on both hands, sat at

+the table which was scrawled over with figures, wet with spilled wine,

+and littered with cards. One tormenting impression did not leave him:

+that those broad-boned reddish hands with hairy wrists visible from

+under the shirt sleeves, those hands which he loved and hated, held him

+in their power.

+

+“Six hundred rubles, ace, a corner, a nine... winning it back’s

+impossible... Oh, how pleasant it was at home!... The knave, double or

+quits... it can’t be!... And why is he doing this to me?” Rostóv

+pondered. Sometimes he staked a large sum, but Dólokhov refused to

+accept it and fixed the stake himself. Nicholas submitted to him, and at

+one moment prayed to God as he had done on the battlefield at the bridge

+over the Enns, and then guessed that the card that came first to hand

+from the crumpled heap under the table would save him, now counted the

+cords on his coat and took a card with that number and tried staking the

+total of his losses on it, then he looked round for aid from the other

+players, or peered at the now cold face of Dólokhov and tried to read

+what was passing in his mind.

+

+“He knows of course what this loss means to me. He can’t want my

+ruin. Wasn’t he my friend? Wasn’t I fond of him? But it’s not his

+fault. What’s he to do if he has such luck?... And it’s not my fault

+either,” he thought to himself, “I have done nothing wrong. Have I

+killed anyone, or insulted or wished harm to anyone? Why such a terrible

+misfortune? And when did it begin? Such a little while ago I came to

+this table with the thought of winning a hundred rubles to buy that

+casket for Mamma’s name day and then going home. I was so happy, so

+free, so lighthearted! And I did not realize how happy I was! When did

+that end and when did this new, terrible state of things begin? What

+marked the change? I sat all the time in this same place at this table,

+chose and placed cards, and watched those broad-boned agile hands in the

+same way. When did it happen and what has happened? I am well and strong

+and still the same and in the same place. No, it can’t be! Surely it

+will all end in nothing!”

+

+He was flushed and bathed in perspiration, though the room was not hot.

+His face was terrible and piteous to see, especially from its helpless

+efforts to seem calm.

+

+The score against him reached the fateful sum of forty-three thousand.

+Rostóv had just prepared a card, by bending the corner of which he

+meant to double the three thousand just put down to his score, when

+Dólokhov, slamming down the pack of cards, put it aside and began

+rapidly adding up the total of Rostóv’s debt, breaking the chalk as

+he marked the figures in his clear, bold hand.

+

+“Supper, it’s time for supper! And here are the gypsies!”

+

+Some swarthy men and women were really entering from the cold outside

+and saying something in their gypsy accents. Nicholas understood that it

+was all over; but he said in an indifferent tone:

+

+“Well, won’t you go on? I had a splendid card all ready,” as if it

+were the fun of the game which interested him most.

+

+“It’s all up! I’m lost!” thought he. “Now a bullet through my

+brain—that’s all that’s left me!” And at the same time he said

+in a cheerful voice:

+

+“Come now, just this one more little card!”

+

+“All right!” said Dólokhov, having finished the addition. “All

+right! Twenty-one rubles,” he said, pointing to the figure twenty-one

+by which the total exceeded the round sum of forty-three thousand; and

+taking up a pack he prepared to deal. Rostóv submissively unbent the

+corner of his card and, instead of the six thousand he had intended,

+carefully wrote twenty-one.

+

+“It’s all the same to me,” he said. “I only want to see whether

+you will let me win this ten, or beat it.”

+

+Dólokhov began to deal seriously. Oh, how Rostóv detested at that

+moment those hands with their short reddish fingers and hairy wrists,

+which held him in their power.... The ten fell to him.

+

+“You owe forty-three thousand, Count,” said Dólokhov, and

+stretching himself he rose from the table. “One does get tired sitting

+so long,” he added.

+

+“Yes, I’m tired too,” said Rostóv.

+

+Dólokhov cut him short, as if to remind him that it was not for him to

+jest.

+

+“When am I to receive the money, Count?”

+

+Rostóv, flushing, drew Dólokhov into the next room.

+

+“I cannot pay it all immediately. Will you take an I.O.U.?” he said.

+

+“I say, Rostóv,” said Dólokhov clearly, smiling and looking

+Nicholas straight in the eyes, “you know the saying, ‘Lucky in love,

+unlucky at cards.’ Your cousin is in love with you, I know.”

+

+“Oh, it’s terrible to feel oneself so in this man’s power,”

+thought Rostóv. He knew what a shock he would inflict on his father and

+mother by the news of this loss, he knew what a relief it would be to

+escape it all, and felt that Dólokhov knew that he could save him from

+all this shame and sorrow, but wanted now to play with him as a cat does

+with a mouse.

+

+“Your cousin...” Dólokhov started to say, but Nicholas interrupted

+him.

+

+“My cousin has nothing to do with this and it’s not necessary to

+mention her!” he exclaimed fiercely.

+

+“Then when am I to have it?”

+

+“Tomorrow,” replied Rostóv and left the room.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XV

+

+To say “tomorrow” and keep up a dignified tone was not difficult,

+but to go home alone, see his sisters, brother, mother, and father,

+confess and ask for money he had no right to after giving his word of

+honor, was terrible.

+

+At home, they had not yet gone to bed. The young people, after returning

+from the theater, had had supper and were grouped round the clavichord.

+As soon as Nicholas entered, he was enfolded in that poetic atmosphere

+of love which pervaded the Rostóv household that winter and, now after

+Dólokhov’s proposal and Iogel’s ball, seemed to have grown thicker

+round Sónya and Natásha as the air does before a thunderstorm. Sónya

+and Natásha, in the light-blue dresses they had worn at the theater,

+looking pretty and conscious of it, were standing by the clavichord,

+happy and smiling. Véra was playing chess with Shinshín in the drawing

+room. The old countess, waiting for the return of her husband and son,

+sat playing patience with the old gentlewoman who lived in their house.

+Denísov, with sparkling eyes and ruffled hair, sat at the clavichord

+striking chords with his short fingers, his legs thrown back and his

+eyes rolling as he sang, with his small, husky, but true voice, some

+verses called “Enchantress,” which he had composed, and to which he

+was trying to fit music:

+

+   Enchantress, say, to my forsaken lyre

+   What magic power is this recalls me still?

+   What spark has set my inmost soul on fire,

+   What is this bliss that makes my fingers thrill?

+

+He was singing in passionate tones, gazing with his sparkling

+black-agate eyes at the frightened and happy Natásha.

+

+“Splendid! Excellent!” exclaimed Natásha. “Another verse,” she

+said, without noticing Nicholas.

+

+“Everything’s still the same with them,” thought Nicholas,

+glancing into the drawing room, where he saw Véra and his mother with

+the old lady.

+

+“Ah, and here’s Nicholas!” cried Natásha, running up to him.

+

+“Is Papa at home?” he asked.

+

+“I am so glad you’ve come!” said Natásha, without answering him.

+“We are enjoying ourselves! Vasíli Dmítrich is staying a day longer

+for my sake! Did you know?”

+

+“No, Papa is not back yet,” said Sónya.

+

+“Nicholas, have you come? Come here, dear!” called the old countess

+from the drawing room.

+

+Nicholas went to her, kissed her hand, and sitting down silently at her

+table began to watch her hands arranging the cards. From the dancing

+room, they still heard the laughter and merry voices trying to persuade

+Natásha to sing.

+

+“All wight! All wight!” shouted Denísov. “It’s no good making

+excuses now! It’s your turn to sing the ba’cawolla—I entweat

+you!”

+

+The countess glanced at her silent son.

+

+“What is the matter?” she asked.

+

+“Oh, nothing,” said he, as if weary of being continually asked the

+same question. “Will Papa be back soon?”

+

+“I expect so.”

+

+“Everything’s the same with them. They know nothing about it! Where

+am I to go?” thought Nicholas, and went again into the dancing room

+where the clavichord stood.

+

+Sónya was sitting at the clavichord, playing the prelude to

+Denísov’s favorite barcarolle. Natásha was preparing to sing.

+Denísov was looking at her with enraptured eyes.

+

+Nicholas began pacing up and down the room.

+

+“Why do they want to make her sing? How can she sing? There’s

+nothing to be happy about!” thought he.

+

+Sónya struck the first chord of the prelude.

+

+“My God, I’m a ruined and dishonored man! A bullet through my brain

+is the only thing left me—not singing!” his thoughts ran on. “Go

+away? But where to? It’s one—let them sing!”

+

+He continued to pace the room, looking gloomily at Denísov and the

+girls and avoiding their eyes.

+

+“Nikólenka, what is the matter?” Sónya’s eyes fixed on him

+seemed to ask. She noticed at once that something had happened to him.

+

+Nicholas turned away from her. Natásha too, with her quick instinct,

+had instantly noticed her brother’s condition. But, though she noticed

+it, she was herself in such high spirits at that moment, so far from

+sorrow, sadness, or self-reproach, that she purposely deceived herself

+as young people often do. “No, I am too happy now to spoil my

+enjoyment by sympathy with anyone’s sorrow,” she felt, and she said

+to herself: “No, I must be mistaken, he must be feeling happy, just as

+I am.”

+

+“Now, Sónya!” she said, going to the very middle of the room, where

+she considered the resonance was best.

+

+Having lifted her head and let her arms droop lifelessly, as ballet

+dancers do, Natásha, rising energetically from her heels to her toes,

+stepped to the middle of the room and stood still.

+

+“Yes, that’s me!” she seemed to say, answering the rapt gaze with

+which Denísov followed her.

+

+“And what is she so pleased about?” thought Nicholas, looking at his

+sister. “Why isn’t she dull and ashamed?”

+

+Natásha took the first note, her throat swelled, her chest rose,

+her eyes became serious. At that moment she was oblivious of her

+surroundings, and from her smiling lips flowed sounds which anyone may

+produce at the same intervals and hold for the same time, but which

+leave you cold a thousand times and the thousand and first time thrill

+you and make you weep.

+

+Natásha, that winter, had for the first time begun to sing seriously,

+mainly because Denísov so delighted in her singing. She no longer sang

+as a child, there was no longer in her singing that comical, childish,

+painstaking effect that had been in it before; but she did not yet sing

+well, as all the connoisseurs who heard her said: “It is not trained,

+but it is a beautiful voice that must be trained.” Only they generally

+said this some time after she had finished singing. While that untrained

+voice, with its incorrect breathing and labored transitions, was

+sounding, even the connoisseurs said nothing, but only delighted in

+it and wished to hear it again. In her voice there was a virginal

+freshness, an unconsciousness of her own powers, and an as yet untrained

+velvety softness, which so mingled with her lack of art in singing that

+it seemed as if nothing in that voice could be altered without spoiling

+it.

+

+“What is this?” thought Nicholas, listening to her with widely

+opened eyes. “What has happened to her? How she is singing today!”

+And suddenly the whole world centered for him on anticipation of the

+next note, the next phrase, and everything in the world was divided into

+three beats: “Oh mio crudele affetto.”... One, two, three... one,

+two, three... One... “Oh mio crudele affetto.”... One, two, three...

+One. “Oh, this senseless life of ours!” thought Nicholas. “All

+this misery, and money, and Dólokhov, and anger, and honor—it’s all

+nonsense... but this is real.... Now then, Natásha, now then, dearest!

+Now then, darling! How will she take that si? She’s taken it! Thank

+God!” And without noticing that he was singing, to strengthen the si

+he sung a second, a third below the high note. “Ah, God! How fine! Did

+I really take it? How fortunate!” he thought.

+

+Oh, how that chord vibrated, and how moved was something that was finest

+in Rostóv’s soul! And this something was apart from everything else

+in the world and above everything in the world. “What were losses, and

+Dólokhov, and words of honor?... All nonsense! One might kill and rob

+and yet be happy....”

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XVI

+

+It was long since Rostóv had felt such enjoyment from music as he

+did that day. But no sooner had Natásha finished her barcarolle than

+reality again presented itself. He got up without saying a word and went

+downstairs to his own room. A quarter of an hour later the old count

+came in from his club, cheerful and contented. Nicholas, hearing him

+drive up, went to meet him.

+

+“Well—had a good time?” said the old count, smiling gaily and

+proudly at his son.

+

+Nicholas tried to say “Yes,” but could not: and he nearly burst into

+sobs. The count was lighting his pipe and did not notice his son’s

+condition.

+

+“Ah, it can’t be avoided!” thought Nicholas, for the first and

+last time. And suddenly, in the most casual tone, which made him feel

+ashamed of himself, he said, as if merely asking his father to let him

+have the carriage to drive to town:

+

+“Papa, I have come on a matter of business. I was nearly forgetting. I

+need some money.”

+

+“Dear me!” said his father, who was in a specially good humor. “I

+told you it would not be enough. How much?”

+

+“Very much,” said Nicholas flushing, and with a stupid careless

+smile, for which he was long unable to forgive himself, “I have lost a

+little, I mean a good deal, a great deal—forty three thousand.”

+

+“What! To whom?... Nonsense!” cried the count, suddenly reddening

+with an apoplectic flush over neck and nape as old people do.

+

+“I promised to pay tomorrow,” said Nicholas.

+

+“Well!...” said the old count, spreading out his arms and sinking

+helplessly on the sofa.

+

+“It can’t be helped! It happens to everyone!” said the son, with

+a bold, free, and easy tone, while in his soul he regarded himself as a

+worthless scoundrel whose whole life could not atone for his crime. He

+longed to kiss his father’s hands and kneel to beg his forgiveness,

+but said, in a careless and even rude voice, that it happens to

+everyone!

+

+The old count cast down his eyes on hearing his son’s words and began

+bustlingly searching for something.

+

+“Yes, yes,” he muttered, “it will be difficult, I fear, difficult

+to raise... happens to everybody! Yes, who has not done it?”

+

+And with a furtive glance at his son’s face, the count went out of the

+room.... Nicholas had been prepared for resistance, but had not at all

+expected this.

+

+“Papa! Pa-pa!” he called after him, sobbing, “forgive me!” And

+seizing his father’s hand, he pressed it to his lips and burst into

+tears.

+

+While father and son were having their explanation, the mother and

+daughter were having one not less important. Natásha came running to

+her mother, quite excited.

+

+“Mamma!... Mamma!... He has made me...”

+

+“Made what?”

+

+“Made, made me an offer, Mamma! Mamma!” she exclaimed.

+

+The countess did not believe her ears. Denísov had proposed. To whom?

+To this chit of a girl, Natásha, who not so long ago was playing with

+dolls and who was still having lessons.

+

+“Don’t, Natásha! What nonsense!” she said, hoping it was a joke.

+

+“Nonsense, indeed! I am telling you the fact,” said Natásha

+indignantly. “I come to ask you what to do, and you call it

+‘nonsense!’”

+

+The countess shrugged her shoulders.

+

+“If it is true that Monsieur Denísov has made you a proposal, tell

+him he is a fool, that’s all!”

+

+“No, he’s not a fool!” replied Natásha indignantly and seriously.

+

+“Well then, what do you want? You’re all in love nowadays. Well,

+if you are in love, marry him!” said the countess, with a laugh of

+annoyance. “Good luck to you!”

+

+“No, Mamma, I’m not in love with him, I suppose I’m not in love

+with him.”

+

+“Well then, tell him so.”

+

+“Mamma, are you cross? Don’t be cross, dear! Is it my fault?”

+

+“No, but what is it, my dear? Do you want me to go and tell him?”

+said the countess smiling.

+

+“No, I will do it myself, only tell me what to say. It’s all very

+well for you,” said Natásha, with a responsive smile. “You should

+have seen how he said it! I know he did not mean to say it, but it came

+out accidently.”

+

+“Well, all the same, you must refuse him.”

+

+“No, I mustn’t. I am so sorry for him! He’s so nice.”

+

+“Well then, accept his offer. It’s high time for you to be

+married,” answered the countess sharply and sarcastically.

+

+“No, Mamma, but I’m so sorry for him. I don’t know how I’m to

+say it.”

+

+“And there’s nothing for you to say. I shall speak to him myself,”

+said the countess, indignant that they should have dared to treat this

+little Natásha as grown up.

+

+“No, not on any account! I will tell him myself, and you’ll listen

+at the door,” and Natásha ran across the drawing room to the dancing

+hall, where Denísov was sitting on the same chair by the clavichord

+with his face in his hands.

+

+He jumped up at the sound of her light step.

+

+“Nataly,” he said, moving with rapid steps toward her, “decide my

+fate. It is in your hands.”

+

+“Vasíli Dmítrich, I’m so sorry for you!... No, but you are so

+nice... but it won’t do...not that... but as a friend, I shall always

+love you.”

+

+Denísov bent over her hand and she heard strange sounds she did not

+understand. She kissed his rough curly black head. At this instant, they

+heard the quick rustle of the countess’ dress. She came up to them.

+

+“Vasíli Dmítrich, I thank you for the honor,” she said, with an

+embarrassed voice, though it sounded severe to Denísov—“but my

+daughter is so young, and I thought that, as my son’s friend, you

+would have addressed yourself first to me. In that case you would not

+have obliged me to give this refusal.”

+

+“Countess...” said Denísov, with downcast eyes and a guilty face.

+He tried to say more, but faltered.

+

+Natásha could not remain calm, seeing him in such a plight. She began

+to sob aloud.

+

+“Countess, I have done w’ong,” Denísov went on in an unsteady

+voice, “but believe me, I so adore your daughter and all your family

+that I would give my life twice over...” He looked at the countess,

+and seeing her severe face said: “Well, good-by, Countess,” and

+kissing her hand, he left the room with quick resolute strides, without

+looking at Natásha.

+

+

+Next day Rostóv saw Denísov off. He did not wish to stay another

+day in Moscow. All Denísov’s Moscow friends gave him a farewell

+entertainment at the gypsies’, with the result that he had no

+recollection of how he was put in the sleigh or of the first three

+stages of his journey.

+

+After Denísov’s departure, Rostóv spent another fortnight in Moscow,

+without going out of the house, waiting for the money his father could

+not at once raise, and he spent most of his time in the girls’ room.

+

+Sónya was more tender and devoted to him than ever. It was as if she

+wanted to show him that his losses were an achievement that made her

+love him all the more, but Nicholas now considered himself unworthy of

+her.

+

+He filled the girls’ albums with verses and music, and having at last

+sent Dólokhov the whole forty-three thousand rubles and received his

+receipt, he left at the end of November, without taking leave of any of

+his acquaintances, to overtake his regiment which was already in Poland.

+

+

+

+

+

+BOOK FIVE: 1806 - 07

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER I

+

+After his interview with his wife Pierre left for Petersburg. At the

+Torzhók post station, either there were no horses or the postmaster

+would not supply them. Pierre was obliged to wait. Without undressing,

+he lay down on the leather sofa in front of a round table, put his big

+feet in their overboots on the table, and began to reflect.

+

+“Will you have the portmanteaus brought in? And a bed got ready, and

+tea?” asked his valet.

+

+Pierre gave no answer, for he neither heard nor saw anything. He had

+begun to think of the last station and was still pondering on the same

+question—one so important that he took no notice of what went

+on around him. Not only was he indifferent as to whether he got to

+Petersburg earlier or later, or whether he secured accommodation at this

+station, but compared to the thoughts that now occupied him it was a

+matter of indifference whether he remained there for a few hours or for

+the rest of his life.

+

+The postmaster, his wife, the valet, and a peasant woman selling

+Torzhók embroidery came into the room offering their services.

+Without changing his careless attitude, Pierre looked at them over his

+spectacles unable to understand what they wanted or how they could go on

+living without having solved the problems that so absorbed him. He had

+been engrossed by the same thoughts ever since the day he returned from

+Sokólniki after the duel and had spent that first agonizing, sleepless

+night. But now, in the solitude of the journey, they seized him with

+special force. No matter what he thought about, he always returned to

+these same questions which he could not solve and yet could not cease to

+ask himself. It was as if the thread of the chief screw which held his

+life together were stripped, so that the screw could not get in or out,

+but went on turning uselessly in the same place.

+

+The postmaster came in and began obsequiously to beg his excellency to

+wait only two hours, when, come what might, he would let his excellency

+have the courier horses. It was plain that he was lying and only wanted

+to get more money from the traveler.

+

+“Is this good or bad?” Pierre asked himself. “It is good for me,

+bad for another traveler, and for himself it’s unavoidable, because

+he needs money for food; the man said an officer had once given him a

+thrashing for letting a private traveler have the courier horses.

+But the officer thrashed him because he had to get on as quickly as

+possible. And I,” continued Pierre, “shot Dólokhov because I

+considered myself injured, and Louis XVI was executed because they

+considered him a criminal, and a year later they executed those who

+executed him—also for some reason. What is bad? What is good? What

+should one love and what hate? What does one live for? And what am I?

+What is life, and what is death? What power governs all?”

+

+There was no answer to any of these questions, except one, and that

+not a logical answer and not at all a reply to them. The answer was:

+“You’ll die and all will end. You’ll die and know all, or cease

+asking.” But dying was also dreadful.

+

+The Torzhók peddler woman, in a whining voice, went on offering her

+wares, especially a pair of goatskin slippers. “I have hundreds of

+rubles I don’t know what to do with, and she stands in her tattered

+cloak looking timidly at me,” he thought. “And what does she

+want the money for? As if that money could add a hair’s breadth to

+happiness or peace of mind. Can anything in the world make her or me

+less a prey to evil and death?—death which ends all and must come

+today or tomorrow—at any rate, in an instant as compared with

+eternity.” And again he twisted the screw with the stripped thread,

+and again it turned uselessly in the same place.

+

+His servant handed him a half-cut novel, in the form of letters, by

+Madame de Souza. He began reading about the sufferings and virtuous

+struggles of a certain Emilie de Mansfeld. “And why did she resist

+her seducer when she loved him?” he thought. “God could not have put

+into her heart an impulse that was against His will. My wife—as she

+once was—did not struggle, and perhaps she was right. Nothing has been

+found out, nothing discovered,” Pierre again said to himself. “All

+we can know is that we know nothing. And that’s the height of human

+wisdom.”

+

+Everything within and around him seemed confused, senseless, and

+repellent. Yet in this very repugnance to all his circumstances Pierre

+found a kind of tantalizing satisfaction.

+

+“I make bold to ask your excellency to move a little for this

+gentleman,” said the postmaster, entering the room followed by another

+traveler, also detained for lack of horses.

+

+The newcomer was a short, large-boned, yellow-faced, wrinkled old

+man, with gray bushy eyebrows overhanging bright eyes of an indefinite

+grayish color.

+

+Pierre took his feet off the table, stood up, and lay down on a bed that

+had been got ready for him, glancing now and then at the newcomer, who,

+with a gloomy and tired face, was wearily taking off his wraps with the

+aid of his servant, and not looking at Pierre. With a pair of felt boots

+on his thin bony legs, and keeping on a worn, nankeen-covered, sheepskin

+coat, the traveler sat down on the sofa, leaned back his big head with

+its broad temples and close-cropped hair, and looked at Bezúkhov. The

+stern, shrewd, and penetrating expression of that look struck Pierre. He

+felt a wish to speak to the stranger, but by the time he had made up his

+mind to ask him a question about the roads, the traveler had closed his

+eyes. His shriveled old hands were folded and on the finger of one of

+them Pierre noticed a large cast iron ring with a seal representing a

+death’s head. The stranger sat without stirring, either resting or, as

+it seemed to Pierre, sunk in profound and calm meditation. His servant

+was also a yellow, wrinkled old man, without beard or mustache,

+evidently not because he was shaven but because they had never grown.

+This active old servant was unpacking the traveler’s canteen and

+preparing tea. He brought in a boiling samovar. When everything was

+ready, the stranger opened his eyes, moved to the table, filled a

+tumbler with tea for himself and one for the beardless old man to whom

+he passed it. Pierre began to feel a sense of uneasiness, and the

+need, even the inevitability, of entering into conversation with this

+stranger.

+

+The servant brought back his tumbler turned upside down, * with an

+unfinished bit of nibbled sugar, and asked if anything more would be

+wanted.

+

+    * To indicate he did not want more tea.

+

+“No. Give me the book,” said the stranger.

+

+The servant handed him a book which Pierre took to be a devotional work,

+and the traveler became absorbed in it. Pierre looked at him. All at

+once the stranger closed the book, putting in a marker, and again,

+leaning with his arms on the back of the sofa, sat in his former

+position with his eyes shut. Pierre looked at him and had not time

+to turn away when the old man, opening his eyes, fixed his steady and

+severe gaze straight on Pierre’s face.

+

+Pierre felt confused and wished to avoid that look, but the bright old

+eyes attracted him irresistibly.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER II

+

+“I have the pleasure of addressing Count Bezúkhov, if I am not

+mistaken,” said the stranger in a deliberate and loud voice.

+

+Pierre looked silently and inquiringly at him over his spectacles.

+

+“I have heard of you, my dear sir,” continued the stranger, “and

+of your misfortune.” He seemed to emphasize the last word, as if to

+say—“Yes, misfortune! Call it what you please, I know that what

+happened to you in Moscow was a misfortune.”—“I regret it very

+much, my dear sir.”

+

+Pierre flushed and, hurriedly putting his legs down from the bed, bent

+forward toward the old man with a forced and timid smile.

+

+“I have not referred to this out of curiosity, my dear sir, but for

+greater reasons.”

+

+He paused, his gaze still on Pierre, and moved aside on the sofa by way

+of inviting the other to take a seat beside him. Pierre felt reluctant

+to enter into conversation with this old man, but, submitting to him

+involuntarily, came up and sat down beside him.

+

+“You are unhappy, my dear sir,” the stranger continued. “You

+are young and I am old. I should like to help you as far as lies in my

+power.”

+

+“Oh, yes!” said Pierre, with a forced smile. “I am very grateful

+to you. Where are you traveling from?”

+

+The stranger’s face was not genial, it was even cold and severe, but

+in spite of this, both the face and words of his new acquaintance were

+irresistibly attractive to Pierre.

+

+“But if for any reason you don’t feel inclined to talk to me,”

+said the old man, “say so, my dear sir.” And he suddenly smiled, in

+an unexpected and tenderly paternal way.

+

+“Oh no, not at all! On the contrary, I am very glad to make your

+acquaintance,” said Pierre. And again, glancing at the stranger’s

+hands, he looked more closely at the ring, with its skull—a Masonic

+sign.

+

+“Allow me to ask,” he said, “are you a Mason?”

+

+“Yes, I belong to the Brotherhood of the Freemasons,” said the

+stranger, looking deeper and deeper into Pierre’s eyes. “And in

+their name and my own I hold out a brotherly hand to you.”

+

+“I am afraid,” said Pierre, smiling, and wavering between the

+confidence the personality of the Freemason inspired in him and his own

+habit of ridiculing the Masonic beliefs—“I am afraid I am very far

+from understanding—how am I to put it?—I am afraid my way of looking

+at the world is so opposed to yours that we shall not understand one

+another.”

+

+“I know your outlook,” said the Mason, “and the view of life you

+mention, and which you think is the result of your own mental efforts,

+is the one held by the majority of people, and is the invariable fruit

+of pride, indolence, and ignorance. Forgive me, my dear sir, but if I

+had not known it I should not have addressed you. Your view of life is a

+regrettable delusion.”

+

+“Just as I may suppose you to be deluded,” said Pierre, with a faint

+smile.

+

+“I should never dare to say that I know the truth,” said the Mason,

+whose words struck Pierre more and more by their precision and firmness.

+“No one can attain to truth by himself. Only by laying stone on stone

+with the cooperation of all, by the millions of generations from our

+forefather Adam to our own times, is that temple reared which is to be

+a worthy dwelling place of the Great God,” he added, and closed his

+eyes.

+

+“I ought to tell you that I do not believe... do not believe in

+God,” said Pierre, regretfully and with an effort, feeling it

+essential to speak the whole truth.

+

+The Mason looked intently at Pierre and smiled as a rich man with

+millions in hand might smile at a poor fellow who told him that he, poor

+man, had not the five rubles that would make him happy.

+

+“Yes, you do not know Him, my dear sir,” said the Mason. “You

+cannot know Him. You do not know Him and that is why you are unhappy.”

+

+“Yes, yes, I am unhappy,” assented Pierre. “But what am I to

+do?”

+

+“You know Him not, my dear sir, and so you are very unhappy. You do

+not know Him, but He is here, He is in me, He is in my words, He is in

+thee, and even in those blasphemous words thou hast just uttered!”

+pronounced the Mason in a stern and tremulous voice.

+

+He paused and sighed, evidently trying to calm himself.

+

+“If He were not,” he said quietly, “you and I would not be

+speaking of Him, my dear sir. Of what, of whom, are we speaking? Whom

+hast thou denied?” he suddenly asked with exulting austerity and

+authority in his voice. “Who invented Him, if He did not exist? Whence

+came thy conception of the existence of such an incomprehensible Being?

+didst thou, and why did the whole world, conceive the idea of the

+existence of such an incomprehensible Being, a Being all-powerful,

+eternal, and infinite in all His attributes?...”

+

+He stopped and remained silent for a long time.

+

+Pierre could not and did not wish to break this silence.

+

+“He exists, but to understand Him is hard,” the Mason began again,

+looking not at Pierre but straight before him, and turning the leaves

+of his book with his old hands which from excitement he could not keep

+still. “If it were a man whose existence thou didst doubt I could

+bring him to thee, could take him by the hand and show him to thee. But

+how can I, an insignificant mortal, show His omnipotence, His infinity,

+and all His mercy to one who is blind, or who shuts his eyes that he may

+not see or understand Him and may not see or understand his own vileness

+and sinfulness?” He paused again. “Who art thou? Thou dreamest that

+thou art wise because thou couldst utter those blasphemous words,” he

+went on, with a somber and scornful smile. “And thou art more foolish

+and unreasonable than a little child, who, playing with the parts of a

+skillfully made watch, dares to say that, as he does not understand

+its use, he does not believe in the master who made it. To know Him is

+hard.... For ages, from our forefather Adam to our own day, we labor to

+attain that knowledge and are still infinitely far from our aim; but

+in our lack of understanding we see only our weakness and His

+greatness....”

+

+Pierre listened with swelling heart, gazing into the Mason’s face with

+shining eyes, not interrupting or questioning him, but believing with

+his whole soul what the stranger said. Whether he accepted the wise

+reasoning contained in the Mason’s words, or believed as a child

+believes, in the speaker’s tone of conviction and earnestness, or

+the tremor of the speaker’s voice—which sometimes almost broke—or

+those brilliant aged eyes grown old in this conviction, or the calm

+firmness and certainty of his vocation, which radiated from his whole

+being (and which struck Pierre especially by contrast with his own

+dejection and hopelessness)—at any rate, Pierre longed with his whole

+soul to believe and he did believe, and felt a joyful sense of comfort,

+regeneration, and return to life.

+

+“He is not to be apprehended by reason, but by life,” said the

+Mason.

+

+“I do not understand,” said Pierre, feeling with dismay doubts

+reawakening. He was afraid of any want of clearness, any weakness, in

+the Mason’s arguments; he dreaded not to be able to believe in him.

+“I don’t understand,” he said, “how it is that the mind of man

+cannot attain the knowledge of which you speak.”

+

+The Mason smiled with his gentle fatherly smile.

+

+“The highest wisdom and truth are like the purest liquid we may wish

+to imbibe,” he said. “Can I receive that pure liquid into an impure

+vessel and judge of its purity? Only by the inner purification of myself

+can I retain in some degree of purity the liquid I receive.”

+

+“Yes, yes, that is so,” said Pierre joyfully.

+

+“The highest wisdom is not founded on reason alone, not on those

+worldly sciences of physics, history, chemistry, and the like, into

+which intellectual knowledge is divided. The highest wisdom is one.

+The highest wisdom has but one science—the science of the whole—the

+science explaining the whole creation and man’s place in it. To

+receive that science it is necessary to purify and renew one’s inner

+self, and so before one can know, it is necessary to believe and to

+perfect one’s self. And to attain this end, we have the light called

+conscience that God has implanted in our souls.”

+

+“Yes, yes,” assented Pierre.

+

+“Look then at thy inner self with the eyes of the spirit, and ask

+thyself whether thou art content with thyself. What hast thou attained

+relying on reason only? What art thou? You are young, you are rich, you

+are clever, you are well educated. And what have you done with all these

+good gifts? Are you content with yourself and with your life?”

+

+“No, I hate my life,” Pierre muttered, wincing.

+

+“Thou hatest it. Then change it, purify thyself; and as thou art

+purified, thou wilt gain wisdom. Look at your life, my dear sir.

+How have you spent it? In riotous orgies and debauchery, receiving

+everything from society and giving nothing in return. You have become

+the possessor of wealth. How have you used it? What have you done

+for your neighbor? Have you ever thought of your tens of thousands

+of slaves? Have you helped them physically and morally? No! You have

+profited by their toil to lead a profligate life. That is what you have

+done. Have you chosen a post in which you might be of service to your

+neighbor? No! You have spent your life in idleness. Then you married, my

+dear sir—took on yourself responsibility for the guidance of a young

+woman; and what have you done? You have not helped her to find the way

+of truth, my dear sir, but have thrust her into an abyss of deceit and

+misery. A man offended you and you shot him, and you say you do not

+know God and hate your life. There is nothing strange in that, my dear

+sir!”

+

+After these words, the Mason, as if tired by his long discourse, again

+leaned his arms on the back of the sofa and closed his eyes. Pierre

+looked at that aged, stern, motionless, almost lifeless face and moved

+his lips without uttering a sound. He wished to say, “Yes, a vile,

+idle, vicious life!” but dared not break the silence.

+

+The Mason cleared his throat huskily, as old men do, and called his

+servant.

+

+“How about the horses?” he asked, without looking at Pierre.

+

+“The exchange horses have just come,” answered the servant. “Will

+you not rest here?”

+

+“No, tell them to harness.”

+

+“Can he really be going away leaving me alone without having told me

+all, and without promising to help me?” thought Pierre, rising with

+downcast head; and he began to pace the room, glancing occasionally at

+the Mason. “Yes, I never thought of it, but I have led a contemptible

+and profligate life, though I did not like it and did not want to,”

+thought Pierre. “But this man knows the truth and, if he wished to,

+could disclose it to me.”

+

+Pierre wished to say this to the Mason, but did not dare to. The

+traveler, having packed his things with his practiced hands, began

+fastening his coat. When he had finished, he turned to Bezúkhov, and

+said in a tone of indifferent politeness:

+

+“Where are you going to now, my dear sir?”

+

+“I?... I’m going to Petersburg,” answered Pierre, in a childlike,

+hesitating voice. “I thank you. I agree with all you have said. But

+do not suppose me to be so bad. With my whole soul I wish to be what you

+would have me be, but I have never had help from anyone.... But it is

+I, above all, who am to blame for everything. Help me, teach me, and

+perhaps I may...”

+

+Pierre could not go on. He gulped and turned away.

+

+The Mason remained silent for a long time, evidently considering.

+

+“Help comes from God alone,” he said, “but such measure of help as

+our Order can bestow it will render you, my dear sir. You are going to

+Petersburg. Hand this to Count Willarski” (he took out his notebook

+and wrote a few words on a large sheet of paper folded in four).

+“Allow me to give you a piece of advice. When you reach the capital,

+first of all devote some time to solitude and self-examination and do

+not resume your former way of life. And now I wish you a good journey,

+my dear sir,” he added, seeing that his servant had entered... “and

+success.”

+

+The traveler was Joseph Alexéevich Bazdéev, as Pierre saw from the

+postmaster’s book. Bazdéev had been one of the best-known Freemasons

+and Martinists, even in Novíkov’s time. For a long while after he had

+gone, Pierre did not go to bed or order horses but paced up and down

+the room, pondering over his vicious past, and with a rapturous sense

+of beginning anew pictured to himself the blissful, irreproachable,

+virtuous future that seemed to him so easy. It seemed to him that he had

+been vicious only because he had somehow forgotten how good it is to

+be virtuous. Not a trace of his former doubts remained in his soul. He

+firmly believed in the possibility of the brotherhood of men united in

+the aim of supporting one another in the path of virtue, and that is how

+Freemasonry presented itself to him.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER III

+

+On reaching Petersburg Pierre did not let anyone know of his arrival,

+he went nowhere and spent whole days in reading Thomas à Kempis, whose

+book had been sent him by someone unknown. One thing he continually

+realized as he read that book: the joy, hitherto unknown to him,

+of believing in the possibility of attaining perfection, and in the

+possibility of active brotherly love among men, which Joseph Alexéevich

+had revealed to him. A week after his arrival, the young Polish count,

+Willarski, whom Pierre had known slightly in Petersburg society, came

+into his room one evening in the official and ceremonious manner in

+which Dólokhov’s second had called on him, and, having closed the

+door behind him and satisfied himself that there was nobody else in the

+room, addressed Pierre.

+

+“I have come to you with a message and an offer, Count,” he

+said without sitting down. “A person of very high standing in our

+Brotherhood has made application for you to be received into our Order

+before the usual term and has proposed to me to be your sponsor. I

+consider it a sacred duty to fulfill that person’s wishes. Do you wish

+to enter the Brotherhood of Freemasons under my sponsorship?”

+

+The cold, austere tone of this man, whom he had almost always before met

+at balls, amiably smiling in the society of the most brilliant women,

+surprised Pierre.

+

+“Yes, I do wish it,” said he.

+

+Willarski bowed his head.

+

+“One more question, Count,” he said, “which I beg you to answer

+in all sincerity—not as a future Mason but as an honest man: have you

+renounced your former convictions—do you believe in God?”

+

+Pierre considered.

+

+“Yes... yes, I believe in God,” he said.

+

+“In that case...” began Willarski, but Pierre interrupted him.

+

+“Yes, I do believe in God,” he repeated.

+

+“In that case we can go,” said Willarski. “My carriage is at your

+service.”

+

+Willarski was silent throughout the drive. To Pierre’s inquiries as

+to what he must do and how he should answer, Willarski only replied that

+brothers more worthy than he would test him and that Pierre had only to

+tell the truth.

+

+Having entered the courtyard of a large house where the Lodge had its

+headquarters, and having ascended a dark staircase, they entered a small

+well-lit anteroom where they took off their cloaks without the aid of

+a servant. From there they passed into another room. A man in strange

+attire appeared at the door. Willarski, stepping toward him, said

+something to him in French in an undertone and then went up to a small

+wardrobe in which Pierre noticed garments such as he had never seen

+before. Having taken a kerchief from the cupboard, Willarski bound

+Pierre’s eyes with it and tied it in a knot behind, catching some

+hairs painfully in the knot. Then he drew his face down, kissed him, and

+taking him by the hand led him forward. The hairs tied in the knot hurt

+Pierre and there were lines of pain on his face and a shamefaced smile.

+His huge figure, with arms hanging down and with a puckered, though

+smiling face, moved after Willarski with uncertain, timid steps.

+

+Having led him about ten paces, Willarski stopped.

+

+“Whatever happens to you,” he said, “you must bear it all manfully

+if you have firmly resolved to join our Brotherhood.” (Pierre nodded

+affirmatively.) “When you hear a knock at the door, you will uncover

+your eyes,” added Willarski. “I wish you courage and success,”

+and, pressing Pierre’s hand, he went out.

+

+Left alone, Pierre went on smiling in the same way. Once or twice

+he shrugged his shoulders and raised his hand to the kerchief, as if

+wishing to take it off, but let it drop again. The five minutes spent

+with his eyes bandaged seemed to him an hour. His arms felt numb,

+his legs almost gave way, it seemed to him that he was tired out. He

+experienced a variety of most complex sensations. He felt afraid of what

+would happen to him and still more afraid of showing his fear. He felt

+curious to know what was going to happen and what would be revealed to

+him; but most of all, he felt joyful that the moment had come when he

+would at last start on that path of regeneration and on the actively

+virtuous life of which he had been dreaming since he met Joseph

+Alexéevich. Loud knocks were heard at the door. Pierre took the bandage

+off his eyes and glanced around him. The room was in black darkness,

+only a small lamp was burning inside something white. Pierre went nearer

+and saw that the lamp stood on a black table on which lay an open book.

+The book was the Gospel, and the white thing with the lamp inside was a

+human skull with its cavities and teeth. After reading the first words

+of the Gospel: “In the beginning was the Word and the Word was with

+God,” Pierre went round the table and saw a large open box filled

+with something. It was a coffin with bones inside. He was not at all

+surprised by what he saw. Hoping to enter on an entirely new life quite

+unlike the old one, he expected everything to be unusual, even more

+unusual than what he was seeing. A skull, a coffin, the Gospel—it

+seemed to him that he had expected all this and even more. Trying

+to stimulate his emotions he looked around. “God, death, love, the

+brotherhood of man,” he kept saying to himself, associating these

+words with vague yet joyful ideas. The door opened and someone came in.

+

+By the dim light, to which Pierre had already become accustomed, he

+saw a rather short man. Having evidently come from the light into the

+darkness, the man paused, then moved with cautious steps toward the

+table and placed on it his small leather-gloved hands.

+

+This short man had on a white leather apron which covered his chest and

+part of his legs; he had on a kind of necklace above which rose a high

+white ruffle, outlining his rather long face which was lit up from

+below.

+

+“For what have you come hither?” asked the newcomer, turning in

+Pierre’s direction at a slight rustle made by the latter. “Why have

+you, who do not believe in the truth of the light and who have not

+seen the light, come here? What do you seek from us? Wisdom, virtue,

+enlightenment?”

+

+At the moment the door opened and the stranger came in, Pierre felt a

+sense of awe and veneration such as he had experienced in his boyhood at

+confession; he felt himself in the presence of one socially a complete

+stranger, yet nearer to him through the brotherhood of man. With bated

+breath and beating heart he moved toward the Rhetor (by which name the

+brother who prepared a seeker for entrance into the Brotherhood was

+known). Drawing nearer, he recognized in the Rhetor a man he knew,

+Smolyanínov, and it mortified him to think that the newcomer was an

+acquaintance—he wished him simply a brother and a virtuous instructor.

+For a long time he could not utter a word, so that the Rhetor had to

+repeat his question.

+

+“Yes... I... I... desire regeneration,” Pierre uttered with

+difficulty.

+

+“Very well,” said Smolyanínov, and went on at once: “Have you any

+idea of the means by which our holy Order will help you to reach your

+aim?” said he quietly and quickly.

+

+“I... hope... for guidance... help... in regeneration,” said Pierre,

+with a trembling voice and some difficulty in utterance due to his

+excitement and to being unaccustomed to speak of abstract matters in

+Russian.

+

+“What is your conception of Freemasonry?”

+

+“I imagine that Freemasonry is the fraternity and equality of men who

+have virtuous aims,” said Pierre, feeling ashamed of the inadequacy

+of his words for the solemnity of the moment, as he spoke. “I

+imagine...”

+

+“Good!” said the Rhetor quickly, apparently satisfied with

+this answer. “Have you sought for means of attaining your aim in

+religion?”

+

+“No, I considered it erroneous and did not follow it,” said Pierre,

+so softly that the Rhetor did not hear him and asked him what he was

+saying. “I have been an atheist,” answered Pierre.

+

+“You are seeking for truth in order to follow its laws in your life,

+therefore you seek wisdom and virtue. Is that not so?” said the

+Rhetor, after a moment’s pause.

+

+“Yes, yes,” assented Pierre.

+

+The Rhetor cleared his throat, crossed his gloved hands on his breast,

+and began to speak.

+

+“Now I must disclose to you the chief aim of our Order,” he said,

+“and if this aim coincides with yours, you may enter our Brotherhood

+with profit. The first and chief object of our Order, the foundation on

+which it rests and which no human power can destroy, is the preservation

+and handing on to posterity of a certain important mystery... which

+has come down to us from the remotest ages, even from the first man—a

+mystery on which perhaps the fate of mankind depends. But since this

+mystery is of such a nature that nobody can know or use it unless he be

+prepared by long and diligent self-purification, not everyone can hope

+to attain it quickly. Hence we have a secondary aim, that of preparing

+our members as much as possible to reform their hearts, to purify and

+enlighten their minds, by means handed on to us by tradition from those

+who have striven to attain this mystery, and thereby to render them

+capable of receiving it.

+

+“By purifying and regenerating our members we try, thirdly, to improve

+the whole human race, offering it in our members an example of piety

+and virtue, and thereby try with all our might to combat the evil which

+sways the world. Think this over and I will come to you again.”

+

+“To combat the evil which sways the world...” Pierre repeated, and a

+mental image of his future activity in this direction rose in his mind.

+He imagined men such as he had himself been a fortnight ago, and he

+addressed an edifying exhortation to them. He imagined to himself

+vicious and unfortunate people whom he would assist by word and deed,

+imagined oppressors whose victims he would rescue. Of the three

+objects mentioned by the Rhetor, this last, that of improving mankind,

+especially appealed to Pierre. The important mystery mentioned by the

+Rhetor, though it aroused his curiosity, did not seem to him essential,

+and the second aim, that of purifying and regenerating himself, did not

+much interest him because at that moment he felt with delight that he

+was already perfectly cured of his former faults and was ready for all

+that was good.

+

+Half an hour later, the Rhetor returned to inform the seeker of the

+seven virtues, corresponding to the seven steps of Solomon’s temple,

+which every Freemason should cultivate in himself. These virtues were:

+1. Discretion, the keeping of the secrets of the Order. 2. Obedience to

+those of higher ranks in the Order. 3. Morality. 4. Love of mankind. 5.

+Courage. 6. Generosity. 7. The love of death.

+

+“In the seventh place, try, by the frequent thought of death,” the

+Rhetor said, “to bring yourself to regard it not as a dreaded foe, but

+as a friend that frees the soul grown weary in the labors of virtue

+from this distressful life, and leads it to its place of recompense and

+peace.”

+

+“Yes, that must be so,” thought Pierre, when after these words the

+Rhetor went away, leaving him to solitary meditation. “It must be so,

+but I am still so weak that I love my life, the meaning of which is only

+now gradually opening before me.” But five of the other virtues which

+Pierre recalled, counting them on his fingers, he felt already in his

+soul: courage, generosity, morality, love of mankind, and especially

+obedience—which did not even seem to him a virtue, but a joy. (He now

+felt so glad to be free from his own lawlessness and to submit his will

+to those who knew the indubitable truth.) He forgot what the seventh

+virtue was and could not recall it.

+

+The third time the Rhetor came back more quickly and asked Pierre

+whether he was still firm in his intention and determined to submit to

+all that would be required of him.

+

+“I am ready for everything,” said Pierre.

+

+“I must also inform you,” said the Rhetor, “that our Order

+delivers its teaching not in words only but also by other means, which

+may perhaps have a stronger effect on the sincere seeker after wisdom

+and virtue than mere words. This chamber with what you see therein

+should already have suggested to your heart, if it is sincere, more than

+words could do. You will perhaps also see in your further initiation a

+like method of enlightenment. Our Order imitates the ancient societies

+that explained their teaching by hieroglyphics. A hieroglyph,” said

+the Rhetor, “is an emblem of something not cognizable by the senses

+but which possesses qualities resembling those of the symbol.”

+

+Pierre knew very well what a hieroglyph was, but dared not speak. He

+listened to the Rhetor in silence, feeling from all he said that his

+ordeal was about to begin.

+

+“If you are resolved, I must begin your initiation,” said the Rhetor

+coming closer to Pierre. “In token of generosity I ask you to give me

+all your valuables.”

+

+“But I have nothing here,” replied Pierre, supposing that he was

+asked to give up all he possessed.

+

+“What you have with you: watch, money, rings....”

+

+Pierre quickly took out his purse and watch, but could not manage for

+some time to get the wedding ring off his fat finger. When that had been

+done, the Rhetor said:

+

+“In token of obedience, I ask you to undress.”

+

+Pierre took off his coat, waistcoat, and left boot according to the

+Rhetor’s instructions. The Mason drew the shirt back from Pierre’s

+left breast, and stooping down pulled up the left leg of his trousers

+to above the knee. Pierre hurriedly began taking off his right boot also

+and was going to tuck up the other trouser leg to save this stranger the

+trouble, but the Mason told him that was not necessary and gave him

+a slipper for his left foot. With a childlike smile of embarrassment,

+doubt, and self-derision, which appeared on his face against his will,

+Pierre stood with his arms hanging down and legs apart, before his

+brother Rhetor, and awaited his further commands.

+

+“And now, in token of candor, I ask you to reveal to me your chief

+passion,” said the latter.

+

+“My passion! I have had so many,” replied Pierre.

+

+“That passion which more than all others caused you to waver on the

+path of virtue,” said the Mason.

+

+Pierre paused, seeking a reply.

+

+“Wine? Gluttony? Idleness? Laziness? Irritability? Anger? Women?”

+He went over his vices in his mind, not knowing to which of them to give

+the pre-eminence.

+

+“Women,” he said in a low, scarcely audible voice.

+

+The Mason did not move and for a long time said nothing after this

+answer. At last he moved up to Pierre and, taking the kerchief that lay

+on the table, again bound his eyes.

+

+“For the last time I say to you—turn all your attention upon

+yourself, put a bridle on your senses, and seek blessedness, not in

+passion but in your own heart. The source of blessedness is not without

+us but within....”

+

+Pierre had already long been feeling in himself that refreshing source

+of blessedness which now flooded his heart with glad emotion.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER IV

+

+Soon after this there came into the dark chamber to fetch Pierre, not

+the Rhetor but Pierre’s sponsor, Willarski, whom he recognized by his

+voice. To fresh questions as to the firmness of his resolution Pierre

+replied: “Yes, yes, I agree,” and with a beaming, childlike smile,

+his fat chest uncovered, stepping unevenly and timidly in one slippered

+and one booted foot, he advanced, while Willarski held a sword to his

+bare chest. He was conducted from that room along passages that turned

+backwards and forwards and was at last brought to the doors of the

+Lodge. Willarski coughed, he was answered by the Masonic knock with

+mallets, the doors opened before them. A bass voice (Pierre was still

+blindfolded) questioned him as to who he was, when and where he was

+born, and so on. Then he was again led somewhere still blindfolded,

+and as they went along he was told allegories of the toils of his

+pilgrimage, of holy friendship, of the Eternal Architect of the

+universe, and of the courage with which he should endure toils and

+dangers. During these wanderings, Pierre noticed that he was spoken

+of now as the “Seeker,” now as the “Sufferer,” and now as the

+“Postulant,” to the accompaniment of various knockings with

+mallets and swords. As he was being led up to some object he noticed a

+hesitation and uncertainty among his conductors. He heard those around

+him disputing in whispers and one of them insisting that he should be

+led along a certain carpet. After that they took his right hand, placed

+it on something, and told him to hold a pair of compasses to his left

+breast with the other hand and to repeat after someone who read aloud

+an oath of fidelity to the laws of the Order. The candles were then

+extinguished and some spirit lighted, as Pierre knew by the smell, and

+he was told that he would now see the lesser light. The bandage was

+taken off his eyes and, by the faint light of the burning spirit,

+Pierre, as in a dream, saw several men standing before him, wearing

+aprons like the Rhetor’s and holding swords in their hands pointed at

+his breast. Among them stood a man whose white shirt was stained with

+blood. On seeing this, Pierre moved forward with his breast toward the

+swords, meaning them to pierce it. But the swords were drawn back from

+him and he was at once blindfolded again.

+

+“Now thou hast seen the lesser light,” uttered a voice. Then the

+candles were relit and he was told that he would see the full light; the

+bandage was again removed and more than ten voices said together: “Sic

+transit gloria mundi.”

+

+Pierre gradually began to recover himself and looked about at the room

+and at the people in it. Round a long table covered with black sat some

+twelve men in garments like those he had already seen. Some of them

+Pierre had met in Petersburg society. In the President’s chair sat a

+young man he did not know, with a peculiar cross hanging from his

+neck. On his right sat the Italian abbé whom Pierre had met at

+Anna Pávlovna’s two years before. There were also present a very

+distinguished dignitary and a Swiss who had formerly been tutor at the

+Kurágins’. All maintained a solemn silence, listening to the words

+of the President, who held a mallet in his hand. Let into the wall was

+a star-shaped light. At one side of the table was a small carpet with

+various figures worked upon it, at the other was something resembling an

+altar on which lay a Testament and a skull. Round it stood seven large

+candlesticks like those used in churches. Two of the brothers led Pierre

+up to the altar, placed his feet at right angles, and bade him lie down,

+saying that he must prostrate himself at the Gates of the Temple.

+

+“He must first receive the trowel,” whispered one of the brothers.

+

+“Oh, hush, please!” said another.

+

+Pierre, perplexed, looked round with his shortsighted eyes without

+obeying, and suddenly doubts arose in his mind. “Where am I? What am

+I doing? Aren’t they laughing at me? Shan’t I be ashamed to remember

+this?” But these doubts only lasted a moment. Pierre glanced at

+the serious faces of those around, remembered all he had already gone

+through, and realized that he could not stop halfway. He was aghast

+at his hesitation and, trying to arouse his former devotional feeling,

+prostrated himself before the Gates of the Temple. And really, the

+feeling of devotion returned to him even more strongly than before. When

+he had lain there some time, he was told to get up, and a white leather

+apron, such as the others wore, was put on him: he was given a trowel

+and three pairs of gloves, and then the Grand Master addressed him. He

+told him that he should try to do nothing to stain the whiteness of that

+apron, which symbolized strength and purity; then of the unexplained

+trowel, he told him to toil with it to cleanse his own heart from vice,

+and indulgently to smooth with it the heart of his neighbor. As to the

+first pair of gloves, a man’s, he said that Pierre could not know

+their meaning but must keep them. The second pair of man’s gloves

+he was to wear at the meetings, and finally of the third, a pair of

+women’s gloves, he said: “Dear brother, these woman’s gloves are

+intended for you too. Give them to the woman whom you shall honor most

+of all. This gift will be a pledge of your purity of heart to her whom

+you select to be your worthy helpmeet in Masonry.” And after a pause,

+he added: “But beware, dear brother, that these gloves do not deck

+hands that are unclean.” While the Grand Master said these last words

+it seemed to Pierre that he grew embarrassed. Pierre himself grew still

+more confused, blushed like a child till tears came to his eyes, began

+looking about him uneasily, and an awkward pause followed.

+

+This silence was broken by one of the brethren, who led Pierre up to the

+rug and began reading to him from a manuscript book an explanation of

+all the figures on it: the sun, the moon, a hammer, a plumb line, a

+trowel, a rough stone and a squared stone, a pillar, three windows, and

+so on. Then a place was assigned to Pierre, he was shown the signs of

+the Lodge, told the password, and at last was permitted to sit down.

+The Grand Master began reading the statutes. They were very long, and

+Pierre, from joy, agitation, and embarrassment, was not in a state to

+understand what was being read. He managed to follow only the last words

+of the statutes and these remained in his mind.

+

+“In our temples we recognize no other distinctions,” read the Grand

+Master, “but those between virtue and vice. Beware of making any

+distinctions which may infringe equality. Fly to a brother’s aid

+whoever he may be, exhort him who goeth astray, raise him that falleth,

+never bear malice or enmity toward thy brother. Be kindly and courteous.

+Kindle in all hearts the flame of virtue. Share thy happiness with thy

+neighbor, and may envy never dim the purity of that bliss. Forgive thy

+enemy, do not avenge thyself except by doing him good. Thus fulfilling

+the highest law thou shalt regain traces of the ancient dignity which

+thou hast lost.”

+

+He finished and, getting up, embraced and kissed Pierre, who, with tears

+of joy in his eyes, looked round him, not knowing how to answer the

+congratulations and greetings from acquaintances that met him on all

+sides. He acknowledged no acquaintances but saw in all these men only

+brothers, and burned with impatience to set to work with them.

+

+The Grand Master rapped with his mallet. All the Masons sat down in

+their places, and one of them read an exhortation on the necessity of

+humility.

+

+The Grand Master proposed that the last duty should be performed,

+and the distinguished dignitary who bore the title of “Collector

+of Alms” went round to all the brothers. Pierre would have liked

+to subscribe all he had, but fearing that it might look like pride

+subscribed the same amount as the others.

+

+The meeting was at an end, and on reaching home Pierre felt as if he had

+returned from a long journey on which he had spent dozens of years, had

+become completely changed, and had quite left behind his former habits

+and way of life.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER V

+

+The day after he had been received into the Lodge, Pierre was sitting at

+home reading a book and trying to fathom the significance of the Square,

+one side of which symbolized God, another moral things, a third

+physical things, and the fourth a combination of these. Now and then

+his attention wandered from the book and the Square and he formed in

+imagination a new plan of life. On the previous evening at the Lodge, he

+had heard that a rumor of his duel had reached the Emperor and that it

+would be wiser for him to leave Petersburg. Pierre proposed going to his

+estates in the south and there attending to the welfare of his serfs.

+He was joyfully planning this new life, when Prince Vasíli suddenly

+entered the room.

+

+“My dear fellow, what have you been up to in Moscow? Why have you

+quarreled with Hélène, mon cher? You are under a delusion,” said

+Prince Vasíli, as he entered. “I know all about it, and I can tell

+you positively that Hélène is as innocent before you as Christ was

+before the Jews.”

+

+Pierre was about to reply, but Prince Vasíli interrupted him.

+

+“And why didn’t you simply come straight to me as to a friend? I

+know all about it and understand it all,” he said. “You behaved as

+becomes a man who values his honor, perhaps too hastily, but we won’t

+go into that. But consider the position in which you are placing her and

+me in the eyes of society, and even of the court,” he added, lowering

+his voice. “She is living in Moscow and you are here. Remember,

+dear boy,” and he drew Pierre’s arm downwards, “it is simply a

+misunderstanding. I expect you feel it so yourself. Let us write her

+a letter at once, and she’ll come here and all will be explained, or

+else, my dear boy, let me tell you it’s quite likely you’ll have to

+suffer for it.”

+

+Prince Vasíli gave Pierre a significant look.

+

+“I know from reliable sources that the Dowager Empress is taking a

+keen interest in the whole affair. You know she is very gracious to

+Hélène.”

+

+Pierre tried several times to speak, but, on one hand, Prince Vasíli

+did not let him and, on the other, Pierre himself feared to begin to

+speak in the tone of decided refusal and disagreement in which he had

+firmly resolved to answer his father-in-law. Moreover, the words of the

+Masonic statutes, “be kindly and courteous,” recurred to him. He

+blinked, went red, got up and sat down again, struggling with himself

+to do what was for him the most difficult thing in life—to say an

+unpleasant thing to a man’s face, to say what the other, whoever

+he might be, did not expect. He was so used to submitting to Prince

+Vasíli’s tone of careless self-assurance that he felt he would be

+unable to withstand it now, but he also felt that on what he said now

+his future depended—whether he would follow the same old road, or that

+new path so attractively shown him by the Masons, on which he firmly

+believed he would be reborn to a new life.

+

+“Now, dear boy,” said Prince Vasíli playfully, “say ‘yes,’

+and I’ll write to her myself, and we will kill the fatted calf.”

+

+But before Prince Vasíli had finished his playful speech, Pierre,

+without looking at him, and with a kind of fury that made him like his

+father, muttered in a whisper:

+

+“Prince, I did not ask you here. Go, please go!” And he jumped up

+and opened the door for him.

+

+“Go!” he repeated, amazed at himself and glad to see the look of

+confusion and fear that showed itself on Prince Vasíli’s face.

+

+“What’s the matter with you? Are you ill?”

+

+“Go!” the quivering voice repeated. And Prince Vasíli had to go

+without receiving any explanation.

+

+A week later, Pierre, having taken leave of his new friends, the Masons,

+and leaving large sums of money with them for alms, went away to his

+estates. His new brethren gave him letters to the Kiev and Odessa Masons

+and promised to write to him and guide him in his new activity.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER VI

+

+The duel between Pierre and Dólokhov was hushed up and, in spite of

+the Emperor’s severity regarding duels at that time, neither the

+principals nor their seconds suffered for it. But the story of the duel,

+confirmed by Pierre’s rupture with his wife, was the talk of society.

+Pierre who had been regarded with patronizing condescension when he was

+an illegitimate son, and petted and extolled when he was the best

+match in Russia, had sunk greatly in the esteem of society after his

+marriage—when the marriageable daughters and their mothers had nothing

+to hope from him—especially as he did not know how, and did not

+wish, to court society’s favor. Now he alone was blamed for what had

+happened, he was said to be insanely jealous and subject like his

+father to fits of bloodthirsty rage. And when after Pierre’s

+departure Hélène returned to Petersburg, she was received by all her

+acquaintances not only cordially, but even with a shade of deference

+due to her misfortune. When conversation turned on her husband Hélène

+assumed a dignified expression, which with characteristic tact she had

+acquired though she did not understand its significance. This expression

+suggested that she had resolved to endure her troubles uncomplainingly

+and that her husband was a cross laid upon her by God. Prince Vasíli

+expressed his opinion more openly. He shrugged his shoulders when Pierre

+was mentioned and, pointing to his forehead, remarked:

+

+“A bit touched—I always said so.”

+

+“I said from the first,” declared Anna Pávlovna referring to

+Pierre, “I said at the time and before anyone else” (she insisted

+on her priority) “that that senseless young man was spoiled by the

+depraved ideas of these days. I said so even at the time when everybody

+was in raptures about him, when he had just returned from abroad, and

+when, if you remember, he posed as a sort of Marat at one of my soirees.

+And how has it ended? I was against this marriage even then and foretold

+all that has happened.”

+

+Anna Pávlovna continued to give on free evenings the same kind of

+soirees as before—such as she alone had the gift of arranging—at

+which was to be found “the cream of really good society, the bloom

+of the intellectual essence of Petersburg,” as she herself put it.

+Besides this refined selection of society Anna Pávlovna’s receptions

+were also distinguished by the fact that she always presented some new

+and interesting person to the visitors and that nowhere else was the

+state of the political thermometer of legitimate Petersburg court

+society so dearly and distinctly indicated.

+

+Toward the end of 1806, when all the sad details of Napoleon’s

+destruction of the Prussian army at Jena and Auerstädt and the

+surrender of most of the Prussian fortresses had been received, when our

+troops had already entered Prussia and our second war with Napoleon

+was beginning, Anna Pávlovna gave one of her soirees. The “cream of

+really good society” consisted of the fascinating Hélène, forsaken

+by her husband, Mortemart, the delightful Prince Hippolyte who had

+just returned from Vienna, two diplomatists, the old aunt, a young man

+referred to in that drawing room as “a man of great merit” (un homme

+de beaucoup de mérite), a newly appointed maid of honor and her mother,

+and several other less noteworthy persons.

+

+The novelty Anna Pávlovna was setting before her guests that evening

+was Borís Drubetskóy, who had just arrived as a special messenger from

+the Prussian army and was aide-de-camp to a very important personage.

+

+The temperature shown by the political thermometer to the company that

+evening was this:

+

+“Whatever the European sovereigns and commanders may do to

+countenance Bonaparte, and to cause me, and us in general, annoyance and

+mortification, our opinion of Bonaparte cannot alter. We shall not cease

+to express our sincere views on that subject, and can only say to the

+King of Prussia and others: ‘So much the worse for you. Tu l’as

+voulu, George Dandin,’ that’s all we have to say about it!”

+

+When Borís, who was to be served up to the guests, entered the drawing

+room, almost all the company had assembled, and the conversation, guided

+by Anna Pávlovna, was about our diplomatic relations with Austria and

+the hope of an alliance with her.

+

+Borís, grown more manly and looking fresh, rosy and self-possessed,

+entered the drawing room elegantly dressed in the uniform of an

+aide-de-camp and was duly conducted to pay his respects to the aunt and

+then brought back to the general circle.

+

+Anna Pávlovna gave him her shriveled hand to kiss and introduced him to

+several persons whom he did not know, giving him a whispered description

+of each.

+

+“Prince Hippolyte Kurágin—charming young fellow; M.

+Kronq,—chargé d’affaires from Copenhagen—a profound intellect,”

+and simply, “Mr. Shítov—a man of great merit”—this of the man

+usually so described.

+

+Thanks to Anna Mikháylovna’s efforts, his own tastes, and the

+peculiarities of his reserved nature, Borís had managed during his

+service to place himself very advantageously. He was aide-de-camp to a

+very important personage, had been sent on a very important mission to

+Prussia, and had just returned from there as a special messenger. He had

+become thoroughly conversant with that unwritten code with which he had

+been so pleased at Olmütz and according to which an ensign might rank

+incomparably higher than a general, and according to which what was

+needed for success in the service was not effort or work, or courage, or

+perseverance, but only the knowledge of how to get on with those who can

+grant rewards, and he was himself often surprised at the rapidity of his

+success and at the inability of others to understand these things.

+In consequence of this discovery his whole manner of life, all

+his relations with old friends, all his plans for his future, were

+completely altered. He was not rich, but would spend his last groat to

+be better dressed than others, and would rather deprive himself of many

+pleasures than allow himself to be seen in a shabby equipage or appear

+in the streets of Petersburg in an old uniform. He made friends with

+and sought the acquaintance of only those above him in position and

+who could therefore be of use to him. He liked Petersburg and despised

+Moscow. The remembrance of the Rostóvs’ house and of his childish

+love for Natásha was unpleasant to him and he had not once been to see

+the Rostóvs since the day of his departure for the army. To be in Anna

+Pávlovna’s drawing room he considered an important step up in the

+service, and he at once understood his role, letting his hostess make

+use of whatever interest he had to offer. He himself carefully scanned

+each face, appraising the possibilities of establishing intimacy with

+each of those present, and the advantages that might accrue. He took

+the seat indicated to him beside the fair Hélène and listened to the

+general conversation.

+

+“Vienna considers the bases of the proposed treaty so unattainable

+that not even a continuity of most brilliant successes would secure

+them, and she doubts the means we have of gaining them. That is the

+actual phrase used by the Vienna cabinet,” said the Danish chargé

+d’affaires.

+

+“The doubt is flattering,” said “the man of profound intellect,”

+with a subtle smile.

+

+“We must distinguish between the Vienna cabinet and the Emperor of

+Austria,” said Mortemart. “The Emperor of Austria can never have

+thought of such a thing, it is only the cabinet that says it.”

+

+“Ah, my dear vicomte,” put in Anna Pávlovna, “L’Urope” (for

+some reason she called it Urope as if that were a specially refined

+French pronunciation which she could allow herself when conversing with

+a Frenchman), “L’Urope ne sera jamais notre alliée sincère.” *

+

+    * “Europe will never be our sincere ally.”

+

+

+After that Anna Pávlovna led up to the courage and firmness of the King

+of Prussia, in order to draw Borís into the conversation.

+

+Borís listened attentively to each of the speakers, awaiting his turn,

+but managed meanwhile to look round repeatedly at his neighbor, the

+beautiful Hélène, whose eyes several times met those of the handsome

+young aide-de-camp with a smile.

+

+Speaking of the position of Prussia, Anna Pávlovna very naturally asked

+Borís to tell them about his journey to Glogau and in what state he

+found the Prussian army. Borís, speaking with deliberation, told them

+in pure, correct French many interesting details about the armies and

+the court, carefully abstaining from expressing an opinion of his

+own about the facts he was recounting. For some time he engrossed the

+general attention, and Anna Pávlovna felt that the novelty she had

+served up was received with pleasure by all her visitors. The greatest

+attention of all to Borís’ narrative was shown by Hélène. She asked

+him several questions about his journey and seemed greatly interested in

+the state of the Prussian army. As soon as he had finished she turned to

+him with her usual smile.

+

+“You absolutely must come and see me,” she said in a tone that

+implied that, for certain considerations he could not know of, this was

+absolutely necessary.

+

+“On Tuesday between eight and nine. It will give me great pleasure.”

+

+Borís promised to fulfill her wish and was about to begin a

+conversation with her, when Anna Pávlovna called him away on the

+pretext that her aunt wished to hear him.

+

+“You know her husband, of course?” said Anna Pávlovna, closing her

+eyes and indicating Hélène with a sorrowful gesture. “Ah, she is

+such an unfortunate and charming woman! Don’t mention him before

+her—please don’t! It is too painful for her!”

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER VII

+

+When Borís and Anna Pávlovna returned to the others Prince Hippolyte

+had the ear of the company.

+

+Bending forward in his armchair he said: “Le Roi de Prusse!” and

+having said this laughed. Everyone turned toward him.

+

+“Le Roi de Prusse?” Hippolyte said interrogatively, again laughing,

+and then calmly and seriously sat back in his chair. Anna Pávlovna

+waited for him to go on, but as he seemed quite decided to say no more

+she began to tell of how at Potsdam the impious Bonaparte had stolen the

+sword of Frederick the Great.

+

+“It is the sword of Frederick the Great which I...” she began, but

+Hippolyte interrupted her with the words: “Le Roi de Prusse...” and

+again, as soon as all turned toward him, excused himself and said no

+more.

+

+Anna Pávlovna frowned. Mortemart, Hippolyte’s friend, addressed him

+firmly.

+

+“Come now, what about your Roi de Prusse?”

+

+Hippolyte laughed as if ashamed of laughing.

+

+“Oh, it’s nothing. I only wished to say...” (he wanted to repeat

+a joke he had heard in Vienna and which he had been trying all that

+evening to get in) “I only wished to say that we are wrong to fight

+pour le Roi de Prusse!”

+

+Borís smiled circumspectly, so that it might be taken as ironical

+or appreciative according to the way the joke was received. Everybody

+laughed.

+

+“Your joke is too bad, it’s witty but unjust,” said Anna

+Pávlovna, shaking her little shriveled finger at him.

+

+“We are not fighting pour le Roi de Prusse, but for right principles.

+Oh, that wicked Prince Hippolyte!” she said.

+

+The conversation did not flag all evening and turned chiefly on the

+political news. It became particularly animated toward the end of the

+evening when the rewards bestowed by the Emperor were mentioned.

+

+“You know N— N— received a snuffbox with the portrait last

+year?” said “the man of profound intellect.” “Why shouldn’t

+S— S— get the same distinction?”

+

+“Pardon me! A snuffbox with the Emperor’s portrait is a reward but

+not a distinction,” said the diplomatist—“a gift, rather.”

+

+“There are precedents, I may mention Schwarzenberg.”

+

+“It’s impossible,” replied another.

+

+“Will you bet? The ribbon of the order is a different matter....”

+

+When everybody rose to go, Hélène who had spoken very little all

+the evening again turned to Borís, asking him in a tone of caressing

+significant command to come to her on Tuesday.

+

+“It is of great importance to me,” she said, turning with a smile

+toward Anna Pávlovna, and Anna Pávlovna, with the same sad smile with

+which she spoke of her exalted patroness, supported Hélène’s wish.

+

+It seemed as if from some words Borís had spoken that evening about the

+Prussian army, Hélène had suddenly found it necessary to see him.

+She seemed to promise to explain that necessity to him when he came on

+Tuesday.

+

+But on Tuesday evening, having come to Hélène’s splendid salon,

+Borís received no clear explanation of why it had been necessary for

+him to come. There were other guests and the countess talked little to

+him, and only as he kissed her hand on taking leave said unexpectedly

+and in a whisper, with a strangely unsmiling face: “Come to dinner

+tomorrow... in the evening. You must come.... Come!”

+

+During that stay in Petersburg, Borís became an intimate in the

+countess’ house.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER VIII

+

+The war was flaming up and nearing the Russian frontier. Everywhere one

+heard curses on Bonaparte, “the enemy of mankind.” Militiamen and

+recruits were being enrolled in the villages, and from the seat of

+war came contradictory news, false as usual and therefore variously

+interpreted. The life of old Prince Bolkónski, Prince Andrew, and

+Princess Mary had greatly changed since 1805.

+

+In 1806 the old prince was made one of the eight commanders in chief

+then appointed to supervise the enrollment decreed throughout Russia.

+Despite the weakness of age, which had become particularly noticeable

+since the time when he thought his son had been killed, he did not think

+it right to refuse a duty to which he had been appointed by the Emperor

+himself, and this fresh opportunity for action gave him new energy

+and strength. He was continually traveling through the three provinces

+entrusted to him, was pedantic in the fulfillment of his duties, severe

+to cruel with his subordinates, and went into everything down to the

+minutest details himself. Princess Mary had ceased taking lessons in

+mathematics from her father, and when the old prince was at home went

+to his study with the wet nurse and little Prince Nicholas (as his

+grandfather called him). The baby Prince Nicholas lived with his wet

+nurse and nurse Sávishna in the late princess’ rooms and Princess

+Mary spent most of the day in the nursery, taking a mother’s place to

+her little nephew as best she could. Mademoiselle Bourienne, too, seemed

+passionately fond of the boy, and Princess Mary often deprived herself

+to give her friend the pleasure of dandling the little angel—as she

+called her nephew—and playing with him.

+

+Near the altar of the church at Bald Hills there was a chapel over the

+tomb of the little princess, and in this chapel was a marble monument

+brought from Italy, representing an angel with outspread wings ready to

+fly upwards. The angel’s upper lip was slightly raised as though

+about to smile, and once on coming out of the chapel Prince Andrew and

+Princess Mary admitted to one another that the angel’s face reminded

+them strangely of the little princess. But what was still stranger,

+though of this Prince Andrew said nothing to his sister, was that in the

+expression the sculptor had happened to give the angel’s face, Prince

+Andrew read the same mild reproach he had read on the face of his dead

+wife: “Ah, why have you done this to me?”

+

+Soon after Prince Andrew’s return the old prince made over to him a

+large estate, Boguchárovo, about twenty-five miles from Bald Hills.

+Partly because of the depressing memories associated with Bald Hills,

+partly because Prince Andrew did not always feel equal to bearing with

+his father’s peculiarities, and partly because he needed solitude,

+Prince Andrew made use of Boguchárovo, began building and spent most of

+his time there.

+

+After the Austerlitz campaign Prince Andrew had firmly resolved not

+to continue his military service, and when the war recommenced

+and everybody had to serve, he took a post under his father in the

+recruitment so as to avoid active service. The old prince and his son

+seemed to have changed roles since the campaign of 1805. The old man,

+roused by activity, expected the best results from the new campaign,

+while Prince Andrew on the contrary, taking no part in the war and

+secretly regretting this, saw only the dark side.

+

+On February 26, 1807, the old prince set off on one of his circuits.

+Prince Andrew remained at Bald Hills as usual during his father’s

+absence. Little Nicholas had been unwell for four days. The coachman who

+had driven the old prince to town returned bringing papers and letters

+for Prince Andrew.

+

+Not finding the young prince in his study the valet went with the

+letters to Princess Mary’s apartments, but did not find him there. He

+was told that the prince had gone to the nursery.

+

+“If you please, your excellency, Pétrusha has brought some papers,”

+said one of the nursemaids to Prince Andrew who was sitting on a

+child’s little chair while, frowning and with trembling hands, he

+poured drops from a medicine bottle into a wineglass half full of water.

+

+“What is it?” he said crossly, and, his hand shaking

+unintentionally, he poured too many drops into the glass. He threw the

+mixture onto the floor and asked for some more water. The maid brought

+it.

+

+There were in the room a child’s cot, two boxes, two armchairs, a

+table, a child’s table, and the little chair on which Prince Andrew

+was sitting. The curtains were drawn, and a single candle was burning on

+the table, screened by a bound music book so that the light did not fall

+on the cot.

+

+“My dear,” said Princess Mary, addressing her brother from beside

+the cot where she was standing, “better wait a bit... later...”

+

+“Oh, leave off, you always talk nonsense and keep putting things

+off—and this is what comes of it!” said Prince Andrew in an

+exasperated whisper, evidently meaning to wound his sister.

+

+“My dear, really... it’s better not to wake him... he’s asleep,”

+said the princess in a tone of entreaty.

+

+Prince Andrew got up and went on tiptoe up to the little bed, wineglass

+in hand.

+

+“Perhaps we’d really better not wake him,” he said hesitating.

+

+“As you please... really... I think so... but as you please,” said

+Princess Mary, evidently intimidated and confused that her opinion

+had prevailed. She drew her brother’s attention to the maid who was

+calling him in a whisper.

+

+It was the second night that neither of them had slept, watching the boy

+who was in a high fever. These last days, mistrusting their household

+doctor and expecting another for whom they had sent to town, they had

+been trying first one remedy and then another. Worn out by sleeplessness

+and anxiety they threw their burden of sorrow on one another and

+reproached and disputed with each other.

+

+“Pétrusha has come with papers from your father,” whispered the

+maid.

+

+Prince Andrew went out.

+

+“Devil take them!” he muttered, and after listening to the verbal

+instructions his father had sent and taking the correspondence and his

+father’s letter, he returned to the nursery.

+

+“Well?” he asked.

+

+“Still the same. Wait, for heaven’s sake. Karl Ivánich always says

+that sleep is more important than anything,” whispered Princess Mary

+with a sigh.

+

+Prince Andrew went up to the child and felt him. He was burning hot.

+

+“Confound you and your Karl Ivánich!” He took the glass with the

+drops and again went up to the cot.

+

+“Andrew, don’t!” said Princess Mary.

+

+But he scowled at her angrily though also with suffering in his eyes,

+and stooped glass in hand over the infant.

+

+“But I wish it,” he said. “I beg you—give it him!”

+

+Princess Mary shrugged her shoulders but took the glass submissively

+and calling the nurse began giving the medicine. The child screamed

+hoarsely. Prince Andrew winced and, clutching his head, went out and sat

+down on a sofa in the next room.

+

+He still had all the letters in his hand. Opening them mechanically he

+began reading. The old prince, now and then using abbreviations, wrote

+in his large elongated hand on blue paper as follows:

+

+Have just this moment received by special messenger very joyful

+news—if it’s not false. Bennigsen seems to have obtained a complete

+victory over Buonaparte at Eylau. In Petersburg everyone is rejoicing,

+and the rewards sent to the army are innumerable. Though he is a

+German—I congratulate him! I can’t make out what the commander at

+Kórchevo—a certain Khandrikóv—is up to; till now the additional

+men and provisions have not arrived. Gallop off to him at once and

+say I’ll have his head off if everything is not here in a week.

+Have received another letter about the Preussisch-Eylau battle

+from Pétenka—he took part in it—and it’s all true. When

+mischief-makers don’t meddle even a German beats Buonaparte. He is

+said to be fleeing in great disorder. Mind you gallop off to Kórchevo

+without delay and carry out instructions!

+

+Prince Andrew sighed and broke the seal of another envelope. It was

+a closely written letter of two sheets from Bilíbin. He folded it up

+without reading it and reread his father’s letter, ending with the

+words: “Gallop off to Kórchevo and carry out instructions!”

+

+“No, pardon me, I won’t go now till the child is better,” thought

+he, going to the door and looking into the nursery.

+

+Princess Mary was still standing by the cot, gently rocking the baby.

+

+“Ah yes, and what else did he say that’s unpleasant?” thought

+Prince Andrew, recalling his father’s letter. “Yes, we have gained

+a victory over Bonaparte, just when I’m not serving. Yes, yes, he’s

+always poking fun at me.... Ah, well! Let him!” And he began reading

+Bilíbin’s letter which was written in French. He read without

+understanding half of it, read only to forget, if but for a moment, what

+he had too long been thinking of so painfully to the exclusion of all

+else.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER IX

+

+Bilíbin was now at army headquarters in a diplomatic capacity, and

+though he wrote in French and used French jests and French idioms,

+he described the whole campaign with a fearless self-censure and

+self-derision genuinely Russian. Bilíbin wrote that the obligation of

+diplomatic discretion tormented him, and he was happy to have in Prince

+Andrew a reliable correspondent to whom he could pour out the bile he

+had accumulated at the sight of all that was being done in the army.

+The letter was old, having been written before the battle at

+Preussisch-Eylau.

+

+“Since the day of our brilliant success at Austerlitz,” wrote

+Bilíbin, “as you know, my dear prince, I never leave headquarters. I

+have certainly acquired a taste for war, and it is just as well for me;

+what I have seen during these last three months is incredible.

+

+“I begin ab ovo. ‘The enemy of the human race,’ as you know,

+attacks the Prussians. The Prussians are our faithful allies who have

+only betrayed us three times in three years. We take up their cause, but

+it turns out that ‘the enemy of the human race’ pays no heed to

+our fine speeches and in his rude and savage way throws himself on the

+Prussians without giving them time to finish the parade they had begun,

+and in two twists of the hand he breaks them to smithereens and installs

+himself in the palace at Potsdam.

+

+“‘I most ardently desire,’ writes the King of Prussia to

+Bonaparte, ‘that Your Majesty should be received and treated in my

+palace in a manner agreeable to yourself, and in so far as circumstances

+allowed, I have hastened to take all steps to that end. May I have

+succeeded!’ The Prussian generals pride themselves on being polite to

+the French and lay down their arms at the first demand.

+

+“The head of the garrison at Glogau, with ten thousand men, asks the

+King of Prussia what he is to do if he is summoned to surrender.... All

+this is absolutely true.

+

+“In short, hoping to settle matters by taking up a warlike attitude,

+it turns out that we have landed ourselves in war, and what is more,

+in war on our own frontiers, with and for the King of Prussia. We have

+everything in perfect order, only one little thing is lacking, namely,

+a commander in chief. As it was considered that the Austerlitz success

+might have been more decisive had the commander in chief not been so

+young, all our octogenarians were reviewed, and of Prozoróvski

+and Kámenski the latter was preferred. The general comes to us,

+Suvórov-like, in a kibítka, and is received with acclamations of joy

+and triumph.

+

+“On the 4th, the first courier arrives from Petersburg. The mails

+are taken to the field marshal’s room, for he likes to do everything

+himself. I am called in to help sort the letters and take those meant

+for us. The field marshal looks on and waits for letters addressed

+to him. We search, but none are to be found. The field marshal grows

+impatient and sets to work himself and finds letters from the Emperor

+to Count T., Prince V., and others. Then he bursts into one of his wild

+furies and rages at everyone and everything, seizes the letters, opens

+them, and reads those from the Emperor addressed to others. ‘Ah! So

+that’s the way they treat me! No confidence in me! Ah, ordered to keep

+an eye on me! Very well then! Get along with you!’ So he writes the

+famous order of the day to General Bennigsen:

+

+“‘I am wounded and cannot ride and consequently cannot command the

+army. You have brought your army corps to Pultúsk, routed: here it is

+exposed, and without fuel or forage, so something must be done, and, as

+you yourself reported to Count Buxhöwden yesterday, you must think of

+retreating to our frontier—which do today.’

+

+“‘From all my riding,’ he writes to the Emperor, ‘I have got a

+saddle sore which, coming after all my previous journeys, quite prevents

+my riding and commanding so vast an army, so I have passed on the

+command to the general next in seniority, Count Buxhöwden, having sent

+him my whole staff and all that belongs to it, advising him if there is

+a lack of bread, to move farther into the interior of Prussia, for only

+one day’s ration of bread remains, and in some regiments none at all,

+as reported by the division commanders, Ostermann and Sedmorétzki, and

+all that the peasants had has been eaten up. I myself will remain in

+hospital at Ostrolenka till I recover. In regard to which I humbly

+submit my report, with the information that if the army remains in its

+present bivouac another fortnight there will not be a healthy man left

+in it by spring.

+

+“‘Grant leave to retire to his country seat to an old man who is

+already in any case dishonored by being unable to fulfill the great and

+glorious task for which he was chosen. I shall await your most gracious

+permission here in hospital, that I may not have to play the part of a

+secretary rather than commander in the army. My removal from the army

+does not produce the slightest stir—a blind man has left it. There are

+thousands such as I in Russia.’

+

+“The field marshal is angry with the Emperor and he punishes us all,

+isn’t it logical?

+

+“This is the first act. Those that follow are naturally increasingly

+interesting and entertaining. After the field marshal’s departure

+it appears that we are within sight of the enemy and must give battle.

+Buxhöwden is commander in chief by seniority, but General Bennigsen

+does not quite see it; more particularly as it is he and his corps who

+are within sight of the enemy and he wishes to profit by the opportunity

+to fight a battle ‘on his own hand’ as the Germans say. He does so.

+This is the battle of Pultúsk, which is considered a great victory but

+in my opinion was nothing of the kind. We civilians, as you know, have

+a very bad way of deciding whether a battle was won or lost. Those who

+retreat after a battle have lost it is what we say; and according to

+that it is we who lost the battle of Pultúsk. In short, we retreat

+after the battle but send a courier to Petersburg with news of a

+victory, and General Bennigsen, hoping to receive from Petersburg the

+post of commander in chief as a reward for his victory, does not give up

+the command of the army to General Buxhöwden. During this interregnum

+we begin a very original and interesting series of maneuvers. Our aim is

+no longer, as it should be, to avoid or attack the enemy, but solely to

+avoid General Buxhöwden who by right of seniority should be our chief.

+So energetically do we pursue this aim that after crossing an unfordable

+river we burn the bridges to separate ourselves from our enemy, who at

+the moment is not Bonaparte but Buxhöwden. General Buxhöwden was all

+but attacked and captured by a superior enemy force as a result of one

+of these maneuvers that enabled us to escape him. Buxhöwden pursues

+us—we scuttle. He hardly crosses the river to our side before we

+recross to the other. At last our enemy, Buxhöwden, catches us and

+attacks. Both generals are angry, and the result is a challenge on

+Buxhöwden’s part and an epileptic fit on Bennigsen’s. But at the

+critical moment the courier who carried the news of our victory at

+Pultúsk to Petersburg returns bringing our appointment as commander in

+chief, and our first foe, Buxhöwden, is vanquished; we can now turn

+our thoughts to the second, Bonaparte. But as it turns out, just at

+that moment a third enemy rises before us—namely the Orthodox Russian

+soldiers, loudly demanding bread, meat, biscuits, fodder, and whatnot!

+The stores are empty, the roads impassable. The Orthodox begin looting,

+and in a way of which our last campaign can give you no idea. Half the

+regiments form bands and scour the countryside and put everything

+to fire and sword. The inhabitants are totally ruined, the hospitals

+overflow with sick, and famine is everywhere. Twice the marauders even

+attack our headquarters, and the commander in chief has to ask for a

+battalion to disperse them. During one of these attacks they carried off

+my empty portmanteau and my dressing gown. The Emperor proposes to give

+all commanders of divisions the right to shoot marauders, but I much

+fear this will oblige one half the army to shoot the other.”

+

+At first Prince Andrew read with his eyes only, but after a while,

+in spite of himself (although he knew how far it was safe to trust

+Bilíbin), what he had read began to interest him more and more. When he

+had read thus far, he crumpled the letter up and threw it away. It was

+not what he had read that vexed him, but the fact that the life out

+there in which he had now no part could perturb him. He shut his eyes,

+rubbed his forehead as if to rid himself of all interest in what he

+had read, and listened to what was passing in the nursery. Suddenly he

+thought he heard a strange noise through the door. He was seized with

+alarm lest something should have happened to the child while he was

+reading the letter. He went on tiptoe to the nursery door and opened it.

+

+Just as he went in he saw that the nurse was hiding something from him

+with a scared look and that Princess Mary was no longer by the cot.

+

+“My dear,” he heard what seemed to him her despairing whisper behind

+him.

+

+As often happens after long sleeplessness and long anxiety, he was

+seized by an unreasoning panic—it occurred to him that the child was

+dead. All that he saw and heard seemed to confirm this terror.

+

+“All is over,” he thought, and a cold sweat broke out on his

+forehead. He went to the cot in confusion, sure that he would find it

+empty and that the nurse had been hiding the dead baby. He drew the

+curtain aside and for some time his frightened, restless eyes could not

+find the baby. At last he saw him: the rosy boy had tossed about till he

+lay across the bed with his head lower than the pillow, and was smacking

+his lips in his sleep and breathing evenly.

+

+Prince Andrew was as glad to find the boy like that, as if he had

+already lost him. He bent over him and, as his sister had taught him,

+tried with his lips whether the child was still feverish. The soft

+forehead was moist. Prince Andrew touched the head with his hand; even

+the hair was wet, so profusely had the child perspired. He was not dead,

+but evidently the crisis was over and he was convalescent. Prince Andrew

+longed to snatch up, to squeeze, to hold to his heart, this helpless

+little creature, but dared not do so. He stood over him, gazing at his

+head and at the little arms and legs which showed under the blanket. He

+heard a rustle behind him and a shadow appeared under the curtain of

+the cot. He did not look round, but still gazing at the infant’s face

+listened to his regular breathing. The dark shadow was Princess Mary,

+who had come up to the cot with noiseless steps, lifted the curtain,

+and dropped it again behind her. Prince Andrew recognized her without

+looking and held out his hand to her. She pressed it.

+

+“He has perspired,” said Prince Andrew.

+

+“I was coming to tell you so.”

+

+The child moved slightly in his sleep, smiled, and rubbed his forehead

+against the pillow.

+

+Prince Andrew looked at his sister. In the dim shadow of the curtain her

+luminous eyes shone more brightly than usual from the tears of joy that

+were in them. She leaned over to her brother and kissed him, slightly

+catching the curtain of the cot. Each made the other a warning gesture

+and stood still in the dim light beneath the curtain as if not wishing

+to leave that seclusion where they three were shut off from all the

+world. Prince Andrew was the first to move away, ruffling his hair

+against the muslin of the curtain.

+

+“Yes, this is the one thing left me now,” he said with a sigh.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER X

+

+Soon after his admission to the Masonic Brotherhood, Pierre went to the

+Kiev province, where he had the greatest number of serfs, taking with

+him full directions which he had written down for his own guidance as to

+what he should do on his estates.

+

+When he reached Kiev he sent for all his stewards to the head office

+and explained to them his intentions and wishes. He told them that steps

+would be taken immediately to free his serfs—and that till then they

+were not to be overburdened with labor, women while nursing their babies

+were not to be sent to work, assistance was to be given to the serfs,

+punishments were to be admonitory and not corporal, and hospitals,

+asylums, and schools were to be established on all the estates. Some of

+the stewards (there were semiliterate foremen among them) listened with

+alarm, supposing these words to mean that the young count was displeased

+with their management and embezzlement of money, some after their first

+fright were amused by Pierre’s lisp and the new words they had not

+heard before, others simply enjoyed hearing how the master talked, while

+the cleverest among them, including the chief steward, understood from

+this speech how they could best handle the master for their own ends.

+

+The chief steward expressed great sympathy with Pierre’s intentions,

+but remarked that besides these changes it would be necessary to go into

+the general state of affairs which was far from satisfactory.

+

+Despite Count Bezúkhov’s enormous wealth, since he had come into an

+income which was said to amount to five hundred thousand rubles a year,

+Pierre felt himself far poorer than when his father had made him

+an allowance of ten thousand rubles. He had a dim perception of the

+following budget:

+

+About 80,000 went in payments on all the estates to the Land Bank, about

+30,000 went for the upkeep of the estate near Moscow, the town house,

+and the allowance to the three princesses; about 15,000 was given in

+pensions and the same amount for asylums; 150,000 alimony was sent to

+the countess; about 70,000 went for interest on debts. The building of a

+new church, previously begun, had cost about 10,000 in each of the last

+two years, and he did not know how the rest, about 100,000 rubles, was

+spent, and almost every year he was obliged to borrow. Besides this the

+chief steward wrote every year telling him of fires and bad harvests,

+or of the necessity of rebuilding factories and workshops. So the first

+task Pierre had to face was one for which he had very little aptitude or

+inclination—practical business.

+

+He discussed estate affairs every day with his chief steward. But

+he felt that this did not forward matters at all. He felt that these

+consultations were detached from real affairs and did not link up with

+them or make them move. On the one hand, the chief steward put the state

+of things to him in the very worst light, pointing out the necessity of

+paying off the debts and undertaking new activities with serf labor,

+to which Pierre did not agree. On the other hand, Pierre demanded that

+steps should be taken to liberate the serfs, which the steward met by

+showing the necessity of first paying off the loans from the Land Bank,

+and the consequent impossibility of a speedy emancipation.

+

+The steward did not say it was quite impossible, but suggested selling

+the forests in the province of Kostromá, the land lower down the river,

+and the Crimean estate, in order to make it possible: all of which

+operations according to him were connected with such complicated

+measures—the removal of injunctions, petitions, permits, and so

+on—that Pierre became quite bewildered and only replied:

+

+“Yes, yes, do so.”

+

+Pierre had none of the practical persistence that would have enabled him

+to attend to the business himself and so he disliked it and only tried

+to pretend to the steward that he was attending to it. The steward

+for his part tried to pretend to the count that he considered these

+consultations very valuable for the proprietor and troublesome to

+himself.

+

+In Kiev Pierre found some people he knew, and strangers hastened to make

+his acquaintance and joyfully welcomed the rich newcomer, the

+largest landowner of the province. Temptations to Pierre’s greatest

+weakness—the one to which he had confessed when admitted to the

+Lodge—were so strong that he could not resist them. Again whole days,

+weeks, and months of his life passed in as great a rush and were as much

+occupied with evening parties, dinners, lunches, and balls, giving him

+no time for reflection, as in Petersburg. Instead of the new life he had

+hoped to lead he still lived the old life, only in new surroundings.

+

+Of the three precepts of Freemasonry Pierre realized that he did not

+fulfill the one which enjoined every Mason to set an example of moral

+life, and that of the seven virtues he lacked two—morality and the

+love of death. He consoled himself with the thought that he fulfilled

+another of the precepts—that of reforming the human race—and had

+other virtues—love of his neighbor, and especially generosity.

+

+In the spring of 1807 he decided to return to Petersburg. On the way he

+intended to visit all his estates and see for himself how far his orders

+had been carried out and in what state were the serfs whom God had

+entrusted to his care and whom he intended to benefit.

+

+The chief steward, who considered the young count’s attempts almost

+insane—unprofitable to himself, to the count, and to the serfs—made

+some concessions. Continuing to represent the liberation of the serfs

+as impracticable, he arranged for the erection of large

+buildings—schools, hospitals, and asylums—on all the estates

+before the master arrived. Everywhere preparations were made not for

+ceremonious welcomes (which he knew Pierre would not like), but for just

+such gratefully religious ones, with offerings of icons and the bread

+and salt of hospitality, as, according to his understanding of his

+master, would touch and delude him.

+

+The southern spring, the comfortable rapid traveling in a Vienna

+carriage, and the solitude of the road, all had a gladdening effect on

+Pierre. The estates he had not before visited were each more picturesque

+than the other; the serfs everywhere seemed thriving and touchingly

+grateful for the benefits conferred on them. Everywhere were receptions,

+which though they embarrassed Pierre awakened a joyful feeling in the

+depth of his heart. In one place the peasants presented him with bread

+and salt and an icon of Saint Peter and Saint Paul, asking permission,

+as a mark of their gratitude for the benefits he had conferred on them,

+to build a new chantry to the church at their own expense in honor

+of Peter and Paul, his patron saints. In another place the women with

+infants in arms met him to thank him for releasing them from hard

+work. On a third estate the priest, bearing a cross, came to meet

+him surrounded by children whom, by the count’s generosity, he was

+instructing in reading, writing, and religion. On all his estates Pierre

+saw with his own eyes brick buildings erected or in course of erection,

+all on one plan, for hospitals, schools, and almshouses, which were soon

+to be opened. Everywhere he saw the stewards’ accounts, according to

+which the serfs’ manorial labor had been diminished, and heard the

+touching thanks of deputations of serfs in their full-skirted blue

+coats.

+

+What Pierre did not know was that the place where they presented him

+with bread and salt and wished to build a chantry in honor of Peter and

+Paul was a market village where a fair was held on St. Peter’s day,

+and that the richest peasants (who formed the deputation) had begun

+the chantry long before, but that nine tenths of the peasants in that

+villages were in a state of the greatest poverty. He did not know that

+since the nursing mothers were no longer sent to work on his land, they

+did still harder work on their own land. He did not know that the priest

+who met him with the cross oppressed the peasants by his exactions, and

+that the pupils’ parents wept at having to let him take their children

+and secured their release by heavy payments. He did not know that the

+brick buildings, built to plan, were being built by serfs whose manorial

+labor was thus increased, though lessened on paper. He did not know

+that where the steward had shown him in the accounts that the serfs’

+payments had been diminished by a third, their obligatory manorial work

+had been increased by a half. And so Pierre was delighted with his visit

+to his estates and quite recovered the philanthropic mood in which

+he had left Petersburg, and wrote enthusiastic letters to his

+“brother-instructor” as he called the Grand Master.

+

+“How easy it is, how little effort it needs, to do so much good,”

+thought Pierre, “and how little attention we pay to it!”

+

+He was pleased at the gratitude he received, but felt abashed at

+receiving it. This gratitude reminded him of how much more he might do

+for these simple, kindly people.

+

+The chief steward, a very stupid but cunning man who saw perfectly

+through the naïve and intelligent count and played with him as with

+a toy, seeing the effect these prearranged receptions had on Pierre,

+pressed him still harder with proofs of the impossibility and above all

+the uselessness of freeing the serfs, who were quite happy as it was.

+

+Pierre in his secret soul agreed with the steward that it would be

+difficult to imagine happier people, and that God only knew what would

+happen to them when they were free, but he insisted, though reluctantly,

+on what he thought right. The steward promised to do all in his power to

+carry out the count’s wishes, seeing clearly that not only would the

+count never be able to find out whether all measures had been taken for

+the sale of the land and forests and to release them from the Land Bank,

+but would probably never even inquire and would never know that the

+newly erected buildings were standing empty and that the serfs continued

+to give in money and work all that other people’s serfs gave—that is

+to say, all that could be got out of them.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XI

+

+Returning from his journey through South Russia in the happiest state

+of mind, Pierre carried out an intention he had long had of visiting his

+friend Bolkónski, whom he had not seen for two years.

+

+Boguchárovo lay in a flat uninteresting part of the country among

+fields and forests of fir and birch, which were partly cut down. The

+house lay behind a newly dug pond filled with water to the brink and

+with banks still bare of grass. It was at the end of a village that

+stretched along the highroad in the midst of a young copse in which were

+a few fir trees.

+

+The homestead consisted of a threshing floor, outhouses, stables, a

+bathhouse, a lodge, and a large brick house with semicircular façade

+still in course of construction. Round the house was a garden newly laid

+out. The fences and gates were new and solid; two fire pumps and a

+water cart, painted green, stood in a shed; the paths were straight,

+the bridges were strong and had handrails. Everything bore an impress of

+tidiness and good management. Some domestic serfs Pierre met, in reply

+to inquiries as to where the prince lived, pointed out a small newly

+built lodge close to the pond. Antón, a man who had looked after Prince

+Andrew in his boyhood, helped Pierre out of his carriage, said that the

+prince was at home, and showed him into a clean little anteroom.

+

+Pierre was struck by the modesty of the small though clean house after

+the brilliant surroundings in which he had last met his friend in

+Petersburg.

+

+He quickly entered the small reception room with its still-unplastered

+wooden walls redolent of pine, and would have gone farther, but Antón

+ran ahead on tiptoe and knocked at a door.

+

+“Well, what is it?” came a sharp, unpleasant voice.

+

+“A visitor,” answered Antón.

+

+“Ask him to wait,” and the sound was heard of a chair being pushed

+back.

+

+Pierre went with rapid steps to the door and suddenly came face to

+face with Prince Andrew, who came out frowning and looking old. Pierre

+embraced him and lifting his spectacles kissed his friend on the cheek

+and looked at him closely.

+

+“Well, I did not expect you, I am very glad,” said Prince Andrew.

+

+Pierre said nothing; he looked fixedly at his friend with surprise. He

+was struck by the change in him. His words were kindly and there was a

+smile on his lips and face, but his eyes were dull and lifeless and in

+spite of his evident wish to do so he could not give them a joyous

+and glad sparkle. Prince Andrew had grown thinner, paler, and more

+manly-looking, but what amazed and estranged Pierre till he got used

+to it were his inertia and a wrinkle on his brow indicating prolonged

+concentration on some one thought.

+

+As is usually the case with people meeting after a prolonged separation,

+it was long before their conversation could settle on anything. They

+put questions and gave brief replies about things they knew ought to

+be talked over at length. At last the conversation gradually settled on

+some of the topics at first lightly touched on: their past life, plans

+for the future, Pierre’s journeys and occupations, the war, and so

+on. The preoccupation and despondency which Pierre had noticed in his

+friend’s look was now still more clearly expressed in the smile

+with which he listened to Pierre, especially when he spoke with joyful

+animation of the past or the future. It was as if Prince Andrew would

+have liked to sympathize with what Pierre was saying, but could not.

+The latter began to feel that it was in bad taste to speak of his

+enthusiasms, dreams, and hopes of happiness or goodness, in Prince

+Andrew’s presence. He was ashamed to express his new Masonic views,

+which had been particularly revived and strengthened by his late tour.

+He checked himself, fearing to seem naïve, yet he felt an irresistible

+desire to show his friend as soon as possible that he was now a quite

+different, and better, Pierre than he had been in Petersburg.

+

+“I can’t tell you how much I have lived through since then. I hardly

+know myself again.”

+

+“Yes, we have altered much, very much, since then,” said Prince

+Andrew.

+

+“Well, and you? What are your plans?”

+

+“Plans!” repeated Prince Andrew ironically. “My plans?” he said,

+as if astonished at the word. “Well, you see, I’m building. I mean

+to settle here altogether next year....”

+

+Pierre looked silently and searchingly into Prince Andrew’s face,

+which had grown much older.

+

+“No, I meant to ask...” Pierre began, but Prince Andrew interrupted

+him.

+

+“But why talk of me?... Talk to me, yes, tell me about your travels

+and all you have been doing on your estates.”

+

+Pierre began describing what he had done on his estates, trying as far

+as possible to conceal his own part in the improvements that had been

+made. Prince Andrew several times prompted Pierre’s story of what he

+had been doing, as though it were all an old-time story, and he listened

+not only without interest but even as if ashamed of what Pierre was

+telling him.

+

+Pierre felt uncomfortable and even depressed in his friend’s company

+and at last became silent.

+

+“I’ll tell you what, my dear fellow,” said Prince Andrew, who

+evidently also felt depressed and constrained with his visitor, “I am

+only bivouacking here and have just come to look round. I am going back

+to my sister today. I will introduce you to her. But of course you know

+her already,” he said, evidently trying to entertain a visitor with

+whom he now found nothing in common. “We will go after dinner. And

+would you now like to look round my place?”

+

+They went out and walked about till dinnertime, talking of the political

+news and common acquaintances like people who do not know each other

+intimately. Prince Andrew spoke with some animation and interest only of

+the new homestead he was constructing and its buildings, but even here,

+while on the scaffolding, in the midst of a talk explaining the future

+arrangements of the house, he interrupted himself:

+

+“However, this is not at all interesting. Let us have dinner, and then

+we’ll set off.”

+

+At dinner, conversation turned on Pierre’s marriage.

+

+“I was very much surprised when I heard of it,” said Prince Andrew.

+

+Pierre blushed, as he always did when it was mentioned, and said

+hurriedly: “I will tell you some time how it all happened. But you

+know it is all over, and forever.”

+

+“Forever?” said Prince Andrew. “Nothing’s forever.”

+

+“But you know how it all ended, don’t you? You heard of the duel?”

+

+“And so you had to go through that too!”

+

+“One thing I thank God for is that I did not kill that man,” said

+Pierre.

+

+“Why so?” asked Prince Andrew. “To kill a vicious dog is a very

+good thing really.”

+

+“No, to kill a man is bad—wrong.”

+

+“Why is it wrong?” urged Prince Andrew. “It is not given to man

+to know what is right and what is wrong. Men always did and always will

+err, and in nothing more than in what they consider right and wrong.”

+

+“What does harm to another is wrong,” said Pierre, feeling with

+pleasure that for the first time since his arrival Prince Andrew was

+roused, had begun to talk, and wanted to express what had brought him to

+his present state.

+

+“And who has told you what is bad for another man?” he asked.

+

+“Bad! Bad!” exclaimed Pierre. “We all know what is bad for

+ourselves.”

+

+“Yes, we know that, but the harm I am conscious of in myself is

+something I cannot inflict on others,” said Prince Andrew, growing

+more and more animated and evidently wishing to express his new outlook

+to Pierre. He spoke in French. “I only know two very real evils in

+life: remorse and illness. The only good is the absence of those evils.

+To live for myself avoiding those two evils is my whole philosophy

+now.”

+

+“And love of one’s neighbor, and self-sacrifice?” began Pierre.

+“No, I can’t agree with you! To live only so as not to do evil and

+not to have to repent is not enough. I lived like that, I lived for

+myself and ruined my life. And only now when I am living, or at least

+trying” (Pierre’s modesty made him correct himself) “to live for

+others, only now have I understood all the happiness of life. No, I

+shall not agree with you, and you do not really believe what you are

+saying.” Prince Andrew looked silently at Pierre with an ironic smile.

+

+“When you see my sister, Princess Mary, you’ll get on with her,”

+he said. “Perhaps you are right for yourself,” he added after

+a short pause, “but everyone lives in his own way. You lived for

+yourself and say you nearly ruined your life and only found happiness

+when you began living for others. I experienced just the reverse. I

+lived for glory.—And after all what is glory? The same love of others,

+a desire to do something for them, a desire for their approval.—So I

+lived for others, and not almost, but quite, ruined my life. And I have

+become calmer since I began to live only for myself.”

+

+“But what do you mean by living only for yourself?” asked Pierre,

+growing excited. “What about your son, your sister, and your

+father?”

+

+“But that’s just the same as myself—they are not others,”

+explained Prince Andrew. “The others, one’s neighbors, le prochain,

+as you and Princess Mary call it, are the chief source of all error and

+evil. Le prochain—your Kiev peasants to whom you want to do good.”

+

+And he looked at Pierre with a mocking, challenging expression. He

+evidently wished to draw him on.

+

+“You are joking,” replied Pierre, growing more and more excited.

+“What error or evil can there be in my wishing to do good, and even

+doing a little—though I did very little and did it very badly? What

+evil can there be in it if unfortunate people, our serfs, people like

+ourselves, were growing up and dying with no idea of God and truth

+beyond ceremonies and meaningless prayers and are now instructed in

+a comforting belief in future life, retribution, recompense, and

+consolation? What evil and error are there in it, if people were dying

+of disease without help while material assistance could so easily be

+rendered, and I supplied them with a doctor, a hospital, and an asylum

+for the aged? And is it not a palpable, unquestionable good if a

+peasant, or a woman with a baby, has no rest day or night and I give

+them rest and leisure?” said Pierre, hurrying and lisping. “And

+I have done that though badly and to a small extent; but I have done

+something toward it and you cannot persuade me that it was not a good

+action, and more than that, you can’t make me believe that you do not

+think so yourself. And the main thing is,” he continued, “that I

+know, and know for certain, that the enjoyment of doing this good is the

+only sure happiness in life.”

+

+“Yes, if you put it like that it’s quite a different matter,” said

+Prince Andrew. “I build a house and lay out a garden, and you build

+hospitals. The one and the other may serve as a pastime. But what’s

+right and what’s good must be judged by one who knows all, but not by

+us. Well, you want an argument,” he added, “come on then.”

+

+They rose from the table and sat down in the entrance porch which served

+as a veranda.

+

+“Come, let’s argue then,” said Prince Andrew, “You talk of

+schools,” he went on, crooking a finger, “education and so forth;

+that is, you want to raise him” (pointing to a peasant who passed by

+them taking off his cap) “from his animal condition and awaken in him

+spiritual needs, while it seems to me that animal happiness is the only

+happiness possible, and that is just what you want to deprive him of.

+I envy him, but you want to make him what I am, without giving him my

+means. Then you say, ‘lighten his toil.’ But as I see it, physical

+labor is as essential to him, as much a condition of his existence, as

+mental activity is to you or me. You can’t help thinking. I go to bed

+after two in the morning, thoughts come and I can’t sleep but toss

+about till dawn, because I think and can’t help thinking, just as

+he can’t help plowing and mowing; if he didn’t, he would go to the

+drink shop or fall ill. Just as I could not stand his terrible physical

+labor but should die of it in a week, so he could not stand my physical

+idleness, but would grow fat and die. The third thing—what else was

+it you talked about?” and Prince Andrew crooked a third finger. “Ah,

+yes, hospitals, medicine. He has a fit, he is dying, and you come and

+bleed him and patch him up. He will drag about as a cripple, a burden to

+everybody, for another ten years. It would be far easier and simpler for

+him to die. Others are being born and there are plenty of them as it is.

+It would be different if you grudged losing a laborer—that’s how I

+regard him—but you want to cure him from love of him. And he does not

+want that. And besides, what a notion that medicine ever cured anyone!

+Killed them, yes!” said he, frowning angrily and turning away from

+Pierre.

+

+Prince Andrew expressed his ideas so clearly and distinctly that it was

+evident he had reflected on this subject more than once, and he spoke

+readily and rapidly like a man who has not talked for a long time. His

+glance became more animated as his conclusions became more hopeless.

+

+“Oh, that is dreadful, dreadful!” said Pierre. “I don’t

+understand how one can live with such ideas. I had such moments

+myself not long ago, in Moscow and when traveling, but at such times I

+collapsed so that I don’t live at all—everything seems hateful to

+me... myself most of all. Then I don’t eat, don’t wash... and how is

+it with you?...”

+

+“Why not wash? That is not cleanly,” said Prince Andrew; “on the

+contrary one must try to make one’s life as pleasant as possible.

+I’m alive, that is not my fault, so I must live out my life as best I

+can without hurting others.”

+

+“But with such ideas what motive have you for living? One would sit

+without moving, undertaking nothing....”

+

+“Life as it is leaves one no peace. I should be thankful to do

+nothing, but here on the one hand the local nobility have done me the

+honor to choose me to be their marshal; it was all I could do to get

+out of it. They could not understand that I have not the necessary

+qualifications for it—the kind of good-natured, fussy shallowness

+necessary for the position. Then there’s this house, which must be

+built in order to have a nook of one’s own in which to be quiet. And

+now there’s this recruiting.”

+

+“Why aren’t you serving in the army?”

+

+“After Austerlitz!” said Prince Andrew gloomily. “No, thank you

+very much! I have promised myself not to serve again in the active

+Russian army. And I won’t—not even if Bonaparte were here at

+Smolénsk threatening Bald Hills—even then I wouldn’t serve in the

+Russian army! Well, as I was saying,” he continued, recovering his

+composure, “now there’s this recruiting. My father is chief in

+command of the Third District, and my only way of avoiding active

+service is to serve under him.”

+

+“Then you are serving?”

+

+“I am.”

+

+He paused a little while.

+

+“And why do you serve?”

+

+“Why, for this reason! My father is one of the most remarkable men of

+his time. But he is growing old, and though not exactly cruel he has too

+energetic a character. He is so accustomed to unlimited power that he is

+terrible, and now he has this authority of a commander in chief of

+the recruiting, granted by the Emperor. If I had been two hours late

+a fortnight ago he would have had a paymaster’s clerk at Yúkhnovna

+hanged,” said Prince Andrew with a smile. “So I am serving because

+I alone have any influence with my father, and now and then can save him

+from actions which would torment him afterwards.”

+

+“Well, there you see!”

+

+“Yes, but it is not as you imagine,” Prince Andrew continued. “I

+did not, and do not, in the least care about that scoundrel of a clerk

+who had stolen some boots from the recruits; I should even have been

+very glad to see him hanged, but I was sorry for my father—that again

+is for myself.”

+

+Prince Andrew grew more and more animated. His eyes glittered feverishly

+while he tried to prove to Pierre that in his actions there was no

+desire to do good to his neighbor.

+

+“There now, you wish to liberate your serfs,” he continued; “that

+is a very good thing, but not for you—I don’t suppose you ever had

+anyone flogged or sent to Siberia—and still less for your serfs. If

+they are beaten, flogged, or sent to Siberia, I don’t suppose they are

+any the worse off. In Siberia they lead the same animal life, and the

+stripes on their bodies heal, and they are happy as before. But it is

+a good thing for proprietors who perish morally, bring remorse upon

+themselves, stifle this remorse and grow callous, as a result of being

+able to inflict punishments justly and unjustly. It is those people I

+pity, and for their sake I should like to liberate the serfs. You

+may not have seen, but I have seen, how good men brought up in those

+traditions of unlimited power, in time when they grow more irritable,

+become cruel and harsh, are conscious of it, but cannot restrain

+themselves and grow more and more miserable.”

+

+Prince Andrew spoke so earnestly that Pierre could not help thinking

+that these thoughts had been suggested to Prince Andrew by his

+father’s case.

+

+He did not reply.

+

+“So that’s what I’m sorry for—human dignity, peace of mind,

+purity, and not the serfs’ backs and foreheads, which, beat and shave

+as you may, always remain the same backs and foreheads.”

+

+“No, no! A thousand times no! I shall never agree with you,” said

+Pierre.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XII

+

+In the evening Andrew and Pierre got into the open carriage and drove to

+Bald Hills. Prince Andrew, glancing at Pierre, broke the silence now and

+then with remarks which showed that he was in a good temper.

+

+Pointing to the fields, he spoke of the improvements he was making in

+his husbandry.

+

+Pierre remained gloomily silent, answering in monosyllables and

+apparently immersed in his own thoughts.

+

+He was thinking that Prince Andrew was unhappy, had gone astray, did not

+see the true light, and that he, Pierre, ought to aid, enlighten, and

+raise him. But as soon as he thought of what he should say, he felt that

+Prince Andrew with one word, one argument, would upset all his teaching,

+and he shrank from beginning, afraid of exposing to possible ridicule

+what to him was precious and sacred.

+

+“No, but why do you think so?” Pierre suddenly began, lowering his

+head and looking like a bull about to charge, “why do you think so?

+You should not think so.”

+

+“Think? What about?” asked Prince Andrew with surprise.

+

+“About life, about man’s destiny. It can’t be so. I myself thought

+like that, and do you know what saved me? Freemasonry! No, don’t

+smile. Freemasonry is not a religious ceremonial sect, as I thought

+it was: Freemasonry is the best expression of the best, the eternal,

+aspects of humanity.”

+

+And he began to explain Freemasonry as he understood it to Prince

+Andrew. He said that Freemasonry is the teaching of Christianity freed

+from the bonds of State and Church, a teaching of equality, brotherhood,

+and love.

+

+“Only our holy brotherhood has the real meaning of life, all the rest

+is a dream,” said Pierre. “Understand, my dear fellow, that outside

+this union all is filled with deceit and falsehood and I agree with you

+that nothing is left for an intelligent and good man but to live out

+his life, like you, merely trying not to harm others. But make our

+fundamental convictions your own, join our brotherhood, give yourself up

+to us, let yourself be guided, and you will at once feel yourself, as I

+have felt myself, a part of that vast invisible chain the beginning of

+which is hidden in heaven,” said Pierre.

+

+Prince Andrew, looking straight in front of him, listened in silence to

+Pierre’s words. More than once, when the noise of the wheels prevented

+his catching what Pierre said, he asked him to repeat it, and by the

+peculiar glow that came into Prince Andrew’s eyes and by his silence,

+Pierre saw that his words were not in vain and that Prince Andrew would

+not interrupt him or laugh at what he said.

+

+They reached a river that had overflowed its banks and which they had to

+cross by ferry. While the carriage and horses were being placed on it,

+they also stepped on the raft.

+

+Prince Andrew, leaning his arms on the raft railing, gazed silently at

+the flooding waters glittering in the setting sun.

+

+“Well, what do you think about it?” Pierre asked. “Why are you

+silent?”

+

+“What do I think about it? I am listening to you. It’s all very

+well.... You say: join our brotherhood and we will show you the aim of

+life, the destiny of man, and the laws which govern the world. But who

+are we? Men. How is it you know everything? Why do I alone not see what

+you see? You see a reign of goodness and truth on earth, but I don’t

+see it.”

+

+Pierre interrupted him.

+

+“Do you believe in a future life?” he asked.

+

+“A future life?” Prince Andrew repeated, but Pierre, giving him no

+time to reply, took the repetition for a denial, the more readily as he

+knew Prince Andrew’s former atheistic convictions.

+

+“You say you can’t see a reign of goodness and truth on earth. Nor

+could I, and it cannot be seen if one looks on our life here as the end

+of everything. On earth, here on this earth” (Pierre pointed to

+the fields), “there is no truth, all is false and evil; but in the

+universe, in the whole universe there is a kingdom of truth, and we who

+are now the children of earth are—eternally—children of the

+whole universe. Don’t I feel in my soul that I am part of this vast

+harmonious whole? Don’t I feel that I form one link, one step, between

+the lower and higher beings, in this vast harmonious multitude of

+beings in whom the Deity—the Supreme Power if you prefer the term—is

+manifest? If I see, clearly see, that ladder leading from plant to man,

+why should I suppose it breaks off at me and does not go farther and

+farther? I feel that I cannot vanish, since nothing vanishes in this

+world, but that I shall always exist and always have existed. I feel

+that beyond me and above me there are spirits, and that in this world

+there is truth.”

+

+“Yes, that is Herder’s theory,” said Prince Andrew, “but it is

+not that which can convince me, dear friend—life and death are what

+convince. What convinces is when one sees a being dear to one, bound

+up with one’s own life, before whom one was to blame and had hoped to

+make it right” (Prince Andrew’s voice trembled and he turned away),

+“and suddenly that being is seized with pain, suffers, and ceases to

+exist.... Why? It cannot be that there is no answer. And I believe there

+is.... That’s what convinces, that is what has convinced me,” said

+Prince Andrew.

+

+“Yes, yes, of course,” said Pierre, “isn’t that what I’m

+saying?”

+

+“No. All I say is that it is not argument that convinces me of the

+necessity of a future life, but this: when you go hand in hand with

+someone and all at once that person vanishes there, into nowhere, and

+you yourself are left facing that abyss, and look in. And I have looked

+in....”

+

+“Well, that’s it then! You know that there is a there and there is a

+Someone? There is the future life. The Someone is—God.”

+

+Prince Andrew did not reply. The carriage and horses had long since been

+taken off, onto the farther bank, and reharnessed. The sun had sunk half

+below the horizon and an evening frost was starring the puddles near

+the ferry, but Pierre and Andrew, to the astonishment of the footmen,

+coachmen, and ferrymen, still stood on the raft and talked.

+

+“If there is a God and future life, there is truth and good, and

+man’s highest happiness consists in striving to attain them. We must

+live, we must love, and we must believe that we live not only today on

+this scrap of earth, but have lived and shall live forever, there, in

+the Whole,” said Pierre, and he pointed to the sky.

+

+Prince Andrew stood leaning on the railing of the raft listening to

+Pierre, and he gazed with his eyes fixed on the red reflection of the

+sun gleaming on the blue waters. There was perfect stillness. Pierre

+became silent. The raft had long since stopped and only the waves of the

+current beat softly against it below. Prince Andrew felt as if the sound

+of the waves kept up a refrain to Pierre’s words, whispering:

+

+“It is true, believe it.”

+

+He sighed, and glanced with a radiant, childlike, tender look at

+Pierre’s face, flushed and rapturous, but yet shy before his superior

+friend.

+

+“Yes, if it only were so!” said Prince Andrew. “However, it is

+time to get on,” he added, and, stepping off the raft, he looked up

+at the sky to which Pierre had pointed, and for the first time since

+Austerlitz saw that high, everlasting sky he had seen while lying on

+that battlefield; and something that had long been slumbering, something

+that was best within him, suddenly awoke, joyful and youthful, in his

+soul. It vanished as soon as he returned to the customary conditions

+of his life, but he knew that this feeling which he did not know how to

+develop existed within him. His meeting with Pierre formed an epoch in

+Prince Andrew’s life. Though outwardly he continued to live in the

+same old way, inwardly he began a new life.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XIII

+

+It was getting dusk when Prince Andrew and Pierre drove up to the front

+entrance of the house at Bald Hills. As they approached the house,

+Prince Andrew with a smile drew Pierre’s attention to a commotion

+going on at the back porch. A woman, bent with age, with a wallet on her

+back, and a short, long-haired, young man in a black garment had rushed

+back to the gate on seeing the carriage driving up. Two women ran out

+after them, and all four, looking round at the carriage, ran in dismay

+up the steps of the back porch.

+

+“Those are Mary’s ‘God’s folk,’” said Prince Andrew. “They

+have mistaken us for my father. This is the one matter in which she

+disobeys him. He orders these pilgrims to be driven away, but she

+receives them.”

+

+“But what are ‘God’s folk’?” asked Pierre.

+

+Prince Andrew had no time to answer. The servants came out to meet them,

+and he asked where the old prince was and whether he was expected back

+soon.

+

+The old prince had gone to the town and was expected back any minute.

+

+Prince Andrew led Pierre to his own apartments, which were always kept

+in perfect order and readiness for him in his father’s house; he

+himself went to the nursery.

+

+“Let us go and see my sister,” he said to Pierre when he returned.

+“I have not found her yet, she is hiding now, sitting with her

+‘God’s folk.’ It will serve her right, she will be confused, but

+you will see her ‘God’s folk.’ It’s really very curious.”

+

+“What are ‘God’s folk’?” asked Pierre.

+

+“Come, and you’ll see for yourself.”

+

+Princess Mary really was disconcerted and red patches came on her face

+when they went in. In her snug room, with lamps burning before the icon

+stand, a young lad with a long nose and long hair, wearing a monk’s

+cassock, sat on the sofa beside her, behind a samovar. Near them, in an

+armchair, sat a thin, shriveled, old woman, with a meek expression on

+her childlike face.

+

+“Andrew, why didn’t you warn me?” said the princess, with mild

+reproach, as she stood before her pilgrims like a hen before her

+chickens.

+

+“Charmée de vous voir. Je suis très contente de vous voir,” * she

+said to Pierre as he kissed her hand. She had known him as a child, and

+now his friendship with Andrew, his misfortune with his wife, and above

+all his kindly, simple face disposed her favorably toward him. She

+looked at him with her beautiful radiant eyes and seemed to say, “I

+like you very much, but please don’t laugh at my people.” After

+exchanging the first greetings, they sat down.

+

+    * “Delighted to see you. I am very glad to see you.”

+

+

+“Ah, and Ivánushka is here too!” said Prince Andrew, glancing with

+a smile at the young pilgrim.

+

+“Andrew!” said Princess Mary, imploringly. “Il faut que vous

+sachiez que c’est une femme,” * said Prince Andrew to Pierre.

+

+“Andrew, au nom de Dieu!” *(2) Princess Mary repeated.

+

+     * “You must know that this is a woman.”

+

+     * (2) “For heaven’s sake.”

+

+

+It was evident that Prince Andrew’s ironical tone toward the pilgrims

+and Princess Mary’s helpless attempts to protect them were their

+customary long-established relations on the matter.

+

+“Mais, ma bonne amie,” said Prince Andrew, “vous devriez au

+contraire m’être reconnaissante de ce que j’explique à Pierre

+votre intimité avec ce jeune homme.” *

+

+     * “But, my dear, you ought on the contrary to be grateful to

+     me for explaining to Pierre your intimacy with this young

+     man.”

+

+

+“Really?” said Pierre, gazing over his spectacles with curiosity and

+seriousness (for which Princess Mary was specially grateful to him) into

+Ivánushka’s face, who, seeing that she was being spoken about, looked

+round at them all with crafty eyes.

+

+Princess Mary’s embarrassment on her people’s account was quite

+unnecessary. They were not in the least abashed. The old woman, lowering

+her eyes but casting side glances at the newcomers, had turned her cup

+upside down and placed a nibbled bit of sugar beside it, and sat

+quietly in her armchair, though hoping to be offered another cup of tea.

+Ivánushka, sipping out of her saucer, looked with sly womanish eyes

+from under her brows at the young men.

+

+“Where have you been? To Kiev?” Prince Andrew asked the old woman.

+

+“I have, good sir,” she answered garrulously. “Just at

+Christmastime I was deemed worthy to partake of the holy and heavenly

+sacrament at the shrine of the saint. And now I’m from Kolyázin,

+master, where a great and wonderful blessing has been revealed.”

+

+“And was Ivánushka with you?”

+

+“I go by myself, benefactor,” said Ivánushka, trying to speak in a

+bass voice. “I only came across Pelagéya in Yúkhnovo....”

+

+Pelagéya interrupted her companion; she evidently wished to tell what

+she had seen.

+

+“In Kolyázin, master, a wonderful blessing has been revealed.”

+

+“What is it? Some new relics?” asked Prince Andrew.

+

+“Andrew, do leave off,” said Princess Mary. “Don’t tell him,

+Pelagéya.”

+

+“No... why not, my dear, why shouldn’t I? I like him. He is kind,

+he is one of God’s chosen, he’s a benefactor, he once gave me ten

+rubles, I remember. When I was in Kiev, Crazy Cyril says to me (he’s

+one of God’s own and goes barefoot summer and winter), he says,

+‘Why are you not going to the right place? Go to Kolyázin where a

+wonder-working icon of the Holy Mother of God has been revealed.’ On

+hearing those words I said good-by to the holy folk and went.”

+

+All were silent, only the pilgrim woman went on in measured tones,

+drawing in her breath.

+

+“So I come, master, and the people say to me: ‘A great blessing has

+been revealed, holy oil trickles from the cheeks of our blessed Mother,

+the Holy Virgin Mother of God.’...”

+

+“All right, all right, you can tell us afterwards,” said Princess

+Mary, flushing.

+

+“Let me ask her,” said Pierre. “Did you see it yourselves?” he

+inquired.

+

+“Oh, yes, master, I was found worthy. Such a brightness on the face

+like the light of heaven, and from the blessed Mother’s cheek it drops

+and drops....”

+

+“But, dear me, that must be a fraud!” said Pierre, naïvely, who had

+listened attentively to the pilgrim.

+

+“Oh, master, what are you saying?” exclaimed the horrified

+Pelagéya, turning to Princess Mary for support.

+

+“They impose on the people,” he repeated.

+

+“Lord Jesus Christ!” exclaimed the pilgrim woman, crossing herself.

+“Oh, don’t speak so, master! There was a general who did not

+believe, and said, ‘The monks cheat,’ and as soon as he’d said it

+he went blind. And he dreamed that the Holy Virgin Mother of the Kiev

+catacombs came to him and said, ‘Believe in me and I will make you

+whole.’ So he begged: ‘Take me to her, take me to her.’ It’s the

+real truth I’m telling you, I saw it myself. So he was brought, quite

+blind, straight to her, and he goes up to her and falls down and says,

+‘Make me whole,’ says he, ‘and I’ll give thee what the Tsar

+bestowed on me.’ I saw it myself, master, the star is fixed into the

+icon. Well, and what do you think? He received his sight! It’s a sin

+to speak so. God will punish you,” she said admonishingly, turning to

+Pierre.

+

+“How did the star get into the icon?” Pierre asked.

+

+“And was the Holy Mother promoted to the rank of general?” said

+Prince Andrew, with a smile.

+

+Pelagéya suddenly grew quite pale and clasped her hands.

+

+“Oh, master, master, what a sin! And you who have a son!” she began,

+her pallor suddenly turning to a vivid red. “Master, what have you

+said? God forgive you!” And she crossed herself. “Lord forgive him!

+My dear, what does it mean?...” she asked, turning to Princess

+Mary. She got up and, almost crying, began to arrange her wallet. She

+evidently felt frightened and ashamed to have accepted charity in a

+house where such things could be said, and was at the same time sorry to

+have now to forgo the charity of this house.

+

+“Now, why need you do it?” said Princess Mary. “Why did you come

+to me?...”

+

+“Come, Pelagéya, I was joking,” said Pierre. “Princesse, ma

+parole, je n’ai pas voulu l’offenser. * I did not mean anything,

+I was only joking,” he said, smiling shyly and trying to efface his

+offense. “It was all my fault, and Andrew was only joking.”

+

+    * “Princess, on my word, I did not wish to offend her.”

+

+

+Pelagéya stopped doubtfully, but in Pierre’s face there was such a

+look of sincere penitence, and Prince Andrew glanced so meekly now at

+her and now at Pierre, that she was gradually reassured.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XIV

+

+The pilgrim woman was appeased and, being encouraged to talk, gave a

+long account of Father Amphilochus, who led so holy a life that his

+hands smelled of incense, and how on her last visit to Kiev some monks

+she knew let her have the keys of the catacombs, and how she, taking

+some dried bread with her, had spent two days in the catacombs with

+the saints. “I’d pray awhile to one, ponder awhile, then go on to

+another. I’d sleep a bit and then again go and kiss the relics, and

+there was such peace all around, such blessedness, that one don’t want

+to come out, even into the light of heaven again.”

+

+Pierre listened to her attentively and seriously. Prince Andrew went out

+of the room, and then, leaving “God’s folk” to finish their tea,

+Princess Mary took Pierre into the drawing room.

+

+“You are very kind,” she said to him.

+

+“Oh, I really did not mean to hurt her feelings. I understand them so

+well and have the greatest respect for them.”

+

+Princess Mary looked at him silently and smiled affectionately.

+

+“I have known you a long time, you see, and am as fond of you as of a

+brother,” she said. “How do you find Andrew?” she added hurriedly,

+not giving him time to reply to her affectionate words. “I am very

+anxious about him. His health was better in the winter, but last spring

+his wound reopened and the doctor said he ought to go away for a

+cure. And I am also very much afraid for him spiritually. He has not a

+character like us women who, when we suffer, can weep away our sorrows.

+He keeps it all within him. Today he is cheerful and in good spirits,

+but that is the effect of your visit—he is not often like that. If

+you could persuade him to go abroad. He needs activity, and this quiet

+regular life is very bad for him. Others don’t notice it, but I see

+it.”

+

+Toward ten o’clock the men servants rushed to the front door, hearing

+the bells of the old prince’s carriage approaching. Prince Andrew and

+Pierre also went out into the porch.

+

+“Who’s that?” asked the old prince, noticing Pierre as he got out

+of the carriage.

+

+“Ah! Very glad! Kiss me,” he said, having learned who the young

+stranger was.

+

+The old prince was in a good temper and very gracious to Pierre.

+

+Before supper, Prince Andrew, coming back to his father’s study, found

+him disputing hotly with his visitor. Pierre was maintaining that a time

+would come when there would be no more wars. The old prince disputed it

+chaffingly, but without getting angry.

+

+“Drain the blood from men’s veins and put in water instead, then

+there will be no more war! Old women’s nonsense—old women’s

+nonsense!” he repeated, but still he patted Pierre affectionately

+on the shoulder, and then went up to the table where Prince Andrew,

+evidently not wishing to join in the conversation, was looking over the

+papers his father had brought from town. The old prince went up to him

+and began to talk business.

+

+“The marshal, a Count Rostóv, hasn’t sent half his contingent. He

+came to town and wanted to invite me to dinner—I gave him a pretty

+dinner!... And there, look at this.... Well, my boy,” the old prince

+went on, addressing his son and patting Pierre on the shoulder. “A

+fine fellow—your friend—I like him! He stirs me up. Another says

+clever things and one doesn’t care to listen, but this one talks

+rubbish yet stirs an old fellow up. Well, go! Get along! Perhaps I’ll

+come and sit with you at supper. We’ll have another dispute. Make

+friends with my little fool, Princess Mary,” he shouted after Pierre,

+through the door.

+

+Only now, on his visit to Bald Hills, did Pierre fully realize the

+strength and charm of his friendship with Prince Andrew. That charm was

+not expressed so much in his relations with him as with all his family

+and with the household. With the stern old prince and the gentle, timid

+Princess Mary, though he had scarcely known them, Pierre at once felt

+like an old friend. They were all fond of him already. Not only Princess

+Mary, who had been won by his gentleness with the pilgrims, gave him her

+most radiant looks, but even the one-year-old “Prince Nicholas” (as

+his grandfather called him) smiled at Pierre and let himself be taken

+in his arms, and Michael Ivánovich and Mademoiselle Bourienne looked at

+him with pleasant smiles when he talked to the old prince.

+

+The old prince came in to supper; this was evidently on Pierre’s

+account. And during the two days of the young man’s visit he was

+extremely kind to him and told him to visit them again.

+

+When Pierre had gone and the members of the household met together, they

+began to express their opinions of him as people always do after a new

+acquaintance has left, but as seldom happens, no one said anything but

+what was good of him.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XV

+

+When returning from his leave, Rostóv felt, for the first time, how

+close was the bond that united him to Denísov and the whole regiment.

+

+On approaching it, Rostóv felt as he had done when approaching his home

+in Moscow. When he saw the first hussar with the unbuttoned uniform

+of his regiment, when he recognized red-haired Deméntyev and saw the

+picket ropes of the roan horses, when Lavrúshka gleefully shouted to

+his master, “The count has come!” and Denísov, who had been asleep

+on his bed, ran all disheveled out of the mud hut to embrace him,

+and the officers collected round to greet the new arrival, Rostóv

+experienced the same feeling as when his mother, his father, and his

+sister had embraced him, and tears of joy choked him so that he could

+not speak. The regiment was also a home, and as unalterably dear and

+precious as his parents’ house.

+

+When he had reported himself to the commander of the regiment and had

+been reassigned to his former squadron, had been on duty and had gone

+out foraging, when he had again entered into all the little interests

+of the regiment and felt himself deprived of liberty and bound in one

+narrow, unchanging frame, he experienced the same sense of peace, of

+moral support, and the same sense of being at home here in his own

+place, as he had felt under the parental roof. But here was none of

+all that turmoil of the world at large, where he did not know his right

+place and took mistaken decisions; here was no Sónya with whom he

+ought, or ought not, to have an explanation; here was no possibility of

+going there or not going there; here there were not twenty-four hours

+in the day which could be spent in such a variety of ways; there was not

+that innumerable crowd of people of whom not one was nearer to him or

+farther from him than another; there were none of those uncertain and

+undefined money relations with his father, and nothing to recall that

+terrible loss to Dólokhov. Here, in the regiment, all was clear and

+simple. The whole world was divided into two unequal parts: one, our

+Pávlograd regiment; the other, all the rest. And the rest was no

+concern of his. In the regiment, everything was definite: who was

+lieutenant, who captain, who was a good fellow, who a bad one, and most

+of all, who was a comrade. The canteenkeeper gave one credit, one’s

+pay came every four months, there was nothing to think out or decide,

+you had only to do nothing that was considered bad in the Pávlograd

+regiment and, when given an order, to do what was clearly, distinctly,

+and definitely ordered—and all would be well.

+

+Having once more entered into the definite conditions of this regimental

+life, Rostóv felt the joy and relief a tired man feels on lying down to

+rest. Life in the regiment, during this campaign, was all the pleasanter

+for him, because, after his loss to Dólokhov (for which, in spite

+of all his family’s efforts to console him, he could not forgive

+himself), he had made up his mind to atone for his fault by serving,

+not as he had done before, but really well, and by being a perfectly

+first-rate comrade and officer—in a word, a splendid man altogether, a

+thing which seemed so difficult out in the world, but so possible in the

+regiment.

+

+After his losses, he had determined to pay back his debt to his parents

+in five years. He received ten thousand rubles a year, but now resolved

+to take only two thousand and leave the rest to repay the debt to his

+parents.

+

+Our army, after repeated retreats and advances and battles at Pultúsk

+and Preussisch-Eylau, was concentrated near Bartenstein. It was awaiting

+the Emperor’s arrival and the beginning of a new campaign.

+

+The Pávlograd regiment, belonging to that part of the army which had

+served in the 1805 campaign, had been recruiting up to strength in

+Russia, and arrived too late to take part in the first actions of the

+campaign. It had been neither at Pultúsk nor at Preussisch-Eylau and,

+when it joined the army in the field in the second half of the campaign,

+was attached to Plátov’s division.

+

+Plátov’s division was acting independently of the main army. Several

+times parts of the Pávlograd regiment had exchanged shots with

+the enemy, had taken prisoners, and once had even captured Marshal

+Oudinot’s carriages. In April the Pávlograds were stationed immovably

+for some weeks near a totally ruined and deserted German village.

+

+A thaw had set in, it was muddy and cold, the ice on the river broke,

+and the roads became impassable. For days neither provisions for the

+men nor fodder for the horses had been issued. As no transports could

+arrive, the men dispersed about the abandoned and deserted villages,

+searching for potatoes, but found few even of these.

+

+Everything had been eaten up and the inhabitants had all fled—if any

+remained, they were worse than beggars and nothing more could be taken

+from them; even the soldiers, usually pitiless enough, instead of taking

+anything from them, often gave them the last of their rations.

+

+The Pávlograd regiment had had only two men wounded in action, but had

+lost nearly half its men from hunger and sickness. In the hospitals,

+death was so certain that soldiers suffering from fever, or the swelling

+that came from bad food, preferred to remain on duty, and hardly able

+to drag their legs went to the front rather than to the hospitals.

+When spring came on, the soldiers found a plant just showing out of the

+ground that looked like asparagus, which, for some reason, they called

+“Máshka’s sweet root.” It was very bitter, but they wandered

+about the fields seeking it and dug it out with their sabers and ate it,

+though they were ordered not to do so, as it was a noxious plant. That

+spring a new disease broke out among the soldiers, a swelling of the

+arms, legs, and face, which the doctors attributed to eating this root.

+But in spite of all this, the soldiers of Denísov’s squadron fed

+chiefly on “Máshka’s sweet root,” because it was the second week

+that the last of the biscuits were being doled out at the rate of half a

+pound a man and the last potatoes received had sprouted and frozen.

+

+The horses also had been fed for a fortnight on straw from the thatched

+roofs and had become terribly thin, though still covered with tufts of

+felty winter hair.

+

+Despite this destitution, the soldiers and officers went on living just

+as usual. Despite their pale swollen faces and tattered uniforms, the

+hussars formed line for roll call, kept things in order, groomed their

+horses, polished their arms, brought in straw from the thatched roofs in

+place of fodder, and sat down to dine round the caldrons from which

+they rose up hungry, joking about their nasty food and their hunger. As

+usual, in their spare time, they lit bonfires, steamed themselves before

+them naked; smoked, picked out and baked sprouting rotten potatoes, told

+and listened to stories of Potëmkin’s and Suvórov’s campaigns, or

+to legends of Alësha the Sly, or the priest’s laborer Mikólka.

+

+The officers, as usual, lived in twos and threes in the roofless,

+half-ruined houses. The seniors tried to collect straw and potatoes and,

+in general, food for the men. The younger ones occupied themselves as

+before, some playing cards (there was plenty of money, though there was

+no food), some with more innocent games, such as quoits and skittles.

+The general trend of the campaign was rarely spoken of, partly because

+nothing certain was known about it, partly because there was a vague

+feeling that in the main it was going badly.

+

+Rostóv lived, as before, with Denísov, and since their furlough they

+had become more friendly than ever. Denísov never spoke of Rostóv’s

+family, but by the tender friendship his commander showed him, Rostóv

+felt that the elder hussar’s luckless love for Natásha played a part

+in strengthening their friendship. Denísov evidently tried to expose

+Rostóv to danger as seldom as possible, and after an action greeted his

+safe return with evident joy. On one of his foraging expeditions, in

+a deserted and ruined village to which he had come in search of

+provisions, Rostóv found a family consisting of an old Pole and his

+daughter with an infant in arms. They were half clad, hungry, too weak

+to get away on foot and had no means of obtaining a conveyance. Rostóv

+brought them to his quarters, placed them in his own lodging, and

+kept them for some weeks while the old man was recovering. One of his

+comrades, talking of women, began chaffing Rostóv, saying that he was

+more wily than any of them and that it would not be a bad thing if he

+introduced to them the pretty Polish girl he had saved. Rostóv took

+the joke as an insult, flared up, and said such unpleasant things to the

+officer that it was all Denísov could do to prevent a duel. When

+the officer had gone away, Denísov, who did not himself know what

+Rostóv’s relations with the Polish girl might be, began to upbraid

+him for his quickness of temper, and Rostóv replied:

+

+“Say what you like.... She is like a sister to me, and I can’t tell

+you how it offended me... because... well, for that reason....”

+

+Denísov patted him on the shoulder and began rapidly pacing the room

+without looking at Rostóv, as was his way at moments of deep feeling.

+

+“Ah, what a mad bweed you Wostóvs are!” he muttered, and Rostóv

+noticed tears in his eyes.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XVI

+

+In April the troops were enlivened by news of the Emperor’s arrival,

+but Rostóv had no chance of being present at the review he held at

+Bartenstein, as the Pávlograds were at the outposts far beyond that

+place.

+

+They were bivouacking. Denísov and Rostóv were living in an earth hut,

+dug out for them by the soldiers and roofed with branches and turf. The

+hut was made in the following manner, which had then come into vogue. A

+trench was dug three and a half feet wide, four feet eight inches deep,

+and eight feet long. At one end of the trench, steps were cut out and

+these formed the entrance and vestibule. The trench itself was the room,

+in which the lucky ones, such as the squadron commander, had a board,

+lying on piles at the end opposite the entrance, to serve as a table. On

+each side of the trench, the earth was cut out to a breadth of about two

+and a half feet, and this did duty for bedsteads and couches. The roof

+was so constructed that one could stand up in the middle of the trench

+and could even sit up on the beds if one drew close to the table.

+Denísov, who was living luxuriously because the soldiers of his

+squadron liked him, had also a board in the roof at the farther end,

+with a piece of (broken but mended) glass in it for a window. When it

+was very cold, embers from the soldiers’ campfire were placed on

+a bent sheet of iron on the steps in the “reception room”—as

+Denísov called that part of the hut—and it was then so warm that the

+officers, of whom there were always some with Denísov and Rostóv, sat

+in their shirt sleeves.

+

+In April, Rostóv was on orderly duty. One morning, between seven and

+eight, returning after a sleepless night, he sent for embers, changed

+his rain-soaked underclothes, said his prayers, drank tea, got warm,

+then tidied up the things on the table and in his own corner, and,

+his face glowing from exposure to the wind and with nothing on but his

+shirt, lay down on his back, putting his arms under his head. He was

+pleasantly considering the probability of being promoted in a few days

+for his last reconnoitering expedition, and was awaiting Denísov, who

+had gone out somewhere and with whom he wanted a talk.

+

+Suddenly he heard Denísov shouting in a vibrating voice behind the hut,

+evidently much excited. Rostóv moved to the window to see whom he was

+speaking to, and saw the quartermaster, Topchéenko.

+

+“I ordered you not to let them eat that Máshka woot stuff!”

+Denísov was shouting. “And I saw with my own eyes how Lazarchúk

+bwought some fwom the fields.”

+

+“I have given the order again and again, your honor, but they don’t

+obey,” answered the quartermaster.

+

+Rostóv lay down again on his bed and thought complacently: “Let

+him fuss and bustle now, my job’s done and I’m lying

+down—capitally!” He could hear that Lavrúshka—that sly, bold

+orderly of Denísov’s—was talking, as well as the quartermaster.

+Lavrúshka was saying something about loaded wagons, biscuits, and oxen

+he had seen when he had gone out for provisions.

+

+Then Denísov’s voice was heard shouting farther and farther away.

+“Saddle! Second platoon!”

+

+“Where are they off to now?” thought Rostóv.

+

+Five minutes later, Denísov came into the hut, climbed with muddy boots

+on the bed, lit his pipe, furiously scattered his things about, took

+his leaded whip, buckled on his saber, and went out again. In answer to

+Rostóv’s inquiry where he was going, he answered vaguely and crossly

+that he had some business.

+

+“Let God and our gweat monarch judge me afterwards!” said Denísov

+going out, and Rostóv heard the hoofs of several horses splashing

+through the mud. He did not even trouble to find out where Denísov had

+gone. Having got warm in his corner, he fell asleep and did not leave

+the hut till toward evening. Denísov had not yet returned. The weather

+had cleared up, and near the next hut two officers and a cadet were

+playing sváyka, laughing as they threw their missiles which buried

+themselves in the soft mud. Rostóv joined them. In the middle of the

+game, the officers saw some wagons approaching with fifteen hussars on

+their skinny horses behind them. The wagons escorted by the hussars drew

+up to the picket ropes and a crowd of hussars surrounded them.

+

+“There now, Denísov has been worrying,” said Rostóv, “and here

+are the provisions.”

+

+“So they are!” said the officers. “Won’t the soldiers be

+glad!”

+

+A little behind the hussars came Denísov, accompanied by two infantry

+officers with whom he was talking.

+

+Rostóv went to meet them.

+

+“I warn you, Captain,” one of the officers, a short thin man,

+evidently very angry, was saying.

+

+“Haven’t I told you I won’t give them up?” replied Denísov.

+

+“You will answer for it, Captain. It is mutiny—seizing the transport

+of one’s own army. Our men have had nothing to eat for two days.”

+

+“And mine have had nothing for two weeks,” said Denísov.

+

+“It is robbery! You’ll answer for it, sir!” said the infantry

+officer, raising his voice.

+

+“Now, what are you pestewing me for?” cried Denísov, suddenly

+losing his temper. “I shall answer for it and not you, and you’d

+better not buzz about here till you get hurt. Be off! Go!” he shouted

+at the officers.

+

+“Very well, then!” shouted the little officer, undaunted and not

+riding away. “If you are determined to rob, I’ll...”

+

+“Go to the devil! quick ma’ch, while you’re safe and sound!” and

+Denísov turned his horse on the officer.

+

+“Very well, very well!” muttered the officer, threateningly, and

+turning his horse he trotted away, jolting in his saddle.

+

+“A dog astwide a fence! A weal dog astwide a fence!” shouted

+Denísov after him (the most insulting expression a cavalryman can

+address to a mounted infantryman) and riding up to Rostóv, he burst out

+laughing.

+

+“I’ve taken twansports from the infantwy by force!” he said.

+“After all, can’t let our men starve.”

+

+The wagons that had reached the hussars had been consigned to an

+infantry regiment, but learning from Lavrúshka that the transport

+was unescorted, Denísov with his hussars had seized it by force. The

+soldiers had biscuits dealt out to them freely, and they even shared

+them with the other squadrons.

+

+The next day the regimental commander sent for Denísov, and holding his

+fingers spread out before his eyes said:

+

+“This is how I look at this affair: I know nothing about it and

+won’t begin proceedings, but I advise you to ride over to the staff

+and settle the business there in the commissariat department and if

+possible sign a receipt for such and such stores received. If not, as

+the demand was booked against an infantry regiment, there will be a row

+and the affair may end badly.”

+

+From the regimental commander’s, Denísov rode straight to the staff

+with a sincere desire to act on this advice. In the evening he came

+back to his dugout in a state such as Rostóv had never yet seen him in.

+Denísov could not speak and gasped for breath. When Rostóv asked what

+was the matter, he only uttered some incoherent oaths and threats in a

+hoarse, feeble voice.

+

+Alarmed at Denísov’s condition, Rostóv suggested that he should

+undress, drink some water, and send for the doctor.

+

+“Twy me for wobbewy... oh! Some more water... Let them twy me, but

+I’ll always thwash scoundwels... and I’ll tell the Empewo’...

+Ice...” he muttered.

+

+The regimental doctor, when he came, said it was absolutely necessary

+to bleed Denísov. A deep saucer of black blood was taken from his hairy

+arm and only then was he able to relate what had happened to him.

+

+“I get there,” began Denísov. “‘Now then, where’s your

+chief’s quarters?’ They were pointed out. ‘Please to wait.’

+‘I’ve widden twenty miles and have duties to attend to and no time

+to wait. Announce me.’ Vewy well, so out comes their head

+chief—also took it into his head to lecture me: ‘It’s

+wobbewy!’—‘Wobbewy,’ I say, ‘is not done by man who seizes

+pwovisions to feed his soldiers, but by him who takes them to fill his

+own pockets!’ ‘Will you please be silent?’ ‘Vewy good!’ Then

+he says: ‘Go and give a weceipt to the commissioner, but your affair

+will be passed on to headquarters.’ I go to the commissioner. I enter,

+and at the table... who do you think? No, but wait a bit!... Who is it

+that’s starving us?” shouted Denísov, hitting the table with the

+fist of his newly bled arm so violently that the table nearly broke down

+and the tumblers on it jumped about. “Telyánin! ‘What? So it’s

+you who’s starving us to death! Is it? Take this and this!’ and I

+hit him so pat, stwaight on his snout... ‘Ah, what a... what a...!’

+and I sta’ted fwashing him... Well, I’ve had a bit of fun I can tell

+you!” cried Denísov, gleeful and yet angry, his white teeth showing

+under his black mustache. “I’d have killed him if they hadn’t

+taken him away!”

+

+“But what are you shouting for? Calm yourself,” said Rostóv.

+“You’ve set your arm bleeding afresh. Wait, we must tie it up

+again.”

+

+Denísov was bandaged up again and put to bed. Next day he woke calm and

+cheerful.

+

+But at noon the adjutant of the regiment came into Rostóv’s and

+Denísov’s dugout with a grave and serious face and regretfully showed

+them a paper addressed to Major Denísov from the regimental commander

+in which inquiries were made about yesterday’s occurrence. The

+adjutant told them that the affair was likely to take a very bad

+turn: that a court-martial had been appointed, and that in view of the

+severity with which marauding and insubordination were now regarded,

+degradation to the ranks would be the best that could be hoped for.

+

+The case, as represented by the offended parties, was that, after

+seizing the transports, Major Denísov, being drunk, went to the chief

+quartermaster and without any provocation called him a thief, threatened

+to strike him, and on being led out had rushed into the office and given

+two officials a thrashing, and dislocated the arm of one of them.

+

+In answer to Rostóv’s renewed questions, Denísov said, laughing,

+that he thought he remembered that some other fellow had got mixed up

+in it, but that it was all nonsense and rubbish, and he did not in the

+least fear any kind of trial, and that if those scoundrels dared attack

+him he would give them an answer that they would not easily forget.

+

+Denísov spoke contemptuously of the whole matter, but Rostóv knew him

+too well not to detect that (while hiding it from others) at heart

+he feared a court-martial and was worried over the affair, which was

+evidently taking a bad turn. Every day, letters of inquiry and notices

+from the court arrived, and on the first of May, Denísov was ordered

+to hand the squadron over to the next in seniority and appear before

+the staff of his division to explain his violence at the commissariat

+office. On the previous day Plátov reconnoitered with two Cossack

+regiments and two squadrons of hussars. Denísov, as was his wont, rode

+out in front of the outposts, parading his courage. A bullet fired by

+a French sharpshooter hit him in the fleshy part of his leg. Perhaps at

+another time Denísov would not have left the regiment for so slight a

+wound, but now he took advantage of it to excuse himself from appearing

+at the staff and went into hospital.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XVII

+

+In June the battle of Friedland was fought, in which the Pávlograds did

+not take part, and after that an armistice was proclaimed. Rostóv, who

+felt his friend’s absence very much, having no news of him since he

+left and feeling very anxious about his wound and the progress of his

+affairs, took advantage of the armistice to get leave to visit Denísov

+in hospital.

+

+The hospital was in a small Prussian town that had been twice devastated

+by Russian and French troops. Because it was summer, when it is so

+beautiful out in the fields, the little town presented a particularly

+dismal appearance with its broken roofs and fences, its foul streets,

+tattered inhabitants, and the sick and drunken soldiers wandering about.

+

+The hospital was in a brick building with some of the window frames and

+panes broken and a courtyard surrounded by the remains of a wooden fence

+that had been pulled to pieces. Several bandaged soldiers, with pale

+swollen faces, were sitting or walking about in the sunshine in the

+yard.

+

+Directly Rostóv entered the door he was enveloped by a smell of

+putrefaction and hospital air. On the stairs he met a Russian army

+doctor smoking a cigar. The doctor was followed by a Russian assistant.

+

+“I can’t tear myself to pieces,” the doctor was saying. “Come to

+Makár Alexéevich in the evening. I shall be there.”

+

+The assistant asked some further questions.

+

+“Oh, do the best you can! Isn’t it all the same?” The doctor

+noticed Rostóv coming upstairs.

+

+“What do you want, sir?” said the doctor. “What do you want?

+The bullets having spared you, do you want to try typhus? This is a

+pesthouse, sir.”

+

+“How so?” asked Rostóv.

+

+“Typhus, sir. It’s death to go in. Only we two, Makéev and I” (he

+pointed to the assistant), “keep on here. Some five of us doctors have

+died in this place.... When a new one comes he is done for in a week,”

+said the doctor with evident satisfaction. “Prussian doctors have been

+invited here, but our allies don’t like it at all.”

+

+Rostóv explained that he wanted to see Major Denísov of the hussars,

+who was wounded.

+

+“I don’t know. I can’t tell you, sir. Only think! I am alone in

+charge of three hospitals with more than four hundred patients! It’s

+well that the charitable Prussian ladies send us two pounds of coffee

+and some lint each month or we should be lost!” he laughed. “Four

+hundred, sir, and they’re always sending me fresh ones. There are four

+hundred? Eh?” he asked, turning to the assistant.

+

+The assistant looked fagged out. He was evidently vexed and impatient

+for the talkative doctor to go.

+

+“Major Denísov,” Rostóv said again. “He was wounded at

+Molliten.”

+

+“Dead, I fancy. Eh, Makéev?” queried the doctor, in a tone of

+indifference.

+

+The assistant, however, did not confirm the doctor’s words.

+

+“Is he tall and with reddish hair?” asked the doctor.

+

+Rostóv described Denísov’s appearance.

+

+“There was one like that,” said the doctor, as if pleased. “That

+one is dead, I fancy. However, I’ll look up our list. We had a list.

+Have you got it, Makéev?”

+

+“Makár Alexéevich has the list,” answered the assistant. “But if

+you’ll step into the officers’ wards you’ll see for yourself,”

+he added, turning to Rostóv.

+

+“Ah, you’d better not go, sir,” said the doctor, “or you may

+have to stay here yourself.”

+

+But Rostóv bowed himself away from the doctor and asked the assistant

+to show him the way.

+

+“Only don’t blame me!” the doctor shouted up after him.

+

+Rostóv and the assistant went into the dark corridor. The smell was so

+strong there that Rostóv held his nose and had to pause and collect

+his strength before he could go on. A door opened to the right, and an

+emaciated sallow man on crutches, barefoot and in underclothing, limped

+out and, leaning against the doorpost, looked with glittering envious

+eyes at those who were passing. Glancing in at the door, Rostóv

+saw that the sick and wounded were lying on the floor on straw and

+overcoats.

+

+“May I go in and look?”

+

+“What is there to see?” said the assistant.

+

+But, just because the assistant evidently did not want him to go in,

+Rostóv entered the soldiers’ ward. The foul air, to which he had

+already begun to get used in the corridor, was still stronger here. It

+was a little different, more pungent, and one felt that this was where

+it originated.

+

+In the long room, brightly lit up by the sun through the large windows,

+the sick and wounded lay in two rows with their heads to the walls, and

+leaving a passage in the middle. Most of them were unconscious and

+paid no attention to the newcomers. Those who were conscious raised

+themselves or lifted their thin yellow faces, and all looked intently at

+Rostóv with the same expression of hope, of relief, reproach, and

+envy of another’s health. Rostóv went to the middle of the room and

+looking through the open doors into the two adjoining rooms saw the same

+thing there. He stood still, looking silently around. He had not at all

+expected such a sight. Just before him, almost across the middle of the

+passage on the bare floor, lay a sick man, probably a Cossack to judge

+by the cut of his hair. The man lay on his back, his huge arms and legs

+outstretched. His face was purple, his eyes were rolled back so that

+only the whites were seen, and on his bare legs and arms which were

+still red, the veins stood out like cords. He was knocking the back of

+his head against the floor, hoarsely uttering some word which he kept

+repeating. Rostóv listened and made out the word. It was “drink,

+drink, a drink!” Rostóv glanced round, looking for someone who would

+put this man back in his place and bring him water.

+

+“Who looks after the sick here?” he asked the assistant.

+

+Just then a commissariat soldier, a hospital orderly, came in from the

+next room, marching stiffly, and drew up in front of Rostóv.

+

+“Good day, your honor!” he shouted, rolling his eyes at Rostóv and

+evidently mistaking him for one of the hospital authorities.

+

+“Get him to his place and give him some water,” said Rostóv,

+pointing to the Cossack.

+

+“Yes, your honor,” the soldier replied complacently, and rolling

+his eyes more than ever he drew himself up still straighter, but did not

+move.

+

+“No, it’s impossible to do anything here,” thought Rostóv,

+lowering his eyes, and he was going out, but became aware of an intense

+look fixed on him on his right, and he turned. Close to the corner, on

+an overcoat, sat an old, unshaven, gray-bearded soldier as thin as a

+skeleton, with a stern sallow face and eyes intently fixed on Rostóv.

+The man’s neighbor on one side whispered something to him, pointing

+at Rostóv, who noticed that the old man wanted to speak to him. He drew

+nearer and saw that the old man had only one leg bent under him, the

+other had been amputated above the knee. His neighbor on the other side,

+who lay motionless some distance from him with his head thrown back, was

+a young soldier with a snub nose. His pale waxen face was still freckled

+and his eyes were rolled back. Rostóv looked at the young soldier and a

+cold chill ran down his back.

+

+“Why, this one seems...” he began, turning to the assistant.

+

+“And how we’ve been begging, your honor,” said the old soldier,

+his jaw quivering. “He’s been dead since morning. After all we’re

+men, not dogs.”

+

+“I’ll send someone at once. He shall be taken away—taken away at

+once,” said the assistant hurriedly. “Let us go, your honor.”

+

+“Yes, yes, let us go,” said Rostóv hastily, and lowering his

+eyes and shrinking, he tried to pass unnoticed between the rows of

+reproachful envious eyes that were fixed upon him, and went out of the

+room.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XVIII

+

+Going along the corridor, the assistant led Rostóv to the officers’

+wards, consisting of three rooms, the doors of which stood open. There

+were beds in these rooms and the sick and wounded officers were lying or

+sitting on them. Some were walking about the rooms in hospital dressing

+gowns. The first person Rostóv met in the officers’ ward was a thin

+little man with one arm, who was walking about the first room in a

+nightcap and hospital dressing gown, with a pipe between his teeth.

+Rostóv looked at him, trying to remember where he had seen him before.

+

+“See where we’ve met again!” said the little man. “Túshin,

+Túshin, don’t you remember, who gave you a lift at Schön Grabern?

+And I’ve had a bit cut off, you see...” he went on with a smile,

+pointing to the empty sleeve of his dressing gown. “Looking for

+Vasíli Dmítrich Denísov? My neighbor,” he added, when he heard

+who Rostóv wanted. “Here, here,” and Túshin led him into the next

+room, from whence came sounds of several laughing voices.

+

+“How can they laugh, or even live at all here?” thought Rostóv,

+still aware of that smell of decomposing flesh that had been so strong

+in the soldiers’ ward, and still seeming to see fixed on him those

+envious looks which had followed him out from both sides, and the face

+of that young soldier with eyes rolled back.

+

+Denísov lay asleep on his bed with his head under the blanket, though

+it was nearly noon.

+

+“Ah, Wostóv? How are you, how are you?” he called out, still in the

+same voice as in the regiment, but Rostóv noticed sadly that under this

+habitual ease and animation some new, sinister, hidden feeling showed

+itself in the expression of Denísov’s face and the intonations of his

+voice.

+

+His wound, though a slight one, had not yet healed even now, six weeks

+after he had been hit. His face had the same swollen pallor as the faces

+of the other hospital patients, but it was not this that struck Rostóv.

+What struck him was that Denísov did not seem glad to see him, and

+smiled at him unnaturally. He did not ask about the regiment, nor about

+the general state of affairs, and when Rostóv spoke of these matters

+did not listen.

+

+Rostóv even noticed that Denísov did not like to be reminded of the

+regiment, or in general of that other free life which was going on

+outside the hospital. He seemed to try to forget that old life and

+was only interested in the affair with the commissariat officers. On

+Rostóv’s inquiry as to how the matter stood, he at once produced from

+under his pillow a paper he had received from the commission and the

+rough draft of his answer to it. He became animated when he began

+reading his paper and specially drew Rostóv’s attention to the

+stinging rejoinders he made to his enemies. His hospital companions,

+who had gathered round Rostóv—a fresh arrival from the world

+outside—gradually began to disperse as soon as Denísov began reading

+his answer. Rostóv noticed by their faces that all those gentlemen had

+already heard that story more than once and were tired of it. Only the

+man who had the next bed, a stout Uhlan, continued to sit on his bed,

+gloomily frowning and smoking a pipe, and little one-armed Túshin still

+listened, shaking his head disapprovingly. In the middle of the reading,

+the Uhlan interrupted Denísov.

+

+“But what I say is,” he said, turning to Rostóv, “it would be

+best simply to petition the Emperor for pardon. They say great rewards

+will now be distributed, and surely a pardon would be granted....”

+

+“Me petition the Empewo’!” exclaimed Denísov, in a voice to which

+he tried hard to give the old energy and fire, but which sounded like

+an expression of irritable impotence. “What for? If I were a wobber I

+would ask mercy, but I’m being court-martialed for bwinging wobbers

+to book. Let them twy me, I’m not afwaid of anyone. I’ve served

+the Tsar and my countwy honowably and have not stolen! And am I to be

+degwaded?... Listen, I’m w’iting to them stwaight. This is what I

+say: ‘If I had wobbed the Tweasuwy...’”

+

+“It’s certainly well written,” said Túshin, “but that’s not

+the point, Vasíli Dmítrich,” and he also turned to Rostóv. “One

+has to submit, and Vasíli Dmítrich doesn’t want to. You know the

+auditor told you it was a bad business.”

+

+“Well, let it be bad,” said Denísov.

+

+“The auditor wrote out a petition for you,” continued Túshin,

+“and you ought to sign it and ask this gentleman to take it. No doubt

+he” (indicating Rostóv) “has connections on the staff. You won’t

+find a better opportunity.”

+

+“Haven’t I said I’m not going to gwovel?” Denísov interrupted

+him, went on reading his paper.

+

+Rostóv had not the courage to persuade Denísov, though he

+instinctively felt that the way advised by Túshin and the other

+officers was the safest, and though he would have been glad to be of

+service to Denísov. He knew his stubborn will and straightforward hasty

+temper.

+

+When the reading of Denísov’s virulent reply, which took more than an

+hour, was over, Rostóv said nothing, and he spent the rest of the day

+in a most dejected state of mind amid Denísov’s hospital comrades,

+who had gathered round him, telling them what he knew and listening to

+their stories. Denísov was moodily silent all the evening.

+

+Late in the evening, when Rostóv was about to leave, he asked Denísov

+whether he had no commission for him.

+

+“Yes, wait a bit,” said Denísov, glancing round at the officers,

+and taking his papers from under his pillow he went to the window, where

+he had an inkpot, and sat down to write.

+

+“It seems it’s no use knocking one’s head against a wall!” he

+said, coming from the window and giving Rostóv a large envelope. In

+it was the petition to the Emperor drawn up by the auditor, in

+which Denísov, without alluding to the offenses of the commissariat

+officials, simply asked for pardon.

+

+“Hand it in. It seems...”

+

+He did not finish, but gave a painfully unnatural smile.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XIX

+

+Having returned to the regiment and told the commander the state of

+Denísov’s affairs, Rostóv rode to Tilsit with the letter to the

+Emperor.

+

+On the thirteenth of June the French and Russian Emperors arrived in

+Tilsit. Borís Drubetskóy had asked the important personage on whom he

+was in attendance, to include him in the suite appointed for the stay at

+Tilsit.

+

+“I should like to see the great man,” he said, alluding to Napoleon,

+whom hitherto he, like everyone else, had always called Buonaparte.

+

+“You are speaking of Buonaparte?” asked the general, smiling.

+

+Borís looked at his general inquiringly and immediately saw that he was

+being tested.

+

+“I am speaking, Prince, of the Emperor Napoleon,” he replied. The

+general patted him on the shoulder, with a smile.

+

+“You will go far,” he said, and took him to Tilsit with him.

+

+Borís was among the few present at the Niemen on the day the two

+Emperors met. He saw the raft, decorated with monograms, saw Napoleon

+pass before the French Guards on the farther bank of the river, saw the

+pensive face of the Emperor Alexander as he sat in silence in a tavern

+on the bank of the Niemen awaiting Napoleon’s arrival, saw both

+Emperors get into boats, and saw how Napoleon—reaching the raft

+first—stepped quickly forward to meet Alexander and held out his hand

+to him, and how they both retired into the pavilion. Since he had begun

+to move in the highest circles Borís had made it his habit to watch

+attentively all that went on around him and to note it down. At the time

+of the meeting at Tilsit he asked the names of those who had come with

+Napoleon and about the uniforms they wore, and listened attentively to

+words spoken by important personages. At the moment the Emperors went

+into the pavilion he looked at his watch, and did not forget to look at

+it again when Alexander came out. The interview had lasted an hour and

+fifty-three minutes. He noted this down that same evening, among other

+facts he felt to be of historic importance. As the Emperor’s suite

+was a very small one, it was a matter of great importance, for a man who

+valued his success in the service, to be at Tilsit on the occasion of

+this interview between the two Emperors, and having succeeded in this,

+Borís felt that henceforth his position was fully assured. He had not

+only become known, but people had grown accustomed to him and accepted

+him. Twice he had executed commissions to the Emperor himself, so

+that the latter knew his face, and all those at court, far from

+cold-shouldering him as at first when they considered him a newcomer,

+would now have been surprised had he been absent.

+

+Borís lodged with another adjutant, the Polish Count Zhilínski.

+Zhilínski, a Pole brought up in Paris, was rich, and passionately

+fond of the French, and almost every day of the stay at Tilsit, French

+officers of the Guard and from French headquarters were dining and

+lunching with him and Borís.

+

+On the evening of the twenty-fourth of June, Count Zhilínski arranged a

+supper for his French friends. The guest of honor was an aide-de-camp of

+Napoleon’s, there were also several French officers of the Guard,

+and a page of Napoleon’s, a young lad of an old aristocratic French

+family. That same day, Rostóv, profiting by the darkness to avoid being

+recognized in civilian dress, came to Tilsit and went to the lodging

+occupied by Borís and Zhilínski.

+

+Rostóv, in common with the whole army from which he came, was far

+from having experienced the change of feeling toward Napoleon and the

+French—who from being foes had suddenly become friends—that had

+taken place at headquarters and in Borís. In the army, Bonaparte and

+the French were still regarded with mingled feelings of anger, contempt,

+and fear. Only recently, talking with one of Plátov’s Cossack

+officers, Rostóv had argued that if Napoleon were taken prisoner he

+would be treated not as a sovereign, but as a criminal. Quite lately,

+happening to meet a wounded French colonel on the road, Rostóv had

+maintained with heat that peace was impossible between a legitimate

+sovereign and the criminal Bonaparte. Rostóv was therefore unpleasantly

+struck by the presence of French officers in Borís’ lodging, dressed

+in uniforms he had been accustomed to see from quite a different point

+of view from the outposts of the flank. As soon as he noticed a French

+officer, who thrust his head out of the door, that warlike feeling of

+hostility which he always experienced at the sight of the enemy suddenly

+seized him. He stopped at the threshold and asked in Russian whether

+Drubetskóy lived there. Borís, hearing a strange voice in the

+anteroom, came out to meet him. An expression of annoyance showed itself

+for a moment on his face on first recognizing Rostóv.

+

+“Ah, it’s you? Very glad, very glad to see you,” he said, however,

+coming toward him with a smile. But Rostóv had noticed his first

+impulse.

+

+“I’ve come at a bad time I think. I should not have come, but I have

+business,” he said coldly.

+

+“No, I only wonder how you managed to get away from your regiment.

+Dans un moment je suis à vous,” * he said, answering someone who

+called him.

+

+    * “In a minute I shall be at your disposal.”

+

+

+“I see I’m intruding,” Rostóv repeated.

+

+The look of annoyance had already disappeared from Borís’ face:

+having evidently reflected and decided how to act, he very quietly took

+both Rostóv’s hands and led him into the next room. His eyes, looking

+serenely and steadily at Rostóv, seemed to be veiled by something,

+as if screened by blue spectacles of conventionality. So it seemed to

+Rostóv.

+

+“Oh, come now! As if you could come at a wrong time!” said Borís,

+and he led him into the room where the supper table was laid and

+introduced him to his guests, explaining that he was not a civilian, but

+an hussar officer, and an old friend of his.

+

+“Count Zhilínski—le Comte N. N.—le Capitaine S. S.,” said he,

+naming his guests. Rostóv looked frowningly at the Frenchmen, bowed

+reluctantly, and remained silent.

+

+Zhilínski evidently did not receive this new Russian person very

+willingly into his circle and did not speak to Rostóv. Borís did not

+appear to notice the constraint the newcomer produced and, with the same

+pleasant composure and the same veiled look in his eyes with which

+he had met Rostóv, tried to enliven the conversation. One of the

+Frenchmen, with the politeness characteristic of his countrymen,

+addressed the obstinately taciturn Rostóv, saying that the latter had

+probably come to Tilsit to see the Emperor.

+

+“No, I came on business,” replied Rostóv, briefly.

+

+Rostóv had been out of humor from the moment he noticed the look of

+dissatisfaction on Borís’ face, and as always happens to those in a

+bad humor, it seemed to him that everyone regarded him with aversion

+and that he was in everybody’s way. He really was in their way, for he

+alone took no part in the conversation which again became general. The

+looks the visitors cast on him seemed to say: “And what is he sitting

+here for?” He rose and went up to Borís.

+

+“Anyhow, I’m in your way,” he said in a low tone. “Come and talk

+over my business and I’ll go away.”

+

+“Oh, no, not at all,” said Borís. “But if you are tired, come and

+lie down in my room and have a rest.”

+

+“Yes, really...”

+

+They went into the little room where Borís slept. Rostóv, without

+sitting down, began at once, irritably (as if Borís were to blame in

+some way) telling him about Denísov’s affair, asking him whether,

+through his general, he could and would intercede with the Emperor on

+Denísov’s behalf and get Denísov’s petition handed in. When he

+and Borís were alone, Rostóv felt for the first time that he could not

+look Borís in the face without a sense of awkwardness. Borís, with one

+leg crossed over the other and stroking his left hand with the slender

+fingers of his right, listened to Rostóv as a general listens to the

+report of a subordinate, now looking aside and now gazing straight into

+Rostóv’s eyes with the same veiled look. Each time this happened

+Rostóv felt uncomfortable and cast down his eyes.

+

+“I have heard of such cases and know that His Majesty is very severe

+in such affairs. I think it would be best not to bring it before the

+Emperor, but to apply to the commander of the corps.... But in general,

+I think...”

+

+“So you don’t want to do anything? Well then, say so!” Rostóv

+almost shouted, not looking Borís in the face.

+

+Borís smiled.

+

+“On the contrary, I will do what I can. Only I thought...”

+

+At that moment Zhilínski’s voice was heard calling Borís.

+

+“Well then, go, go, go...” said Rostóv, and refusing supper and

+remaining alone in the little room, he walked up and down for a long

+time, hearing the lighthearted French conversation from the next room.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XX

+

+Rostóv had come to Tilsit the day least suitable for a petition

+on Denísov’s behalf. He could not himself go to the general in

+attendance as he was in mufti and had come to Tilsit without permission

+to do so, and Borís, even had he wished to, could not have done so on

+the following day. On that day, June 27, the preliminaries of peace were

+signed. The Emperors exchanged decorations: Alexander received the Cross

+of the Legion of Honor and Napoleon the Order of St. Andrew of the

+First Degree, and a dinner had been arranged for the evening, given by

+a battalion of the French Guards to the Preobrazhénsk battalion. The

+Emperors were to be present at that banquet.

+

+Rostóv felt so ill at ease and uncomfortable with Borís that, when the

+latter looked in after supper, he pretended to be asleep, and early next

+morning went away, avoiding Borís. In his civilian clothes and a

+round hat, he wandered about the town, staring at the French and their

+uniforms and at the streets and houses where the Russian and French

+Emperors were staying. In a square he saw tables being set up and

+preparations made for the dinner; he saw the Russian and French colors

+draped from side to side of the streets, with huge monograms A and N. In

+the windows of the houses also flags and bunting were displayed.

+

+“Borís doesn’t want to help me and I don’t want to ask him.

+That’s settled,” thought Nicholas. “All is over between us, but

+I won’t leave here without having done all I can for Denísov and

+certainly not without getting his letter to the Emperor. The Emperor!...

+He is here!” thought Rostóv, who had unconsciously returned to the

+house where Alexander lodged.

+

+Saddled horses were standing before the house and the suite were

+assembling, evidently preparing for the Emperor to come out.

+

+“I may see him at any moment,” thought Rostóv. “If only I were

+to hand the letter direct to him and tell him all... could they really

+arrest me for my civilian clothes? Surely not! He would understand on

+whose side justice lies. He understands everything, knows everything.

+Who can be more just, more magnanimous than he? And even if they did

+arrest me for being here, what would it matter?” thought he, looking

+at an officer who was entering the house the Emperor occupied. “After

+all, people do go in.... It’s all nonsense! I’ll go in and hand

+the letter to the Emperor myself so much the worse for Drubetskóy who

+drives me to it!” And suddenly with a determination he himself did not

+expect, Rostóv felt for the letter in his pocket and went straight to

+the house.

+

+“No, I won’t miss my opportunity now, as I did after Austerlitz,”

+he thought, expecting every moment to meet the monarch, and conscious of

+the blood that rushed to his heart at the thought. “I will fall at

+his feet and beseech him. He will lift me up, will listen, and will even

+thank me. ‘I am happy when I can do good, but to remedy injustice is

+the greatest happiness,’” Rostóv fancied the sovereign saying. And

+passing people who looked after him with curiosity, he entered the porch

+of the Emperor’s house.

+

+A broad staircase led straight up from the entry, and to the right he

+saw a closed door. Below, under the staircase, was a door leading to the

+lower floor.

+

+“Whom do you want?” someone inquired.

+

+“To hand in a letter, a petition, to His Majesty,” said Nicholas,

+with a tremor in his voice.

+

+“A petition? This way, to the officer on duty” (he was shown the

+door leading downstairs), “only it won’t be accepted.”

+

+On hearing this indifferent voice, Rostóv grew frightened at what

+he was doing; the thought of meeting the Emperor at any moment was so

+fascinating and consequently so alarming that he was ready to run away,

+but the official who had questioned him opened the door, and Rostóv

+entered.

+

+A short stout man of about thirty, in white breeches and high boots and

+a batiste shirt that he had evidently only just put on, standing in that

+room, and his valet was buttoning on to the back of his breeches a

+new pair of handsome silk-embroidered braces that, for some reason,

+attracted Rostóv’s attention. This man was speaking to someone in the

+adjoining room.

+

+“A good figure and in her first bloom,” he was saying, but on seeing

+Rostóv, he stopped short and frowned.

+

+“What is it? A petition?”

+

+“What is it?” asked the person in the other room.

+

+“Another petitioner,” answered the man with the braces.

+

+“Tell him to come later. He’ll be coming out directly, we must

+go.”

+

+“Later... later! Tomorrow. It’s too late...”

+

+Rostóv turned and was about to go, but the man in the braces stopped

+him.

+

+“Whom have you come from? Who are you?”

+

+“I come from Major Denísov,” answered Rostóv.

+

+“Are you an officer?”

+

+“Lieutenant Count Rostóv.”

+

+“What audacity! Hand it in through your commander. And go along with

+you... go,” and he continued to put on the uniform the valet handed

+him.

+

+Rostóv went back into the hall and noticed that in the porch there were

+many officers and generals in full parade uniform, whom he had to pass.

+

+Cursing his temerity, his heart sinking at the thought of finding

+himself at any moment face to face with the Emperor and being put to

+shame and arrested in his presence, fully alive now to the impropriety

+of his conduct and repenting of it, Rostóv, with downcast eyes, was

+making his way out of the house through the brilliant suite when a

+familiar voice called him and a hand detained him.

+

+“What are you doing here, sir, in civilian dress?” asked a deep

+voice.

+

+It was a cavalry general who had obtained the Emperor’s special favor

+during this campaign, and who had formerly commanded the division in

+which Rostóv was serving.

+

+Rostóv, in dismay, began justifying himself, but seeing the kindly,

+jocular face of the general, he took him aside and in an excited voice

+told him the whole affair, asking him to intercede for Denísov, whom

+the general knew. Having heard Rostóv to the end, the general shook his

+head gravely.

+

+“I’m sorry, sorry for that fine fellow. Give me the letter.”

+

+Hardly had Rostóv handed him the letter and finished explaining

+Denísov’s case, when hasty steps and the jingling of spurs were heard

+on the stairs, and the general, leaving him, went to the porch. The

+gentlemen of the Emperor’s suite ran down the stairs and went to their

+horses. Hayne, the same groom who had been at Austerlitz, led up the

+Emperor’s horse, and the faint creak of a footstep Rostóv knew at

+once was heard on the stairs. Forgetting the danger of being recognized,

+Rostóv went close to the porch, together with some inquisitive

+civilians, and again, after two years, saw those features he adored:

+that same face and same look and step, and the same union of majesty and

+mildness.... And the feeling of enthusiasm and love for his sovereign

+rose again in Rostóv’s soul in all its old force. In the uniform of

+the Preobrazhénsk regiment—white chamois-leather breeches and high

+boots—and wearing a star Rostóv did not know (it was that of the

+Légion d’honneur), the monarch came out into the porch, putting on

+his gloves and carrying his hat under his arm. He stopped and looked

+about him, brightening everything around by his glance. He spoke a few

+words to some of the generals, and, recognizing the former commander of

+Rostóv’s division, smiled and beckoned to him.

+

+All the suite drew back and Rostóv saw the general talking for some

+time to the Emperor.

+

+The Emperor said a few words to him and took a step toward his horse.

+Again the crowd of members of the suite and street gazers (among whom

+was Rostóv) moved nearer to the Emperor. Stopping beside his horse,

+with his hand on the saddle, the Emperor turned to the cavalry general

+and said in a loud voice, evidently wishing to be heard by all:

+

+“I cannot do it, General. I cannot, because the law is stronger than

+I,” and he raised his foot to the stirrup.

+

+The general bowed his head respectfully, and the monarch mounted and

+rode down the street at a gallop. Beside himself with enthusiasm,

+Rostóv ran after him with the crowd.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XXI

+

+The Emperor rode to the square where, facing one another, a battalion

+of the Preobrazhénsk regiment stood on the right and a battalion of the

+French Guards in their bearskin caps on the left.

+

+As the Tsar rode up to one flank of the battalions, which presented

+arms, another group of horsemen galloped up to the opposite flank, and

+at the head of them Rostóv recognized Napoleon. It could be no one

+else. He came at a gallop, wearing a small hat, a blue uniform open over

+a white vest, and the St. Andrew ribbon over his shoulder. He was riding

+a very fine thoroughbred gray Arab horse with a crimson gold-embroidered

+saddlecloth. On approaching Alexander he raised his hat, and as he did

+so, Rostóv, with his cavalryman’s eye, could not help noticing

+that Napoleon did not sit well or firmly in the saddle. The battalions

+shouted “Hurrah!” and “Vive l’Empereur!” Napoleon said

+something to Alexander, and both Emperors dismounted and took each

+other’s hands. Napoleon’s face wore an unpleasant and artificial

+smile. Alexander was saying something affable to him.

+

+In spite of the trampling of the French gendarmes’ horses, which

+were pushing back the crowd, Rostóv kept his eyes on every movement

+of Alexander and Bonaparte. It struck him as a surprise that Alexander

+treated Bonaparte as an equal and that the latter was quite at ease with

+the Tsar, as if such relations with an Emperor were an everyday matter

+to him.

+

+Alexander and Napoleon, with the long train of their suites, approached

+the right flank of the Preobrazhénsk battalion and came straight up to

+the crowd standing there. The crowd unexpectedly found itself so close

+to the Emperors that Rostóv, standing in the front row, was afraid he

+might be recognized.

+

+“Sire, I ask your permission to present the Legion of Honor to the

+bravest of your soldiers,” said a sharp, precise voice, articulating

+every letter.

+

+This was said by the undersized Napoleon, looking up straight into

+Alexander’s eyes. Alexander listened attentively to what was said to

+him and, bending his head, smiled pleasantly.

+

+“To him who has borne himself most bravely in this last war,” added

+Napoleon, accentuating each syllable, as with a composure and assurance

+exasperating to Rostóv, he ran his eyes over the Russian ranks drawn

+up before him, who all presented arms with their eyes fixed on their

+Emperor.

+

+“Will Your Majesty allow me to consult the colonel?” said Alexander

+and took a few hasty steps toward Prince Kozlóvski, the commander of

+the battalion.

+

+Bonaparte meanwhile began taking the glove off his small white hand,

+tore it in doing so, and threw it away. An aide-de-camp behind him

+rushed forward and picked it up.

+

+“To whom shall it be given?” the Emperor Alexander asked Kozlóvski,

+in Russian in a low voice.

+

+“To whomever Your Majesty commands.”

+

+The Emperor knit his brows with dissatisfaction and, glancing back,

+remarked:

+

+“But we must give him an answer.”

+

+Kozlóvski scanned the ranks resolutely and included Rostóv in his

+scrutiny.

+

+“Can it be me?” thought Rostóv.

+

+“Lázarev!” the colonel called, with a frown, and Lázarev, the

+first soldier in the rank, stepped briskly forward.

+

+“Where are you off to? Stop here!” voices whispered to Lázarev who

+did not know where to go. Lázarev stopped, casting a sidelong look at

+his colonel in alarm. His face twitched, as often happens to soldiers

+called before the ranks.

+

+Napoleon slightly turned his head, and put his plump little hand out

+behind him as if to take something. The members of his suite, guessing

+at once what he wanted, moved about and whispered as they passed

+something from one to another, and a page—the same one Rostóv

+had seen the previous evening at Borís’—ran forward and, bowing

+respectfully over the outstretched hand and not keeping it waiting a

+moment, laid in it an Order on a red ribbon. Napoleon, without looking,

+pressed two fingers together and the badge was between them. Then he

+approached Lázarev (who rolled his eyes and persistently gazed at his

+own monarch), looked round at the Emperor Alexander to imply that what

+he was now doing was done for the sake of his ally, and the small white

+hand holding the Order touched one of Lázarev’s buttons. It was as if

+Napoleon knew that it was only necessary for his hand to deign to touch

+that soldier’s breast for the soldier to be forever happy, rewarded,

+and distinguished from everyone else in the world. Napoleon merely laid

+the cross on Lázarev’s breast and, dropping his hand, turned toward

+Alexander as though sure that the cross would adhere there. And it

+really did.

+

+Officious hands, Russian and French, immediately seized the cross and

+fastened it to the uniform. Lázarev glanced morosely at the little

+man with white hands who was doing something to him and, still standing

+motionless presenting arms, looked again straight into Alexander’s

+eyes, as if asking whether he should stand there, or go away, or do

+something else. But receiving no orders, he remained for some time in

+that rigid position.

+

+The Emperors remounted and rode away. The Preobrazhénsk battalion,

+breaking rank, mingled with the French Guards and sat down at the tables

+prepared for them.

+

+Lázarev sat in the place of honor. Russian and French officers embraced

+him, congratulated him, and pressed his hands. Crowds of officers and

+civilians drew near merely to see him. A rumble of Russian and French

+voices and laughter filled the air round the tables in the square.

+Two officers with flushed faces, looking cheerful and happy, passed by

+Rostóv.

+

+“What d’you think of the treat? All on silver plate,” one of them

+was saying. “Have you seen Lázarev?”

+

+“I have.”

+

+“Tomorrow, I hear, the Preobrazhénskis will give them a dinner.”

+

+“Yes, but what luck for Lázarev! Twelve hundred francs’ pension for

+life.”

+

+“Here’s a cap, lads!” shouted a Preobrazhénsk soldier, donning a

+shaggy French cap.

+

+“It’s a fine thing! First-rate!”

+

+“Have you heard the password?” asked one Guards’ officer of

+another. “The day before yesterday it was ‘Napoléon, France,

+bravoure’; yesterday, ‘Alexandre, Russie, grandeur.’ One day our

+Emperor gives it and next day Napoleon. Tomorrow our Emperor will send

+a St. George’s Cross to the bravest of the French Guards. It has to be

+done. He must respond in kind.”

+

+Borís, too, with his friend Zhilínski, came to see the Preobrazhénsk

+banquet. On his way back, he noticed Rostóv standing by the corner of a

+house.

+

+“Rostóv! How d’you do? We missed one another,” he said, and could

+not refrain from asking what was the matter, so strangely dismal and

+troubled was Rostóv’s face.

+

+“Nothing, nothing,” replied Rostóv.

+

+“You’ll call round?”

+

+“Yes, I will.”

+

+Rostóv stood at that corner for a long time, watching the feast from a

+distance. In his mind, a painful process was going on which he could

+not bring to a conclusion. Terrible doubts rose in his soul. Now he

+remembered Denísov with his changed expression, his submission, and the

+whole hospital, with arms and legs torn off and its dirt and disease. So

+vividly did he recall that hospital stench of dead flesh that he

+looked round to see where the smell came from. Next he thought of that

+self-satisfied Bonaparte, with his small white hand, who was now an

+Emperor, liked and respected by Alexander. Then why those severed

+arms and legs and those dead men?... Then again he thought of Lázarev

+rewarded and Denísov punished and unpardoned. He caught himself

+harboring such strange thoughts that he was frightened.

+

+The smell of the food the Preobrazhénskis were eating and a sense of

+hunger recalled him from these reflections; he had to get something to

+eat before going away. He went to a hotel he had noticed that morning.

+There he found so many people, among them officers who, like himself,

+had come in civilian clothes, that he had difficulty in getting a

+dinner. Two officers of his own division joined him. The conversation

+naturally turned on the peace. The officers, his comrades, like most of

+the army, were dissatisfied with the peace concluded after the battle of

+Friedland. They said that had we held out a little longer Napoleon would

+have been done for, as his troops had neither provisions nor ammunition.

+Nicholas ate and drank (chiefly the latter) in silence. He finished a

+couple of bottles of wine by himself. The process in his mind went on

+tormenting him without reaching a conclusion. He feared to give way to

+his thoughts, yet could not get rid of them. Suddenly, on one of the

+officers’ saying that it was humiliating to look at the French,

+Rostóv began shouting with uncalled-for wrath, and therefore much to

+the surprise of the officers:

+

+“How can you judge what’s best?” he cried, the blood suddenly

+rushing to his face. “How can you judge the Emperor’s actions? What

+right have we to argue? We cannot comprehend either the Emperor’s aims

+or his actions!”

+

+“But I never said a word about the Emperor!” said the officer,

+justifying himself, and unable to understand Rostóv’s outburst,

+except on the supposition that he was drunk.

+

+But Rostóv did not listen to him.

+

+“We are not diplomatic officials, we are soldiers and nothing more,”

+he went on. “If we are ordered to die, we must die. If we’re

+punished, it means that we have deserved it, it’s not for us to judge.

+If the Emperor pleases to recognize Bonaparte as Emperor and to conclude

+an alliance with him, it means that that is the right thing to do. If

+once we begin judging and arguing about everything, nothing sacred

+will be left! That way we shall be saying there is no God—nothing!”

+shouted Nicholas, banging the table—very little to the point as it

+seemed to his listeners, but quite relevantly to the course of his own

+thoughts.

+

+“Our business is to do our duty, to fight and not to think! That’s

+all....” said he.

+

+“And to drink,” said one of the officers, not wishing to quarrel.

+

+“Yes, and to drink,” assented Nicholas. “Hullo there! Another

+bottle!” he shouted.

+

+In 1808 the Emperor Alexander went to Erfurt for a fresh interview with

+the Emperor Napoleon, and in the upper circles of Petersburg there was

+much talk of the grandeur of this important meeting.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XXII

+

+In 1809 the intimacy between “the world’s two arbiters,” as

+Napoleon and Alexander were called, was such that when Napoleon declared

+war on Austria a Russian corps crossed the frontier to co-operate with

+our old enemy Bonaparte against our old ally the Emperor of Austria, and

+in court circles the possibility of marriage between Napoleon and one

+of Alexander’s sisters was spoken of. But besides considerations of

+foreign policy, the attention of Russian society was at that time keenly

+directed on the internal changes that were being undertaken in all the

+departments of government.

+

+Life meanwhile—real life, with its essential interests of health and

+sickness, toil and rest, and its intellectual interests in thought,

+science, poetry, music, love, friendship, hatred, and passions—went on

+as usual, independently of and apart from political friendship or enmity

+with Napoleon Bonaparte and from all the schemes of reconstruction.

+

+

+

+

+

+BOOK SIX: 1808 - 10

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER I

+

+Prince Andrew had spent two years continuously in the country.

+

+All the plans Pierre had attempted on his estates—and constantly

+changing from one thing to another had never accomplished—were carried

+out by Prince Andrew without display and without perceptible difficulty.

+

+He had in the highest degree a practical tenacity which Pierre lacked,

+and without fuss or strain on his part this set things going.

+

+On one of his estates the three hundred serfs were liberated and became

+free agricultural laborers—this being one of the first examples of

+the kind in Russia. On other estates the serfs’ compulsory labor was

+commuted for a quitrent. A trained midwife was engaged for Boguchárovo

+at his expense, and a priest was paid to teach reading and writing to

+the children of the peasants and household serfs.

+

+Prince Andrew spent half his time at Bald Hills with his father and his

+son, who was still in the care of nurses. The other half he spent in

+“Boguchárovo Cloister,” as his father called Prince Andrew’s

+estate. Despite the indifference to the affairs of the world he had

+expressed to Pierre, he diligently followed all that went on, received

+many books, and to his surprise noticed that when he or his father had

+visitors from Petersburg, the very vortex of life, these people lagged

+behind himself—who never left the country—in knowledge of what was

+happening in home and foreign affairs.

+

+Besides being occupied with his estates and reading a great variety of

+books, Prince Andrew was at this time busy with a critical survey of

+our last two unfortunate campaigns, and with drawing up a proposal for a

+reform of the army rules and regulations.

+

+In the spring of 1809 he went to visit the Ryazán estates which had

+been inherited by his son, whose guardian he was.

+

+Warmed by the spring sunshine he sat in the calèche looking at the new

+grass, the first leaves on the birches, and the first puffs of white

+spring clouds floating across the clear blue sky. He was not thinking of

+anything, but looked absent-mindedly and cheerfully from side to side.

+

+They crossed the ferry where he had talked with Pierre the year before.

+They went through the muddy village, past threshing floors and green

+fields of winter rye, downhill where snow still lodged near the bridge,

+uphill where the clay had been liquefied by the rain, past strips of

+stubble land and bushes touched with green here and there, and into a

+birch forest growing on both sides of the road. In the forest it was

+almost hot, no wind could be felt. The birches with their sticky green

+leaves were motionless, and lilac-colored flowers and the first blades

+of green grass were pushing up and lifting last year’s leaves. The

+coarse evergreen color of the small fir trees scattered here and there

+among the birches was an unpleasant reminder of winter. On entering the

+forest the horses began to snort and sweated visibly.

+

+Peter the footman made some remark to the coachman; the latter assented.

+But apparently the coachman’s sympathy was not enough for Peter, and

+he turned on the box toward his master.

+

+“How pleasant it is, your excellency!” he said with a respectful

+smile.

+

+“What?”

+

+“It’s pleasant, your excellency!”

+

+“What is he talking about?” thought Prince Andrew. “Oh, the

+spring, I suppose,” he thought as he turned round. “Yes, really

+everything is green already.... How early! The birches and cherry and

+alders too are coming out.... But the oaks show no sign yet. Ah, here is

+one oak!”

+

+At the edge of the road stood an oak. Probably ten times the age of the

+birches that formed the forest, it was ten times as thick and twice as

+tall as they. It was an enormous tree, its girth twice as great as a

+man could embrace, and evidently long ago some of its branches had been

+broken off and its bark scarred. With its huge ungainly limbs sprawling

+unsymmetrically, and its gnarled hands and fingers, it stood an aged,

+stern, and scornful monster among the smiling birch trees. Only the

+dead-looking evergreen firs dotted about in the forest, and this oak,

+refused to yield to the charm of spring or notice either the spring or

+the sunshine.

+

+“Spring, love, happiness!” this oak seemed to say. “Are you not

+weary of that stupid, meaningless, constantly repeated fraud? Always the

+same and always a fraud? There is no spring, no sun, no happiness! Look

+at those cramped dead firs, ever the same, and at me too, sticking out

+my broken and barked fingers just where they have grown, whether from my

+back or my sides: as they have grown so I stand, and I do not believe in

+your hopes and your lies.”

+

+As he passed through the forest Prince Andrew turned several times to

+look at that oak, as if expecting something from it. Under the oak,

+too, were flowers and grass, but it stood among them scowling, rigid,

+misshapen, and grim as ever.

+

+“Yes, the oak is right, a thousand times right,” thought Prince

+Andrew. “Let others—the young—yield afresh to that fraud, but we

+know life, our life is finished!”

+

+A whole sequence of new thoughts, hopeless but mournfully pleasant, rose

+in his soul in connection with that tree. During this journey he, as

+it were, considered his life afresh and arrived at his old conclusion,

+restful in its hopelessness: that it was not for him to begin anything

+anew—but that he must live out his life, content to do no harm, and

+not disturbing himself or desiring anything.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER II

+

+Prince Andrew had to see the Marshal of the Nobility for the district

+in connection with the affairs of the Ryazán estate of which he was

+trustee. This Marshal was Count Ilyá Rostóv, and in the middle of May

+Prince Andrew went to visit him.

+

+It was now hot spring weather. The whole forest was already clothed in

+green. It was dusty and so hot that on passing near water one longed to

+bathe.

+

+Prince Andrew, depressed and preoccupied with the business about which

+he had to speak to the Marshal, was driving up the avenue in the grounds

+of the Rostóvs’ house at Otrádnoe. He heard merry girlish cries

+behind some trees on the right and saw a group of girls running to cross

+the path of his calèche. Ahead of the rest and nearer to him ran a

+dark-haired, remarkably slim, pretty girl in a yellow chintz dress, with

+a white handkerchief on her head from under which loose locks of hair

+escaped. The girl was shouting something but, seeing that he was a

+stranger, ran back laughing without looking at him.

+

+Suddenly, he did not know why, he felt a pang. The day was so beautiful,

+the sun so bright, everything around so gay, but that slim pretty girl

+did not know, or wish to know, of his existence and was contented and

+cheerful in her own separate—probably foolish—but bright and happy

+life. “What is she so glad about? What is she thinking of? Not of

+the military regulations or of the arrangement of the Ryazán serfs’

+quitrents. Of what is she thinking? Why is she so happy?” Prince

+Andrew asked himself with instinctive curiosity.

+

+In 1809 Count Ilyá Rostóv was living at Otrádnoe just as he had done

+in former years, that is, entertaining almost the whole province with

+hunts, theatricals, dinners, and music. He was glad to see Prince

+Andrew, as he was to see any new visitor, and insisted on his staying

+the night.

+

+During the dull day, in the course of which he was entertained by

+his elderly hosts and by the more important of the visitors (the old

+count’s house was crowded on account of an approaching name day),

+Prince Andrew repeatedly glanced at Natásha, gay and laughing among the

+younger members of the company, and asked himself each time, “What is

+she thinking about? Why is she so glad?”

+

+That night, alone in new surroundings, he was long unable to sleep. He

+read awhile and then put out his candle, but relit it. It was hot in the

+room, the inside shutters of which were closed. He was cross with the

+stupid old man (as he called Rostóv), who had made him stay by assuring

+him that some necessary documents had not yet arrived from town, and he

+was vexed with himself for having stayed.

+

+He got up and went to the window to open it. As soon as he opened the

+shutters the moonlight, as if it had long been watching for this, burst

+into the room. He opened the casement. The night was fresh, bright, and

+very still. Just before the window was a row of pollard trees, looking

+black on one side and with a silvery light on the other. Beneath the

+trees grew some kind of lush, wet, bushy vegetation with silver-lit

+leaves and stems here and there. Farther back beyond the dark trees a

+roof glittered with dew, to the right was a leafy tree with brilliantly

+white trunk and branches, and above it shone the moon, nearly at its

+full, in a pale, almost starless, spring sky. Prince Andrew leaned his

+elbows on the window ledge and his eyes rested on that sky.

+

+His room was on the first floor. Those in the rooms above were also

+awake. He heard female voices overhead.

+

+“Just once more,” said a girlish voice above him which Prince Andrew

+recognized at once.

+

+“But when are you coming to bed?” replied another voice.

+

+“I won’t, I can’t sleep, what’s the use? Come now for the last

+time.”

+

+Two girlish voices sang a musical passage—the end of some song.

+

+“Oh, how lovely! Now go to sleep, and there’s an end of it.”

+

+“You go to sleep, but I can’t,” said the first voice, coming

+nearer to the window. She was evidently leaning right out, for the

+rustle of her dress and even her breathing could be heard. Everything

+was stone-still, like the moon and its light and the shadows. Prince

+Andrew, too, dared not stir, for fear of betraying his unintentional

+presence.

+

+“Sónya! Sónya!” he again heard the first speaker. “Oh, how can

+you sleep? Only look how glorious it is! Ah, how glorious! Do wake up,

+Sónya!” she said almost with tears in her voice. “There never,

+never was such a lovely night before!”

+

+Sónya made some reluctant reply.

+

+“Do just come and see what a moon!... Oh, how lovely! Come here....

+Darling, sweetheart, come here! There, you see? I feel like sitting down

+on my heels, putting my arms round my knees like this, straining tight,

+as tight as possible, and flying away! Like this....”

+

+“Take care, you’ll fall out.”

+

+He heard the sound of a scuffle and Sónya’s disapproving voice:

+“It’s past one o’clock.”

+

+“Oh, you only spoil things for me. All right, go, go!”

+

+Again all was silent, but Prince Andrew knew she was still sitting

+there. From time to time he heard a soft rustle and at times a sigh.

+

+“O God, O God! What does it mean?” she suddenly exclaimed. “To bed

+then, if it must be!” and she slammed the casement.

+

+“For her I might as well not exist!” thought Prince Andrew while he

+listened to her voice, for some reason expecting yet fearing that she

+might say something about him. “There she is again! As if it were on

+purpose,” thought he.

+

+In his soul there suddenly arose such an unexpected turmoil of youthful

+thoughts and hopes, contrary to the whole tenor of his life, that unable

+to explain his condition to himself he lay down and fell asleep at once.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER III

+

+Next morning, having taken leave of no one but the count, and not

+waiting for the ladies to appear, Prince Andrew set off for home.

+

+It was already the beginning of June when on his return journey he drove

+into the birch forest where the gnarled old oak had made so strange and

+memorable an impression on him. In the forest the harness bells sounded

+yet more muffled than they had done six weeks before, for now all was

+thick, shady, and dense, and the young firs dotted about in the forest

+did not jar on the general beauty but, lending themselves to the mood

+around, were delicately green with fluffy young shoots.

+

+The whole day had been hot. Somewhere a storm was gathering, but only

+a small cloud had scattered some raindrops lightly, sprinkling the road

+and the sappy leaves. The left side of the forest was dark in the shade,

+the right side glittered in the sunlight, wet and shiny and scarcely

+swayed by the breeze. Everything was in blossom, the nightingales

+trilled, and their voices reverberated now near, now far away.

+

+“Yes, here in this forest was that oak with which I agreed,” thought

+Prince Andrew. “But where is it?” he again wondered, gazing at

+the left side of the road, and without recognizing it he looked with

+admiration at the very oak he sought. The old oak, quite transfigured,

+spreading out a canopy of sappy dark-green foliage, stood rapt and

+slightly trembling in the rays of the evening sun. Neither gnarled

+fingers nor old scars nor old doubts and sorrows were any of them in

+evidence now. Through the hard century-old bark, even where there were

+no twigs, leaves had sprouted such as one could hardly believe the old

+veteran could have produced.

+

+“Yes, it is the same oak,” thought Prince Andrew, and all at once he

+was seized by an unreasoning springtime feeling of joy and renewal. All

+the best moments of his life suddenly rose to his memory. Austerlitz

+with the lofty heavens, his wife’s dead reproachful face, Pierre at

+the ferry, that girl thrilled by the beauty of the night, and that night

+itself and the moon, and... all this rushed suddenly to his mind.

+

+“No, life is not over at thirty-one!” Prince Andrew suddenly decided

+finally and decisively. “It is not enough for me to know what I have

+in me—everyone must know it: Pierre, and that young girl who wanted to

+fly away into the sky, everyone must know me, so that my life may not be

+lived for myself alone while others live so apart from it, but so that

+it may be reflected in them all, and they and I may live in harmony!”

+

+

+On reaching home Prince Andrew decided to go to Petersburg that autumn

+and found all sorts of reasons for this decision. A whole series of

+sensible and logical considerations showing it to be essential for him

+to go to Petersburg, and even to re-enter the service, kept springing

+up in his mind. He could not now understand how he could ever even have

+doubted the necessity of taking an active share in life, just as a month

+before he had not understood how the idea of leaving the quiet country

+could ever enter his head. It now seemed clear to him that all his

+experience of life must be senselessly wasted unless he applied it to

+some kind of work and again played an active part in life. He did not

+even remember how formerly, on the strength of similar wretched logical

+arguments, it had seemed obvious that he would be degrading himself if

+he now, after the lessons he had had in life, allowed himself to believe

+in the possibility of being useful and in the possibility of happiness

+or love. Now reason suggested quite the opposite. After that journey

+to Ryazán he found the country dull; his former pursuits no longer

+interested him, and often when sitting alone in his study he got up,

+went to the mirror, and gazed a long time at his own face. Then he would

+turn away to the portrait of his dead Lise, who with hair curled à la

+grecque looked tenderly and gaily at him out of the gilt frame. She

+did not now say those former terrible words to him, but looked simply,

+merrily, and inquisitively at him. And Prince Andrew, crossing his

+arms behind him, long paced the room, now frowning, now smiling, as

+he reflected on those irrational, inexpressible thoughts, secret as a

+crime, which altered his whole life and were connected with Pierre, with

+fame, with the girl at the window, the oak, and woman’s beauty

+and love. And if anyone came into his room at such moments he was

+particularly cold, stern, and above all unpleasantly logical.

+

+“My dear,” Princess Mary entering at such a moment would say,

+“little Nicholas can’t go out today, it’s very cold.”

+

+“If it were hot,” Prince Andrew would reply at such times very dryly

+to his sister, “he could go out in his smock, but as it is cold he

+must wear warm clothes, which were designed for that purpose. That is

+what follows from the fact that it is cold; and not that a child who

+needs fresh air should remain at home,” he would add with extreme

+logic, as if punishing someone for those secret illogical emotions that

+stirred within him.

+

+At such moments Princess Mary would think how intellectual work dries

+men up.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER IV

+

+Prince Andrew arrived in Petersburg in August, 1809. It was the time

+when the youthful Speránski was at the zenith of his fame and his

+reforms were being pushed forward with the greatest energy. That same

+August the Emperor was thrown from his calèche, injured his leg, and

+remained three weeks at Peterhof, receiving Speránski every day and no

+one else. At that time the two famous decrees were being prepared

+that so agitated society—abolishing court ranks and introducing

+examinations to qualify for the grades of Collegiate Assessor and

+State Councilor—and not merely these but a whole state constitution,

+intended to change the existing order of government in Russia: legal,

+administrative, and financial, from the Council of State down to the

+district tribunals. Now those vague liberal dreams with which the

+Emperor Alexander had ascended the throne, and which he had tried to put

+into effect with the aid of his associates, Czartorýski, Novosíltsev,

+Kochubéy, and Strógonov—whom he himself in jest had called his

+Comité de salut public—were taking shape and being realized.

+

+Now all these men were replaced by Speránski on the civil side, and

+Arakchéev on the military. Soon after his arrival Prince Andrew, as a

+gentleman of the chamber, presented himself at court and at a levee. The

+Emperor, though he met him twice, did not favor him with a single word.

+It had always seemed to Prince Andrew before that he was antipathetic

+to the Emperor and that the latter disliked his face and personality

+generally, and in the cold, repellent glance the Emperor gave him, he

+now found further confirmation of this surmise. The courtiers explained

+the Emperor’s neglect of him by His Majesty’s displeasure at

+Bolkónski’s not having served since 1805.

+

+“I know myself that one cannot help one’s sympathies and

+antipathies,” thought Prince Andrew, “so it will not do to present

+my proposal for the reform of the army regulations to the Emperor

+personally, but the project will speak for itself.”

+

+He mentioned what he had written to an old field marshal, a friend

+of his father’s. The field marshal made an appointment to see him,

+received him graciously, and promised to inform the Emperor. A few

+days later Prince Andrew received notice that he was to go to see the

+Minister of War, Count Arakchéev.

+

+

+On the appointed day Prince Andrew entered Count Arakchéev’s waiting

+room at nine in the morning.

+

+He did not know Arakchéev personally, had never seen him, and all he

+had heard of him inspired him with but little respect for the man.

+

+“He is Minister of War, a man trusted by the Emperor, and I need not

+concern myself about his personal qualities: he has been commissioned to

+consider my project, so he alone can get it adopted,” thought Prince

+Andrew as he waited among a number of important and unimportant people

+in Count Arakchéev’s waiting room.

+

+During his service, chiefly as an adjutant, Prince Andrew had seen the

+anterooms of many important men, and the different types of such rooms

+were well known to him. Count Arakchéev’s anteroom had quite a

+special character. The faces of the unimportant people awaiting their

+turn for an audience showed embarrassment and servility; the faces of

+those of higher rank expressed a common feeling of awkwardness, covered

+by a mask of unconcern and ridicule of themselves, their situation, and

+the person for whom they were waiting. Some walked thoughtfully up and

+down, others whispered and laughed. Prince Andrew heard the nickname

+“Síla Andréevich” and the words, “Uncle will give it to us

+hot,” in reference to Count Arakchéev. One general (an important

+personage), evidently feeling offended at having to wait so long, sat

+crossing and uncrossing his legs and smiling contemptuously to himself.

+

+But the moment the door opened one feeling alone appeared on all

+faces—that of fear. Prince Andrew for the second time asked the

+adjutant on duty to take in his name, but received an ironical look and

+was told that his turn would come in due course. After some others had

+been shown in and out of the minister’s room by the adjutant on duty,

+an officer who struck Prince Andrew by his humiliated and frightened air

+was admitted at that terrible door. This officer’s audience lasted a

+long time. Then suddenly the grating sound of a harsh voice was heard

+from the other side of the door, and the officer—with pale face and

+trembling lips—came out and passed through the waiting room, clutching

+his head.

+

+After this Prince Andrew was conducted to the door and the officer on

+duty said in a whisper, “To the right, at the window.”

+

+Prince Andrew entered a plain tidy room and saw at the table a man of

+forty with a long waist, a long closely cropped head, deep wrinkles,

+scowling brows above dull greenish-hazel eyes and an overhanging red

+nose. Arakchéev turned his head toward him without looking at him.

+

+“What is your petition?” asked Arakchéev.

+

+“I am not petitioning, your excellency,” returned Prince Andrew

+quietly.

+

+Arakchéev’s eyes turned toward him.

+

+“Sit down,” said he. “Prince Bolkónski?”

+

+“I am not petitioning about anything. His Majesty the Emperor has

+deigned to send your excellency a project submitted by me...”

+

+“You see, my dear sir, I have read your project,” interrupted

+Arakchéev, uttering only the first words amiably and then—again

+without looking at Prince Andrew—relapsing gradually into a tone of

+grumbling contempt. “You are proposing new military laws? There are

+many laws but no one to carry out the old ones. Nowadays everybody

+designs laws, it is easier writing than doing.”

+

+“I came at His Majesty the Emperor’s wish to learn from your

+excellency how you propose to deal with the memorandum I have

+presented,” said Prince Andrew politely.

+

+“I have endorsed a resolution on your memorandum and sent it to the

+committee. I do not approve of it,” said Arakchéev, rising and taking

+a paper from his writing table. “Here!” and he handed it to Prince

+Andrew.

+

+Across the paper was scrawled in pencil, without capital letters,

+misspelled, and without punctuation: “Unsoundly constructed because

+resembles an imitation of the French military code and from the Articles

+of War needlessly deviating.”

+

+“To what committee has the memorandum been referred?” inquired

+Prince Andrew.

+

+“To the Committee on Army Regulations, and I have recommended that

+your honor should be appointed a member, but without a salary.”

+

+Prince Andrew smiled.

+

+“I don’t want one.”

+

+“A member without salary,” repeated Arakchéev. “I have the

+honor... Eh! Call the next one! Who else is there?” he shouted, bowing

+to Prince Andrew.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER V

+

+While waiting for the announcement of his appointment to the committee

+Prince Andrew looked up his former acquaintances, particularly those he

+knew to be in power and whose aid he might need. In Petersburg he now

+experienced the same feeling he had had on the eve of a battle, when

+troubled by anxious curiosity and irresistibly attracted to the ruling

+circles where the future, on which the fate of millions depended, was

+being shaped. From the irritation of the older men, the curiosity of the

+uninitiated, the reserve of the initiated, the hurry and preoccupation

+of everyone, and the innumerable committees and commissions of whose

+existence he learned every day, he felt that now, in 1809, here in

+Petersburg a vast civil conflict was in preparation, the commander in

+chief of which was a mysterious person he did not know, but who was

+supposed to be a man of genius—Speránski. And this movement of

+reconstruction of which Prince Andrew had a vague idea, and Speránski

+its chief promoter, began to interest him so keenly that the question

+of the army regulations quickly receded to a secondary place in his

+consciousness.

+

+Prince Andrew was most favorably placed to secure good reception in the

+highest and most diverse Petersburg circles of the day. The reforming

+party cordially welcomed and courted him, in the first place because

+he was reputed to be clever and very well read, and secondly because by

+liberating his serfs he had obtained the reputation of being a liberal.

+The party of the old and dissatisfied, who censured the innovations,

+turned to him expecting his sympathy in their disapproval of the

+reforms, simply because he was the son of his father. The feminine

+society world welcomed him gladly, because he was rich, distinguished, a

+good match, and almost a newcomer, with a halo of romance on account

+of his supposed death and the tragic loss of his wife. Besides this

+the general opinion of all who had known him previously was that he had

+greatly improved during these last five years, having softened and grown

+more manly, lost his former affectation, pride, and contemptuous irony,

+and acquired the serenity that comes with years. People talked about

+him, were interested in him, and wanted to meet him.

+

+The day after his interview with Count Arakchéev, Prince Andrew spent

+the evening at Count Kochubéy’s. He told the count of his interview

+with Síla Andréevich (Kochubéy spoke of Arakchéev by that nickname

+with the same vague irony Prince Andrew had noticed in the Minister of

+War’s anteroom).

+

+“Mon cher, even in this case you can’t do without Michael

+Mikháylovich Speránski. He manages everything. I’ll speak to him. He

+has promised to come this evening.”

+

+“What has Speránski to do with the army regulations?” asked Prince

+Andrew.

+

+Kochubéy shook his head smilingly, as if surprised at Bolkónski’s

+simplicity.

+

+“We were talking to him about you a few days ago,” Kochubéy

+continued, “and about your freed plowmen.”

+

+“Oh, is it you, Prince, who have freed your serfs?” said an old man

+of Catherine’s day, turning contemptuously toward Bolkónski.

+

+“It was a small estate that brought in no profit,” replied Prince

+Andrew, trying to extenuate his action so as not to irritate the old man

+uselessly.

+

+“Afraid of being late...” said the old man, looking at Kochubéy.

+

+“There’s one thing I don’t understand,” he continued. “Who

+will plow the land if they are set free? It is easy to write laws, but

+difficult to rule.... Just the same as now—I ask you, Count—who will

+be heads of the departments when everybody has to pass examinations?”

+

+“Those who pass the examinations, I suppose,” replied Kochubéy,

+crossing his legs and glancing round.

+

+“Well, I have Pryánichnikov serving under me, a splendid man, a

+priceless man, but he’s sixty. Is he to go up for examination?”

+

+“Yes, that’s a difficulty, as education is not at all general,

+but...”

+

+Count Kochubéy did not finish. He rose, took Prince Andrew by the arm,

+and went to meet a tall, bald, fair man of about forty with a large open

+forehead and a long face of unusual and peculiar whiteness, who was

+just entering. The newcomer wore a blue swallow-tail coat with a

+cross suspended from his neck and a star on his left breast. It was

+Speránski. Prince Andrew recognized him at once, and felt a throb

+within him, as happens at critical moments of life. Whether it was from

+respect, envy, or anticipation, he did not know. Speránski’s whole

+figure was of a peculiar type that made him easily recognizable. In

+the society in which Prince Andrew lived he had never seen anyone who

+together with awkward and clumsy gestures possessed such calmness and

+self-assurance; he had never seen so resolute yet gentle an expression

+as that in those half-closed, rather humid eyes, or so firm a smile that

+expressed nothing; nor had he heard such a refined, smooth, soft

+voice; above all he had never seen such delicate whiteness of face or

+hands—hands which were broad, but very plump, soft, and white. Such

+whiteness and softness Prince Andrew had only seen on the faces of

+soldiers who had been long in hospital. This was Speránski, Secretary

+of State, reporter to the Emperor and his companion at Erfurt, where he

+had more than once met and talked with Napoleon.

+

+Speránski did not shift his eyes from one face to another as people

+involuntarily do on entering a large company and was in no hurry to

+speak. He spoke slowly, with assurance that he would be listened to, and

+he looked only at the person with whom he was conversing.

+

+Prince Andrew followed Speránski’s every word and movement with

+particular attention. As happens to some people, especially to men

+who judge those near to them severely, he always on meeting

+anyone new—especially anyone whom, like Speránski, he knew by

+reputation—expected to discover in him the perfection of human

+qualities.

+

+Speránski told Kochubéy he was sorry he had been unable to come sooner

+as he had been detained at the palace. He did not say that the Emperor

+had kept him, and Prince Andrew noticed this affectation of modesty.

+When Kochubéy introduced Prince Andrew, Speránski slowly turned

+his eyes to Bolkónski with his customary smile and looked at him in

+silence.

+

+“I am very glad to make your acquaintance. I had heard of you, as

+everyone has,” he said after a pause.

+

+Kochubéy said a few words about the reception Arakchéev had given

+Bolkónski. Speránski smiled more markedly.

+

+“The chairman of the Committee on Army Regulations is my good friend

+Monsieur Magnítski,” he said, fully articulating every word and

+syllable, “and if you like I can put you in touch with him.” He

+paused at the full stop. “I hope you will find him sympathetic and

+ready to co-operate in promoting all that is reasonable.”

+

+A circle soon formed round Speránski, and the old man who had talked

+about his subordinate Pryánichnikov addressed a question to him.

+

+Prince Andrew without joining in the conversation watched every movement

+of Speránski’s: this man, not long since an insignificant divinity

+student, who now, Bolkónski thought, held in his hands—those plump

+white hands—the fate of Russia. Prince Andrew was struck by the

+extraordinarily disdainful composure with which Speránski answered

+the old man. He appeared to address condescending words to him from

+an immeasurable height. When the old man began to speak too loud,

+Speránski smiled and said he could not judge of the advantage or

+disadvantage of what pleased the sovereign.

+

+Having talked for a little while in the general circle, Speránski rose

+and coming up to Prince Andrew took him along to the other end of the

+room. It was clear that he thought it necessary to interest himself in

+Bolkónski.

+

+“I had no chance to talk with you, Prince, during the animated

+conversation in which that venerable gentleman involved me,” he said

+with a mildly contemptuous smile, as if intimating by that smile that he

+and Prince Andrew understood the insignificance of the people with whom

+he had just been talking. This flattered Prince Andrew. “I have known

+of you for a long time: first from your action with regard to your

+serfs, a first example, of which it is very desirable that there should

+be more imitators; and secondly because you are one of those gentlemen

+of the chamber who have not considered themselves offended by the new

+decree concerning the ranks allotted to courtiers, which is causing so

+much gossip and tittle-tattle.”

+

+“No,” said Prince Andrew, “my father did not wish me to take

+advantage of the privilege. I began the service from the lower grade.”

+

+“Your father, a man of the last century, evidently stands above our

+contemporaries who so condemn this measure which merely re-establishes

+natural justice.”

+

+“I think, however, that these condemnations have some ground,”

+returned Prince Andrew, trying to resist Speránski’s influence, of

+which he began to be conscious. He did not like to agree with him in

+everything and felt a wish to contradict. Though he usually spoke easily

+and well, he felt a difficulty in expressing himself now while talking

+with Speránski. He was too much absorbed in observing the famous

+man’s personality.

+

+“Grounds of personal ambition maybe,” Speránski put in quietly.

+

+“And of state interest to some extent,” said Prince Andrew.

+

+“What do you mean?” asked Speránski quietly, lowering his eyes.

+

+“I am an admirer of Montesquieu,” replied Prince Andrew, “and

+his idea that le principe des monarchies est l’honneur me paraît

+incontestable. Certains droits et privilèges de la noblesse me

+paraissent être des moyens de soutenir ce sentiment.” *

+

+     * “The principle of monarchies is honor seems to me

+     incontestable. Certain rights and privileges for the

+     aristocracy appear to me a means of maintaining that

+     sentiment.”

+

+

+The smile vanished from Speránski’s white face, which was much

+improved by the change. Probably Prince Andrew’s thought interested

+him.

+

+“Si vous envisagez la question sous ce point de vue,” * he began,

+pronouncing French with evident difficulty, and speaking even slower

+than in Russian but quite calmly.

+

+    * “If you regard the question from that point of view.”

+

+

+Speránski went on to say that honor, l’honneur, cannot be upheld by

+privileges harmful to the service; that honor, l’honneur, is either a

+negative concept of not doing what is blameworthy or it is a source of

+emulation in pursuit of commendation and rewards, which recognize it.

+His arguments were concise, simple, and clear.

+

+“An institution upholding honor, the source of emulation, is one

+similar to the Légion d’honneur of the great Emperor Napoleon, not

+harmful but helpful to the success of the service, but not a class or

+court privilege.”

+

+“I do not dispute that, but it cannot be denied that court privileges

+have attained the same end,” returned Prince Andrew. “Every courtier

+considers himself bound to maintain his position worthily.”

+

+“Yet you do not care to avail yourself of the privilege, Prince,”

+said Speránski, indicating by a smile that he wished to finish amiably

+an argument which was embarrassing for his companion. “If you will

+do me the honor of calling on me on Wednesday,” he added, “I will,

+after talking with Magnítski, let you know what may interest you, and

+shall also have the pleasure of a more detailed chat with you.”

+

+Closing his eyes, he bowed à la française, without taking leave, and

+trying to attract as little attention as possible, he left the room.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER VI

+

+During the first weeks of his stay in Petersburg Prince Andrew felt the

+whole trend of thought he had formed during his life of seclusion quite

+overshadowed by the trifling cares that engrossed him in that city.

+

+On returning home in the evening he would jot down in his notebook four

+or five necessary calls or appointments for certain hours. The mechanism

+of life, the arrangement of the day so as to be in time everywhere,

+absorbed the greater part of his vital energy. He did nothing, did

+not even think or find time to think, but only talked, and talked

+successfully, of what he had thought while in the country.

+

+He sometimes noticed with dissatisfaction that he repeated the same

+remark on the same day in different circles. But he was so busy for

+whole days together that he had no time to notice that he was thinking

+of nothing.

+

+As he had done on their first meeting at Kochubéy’s, Speránski

+produced a strong impression on Prince Andrew on the Wednesday, when he

+received him tête-à-tête at his own house and talked to him long and

+confidentially.

+

+To Bolkónski so many people appeared contemptible and insignificant

+creatures, and he so longed to find in someone the living ideal of that

+perfection toward which he strove, that he readily believed that in

+Speránski he had found this ideal of a perfectly rational and virtuous

+man. Had Speránski sprung from the same class as himself and possessed

+the same breeding and traditions, Bolkónski would soon have discovered

+his weak, human, unheroic sides; but as it was, Speránski’s strange

+and logical turn of mind inspired him with respect all the more because

+he did not quite understand him. Moreover, Speránski, either because he

+appreciated the other’s capacity or because he considered it necessary

+to win him to his side, showed off his dispassionate calm reasonableness

+before Prince Andrew and flattered him with that subtle flattery which

+goes hand in hand with self-assurance and consists in a tacit assumption

+that one’s companion is the only man besides oneself capable of

+understanding the folly of the rest of mankind and the reasonableness

+and profundity of one’s own ideas.

+

+During their long conversation on Wednesday evening, Speránski more

+than once remarked: “We regard everything that is above the common

+level of rooted custom...” or, with a smile: “But we want the wolves

+to be fed and the sheep to be safe...” or: “They cannot understand

+this...” and all in a way that seemed to say: “We, you and I,

+understand what they are and who we are.”

+

+This first long conversation with Speránski only strengthened in Prince

+Andrew the feeling he had experienced toward him at their first meeting.

+He saw in him a remarkable, clear-thinking man of vast intellect who by

+his energy and persistence had attained power, which he was using solely

+for the welfare of Russia. In Prince Andrew’s eyes Speránski was the

+man he would himself have wished to be—one who explained all the facts

+of life reasonably, considered important only what was rational, and

+was capable of applying the standard of reason to everything. Everything

+seemed so simple and clear in Speránski’s exposition that Prince

+Andrew involuntarily agreed with him about everything. If he replied and

+argued, it was only because he wished to maintain his independence and

+not submit to Speránski’s opinions entirely. Everything was right

+and everything was as it should be: only one thing disconcerted Prince

+Andrew. This was Speránski’s cold, mirrorlike look, which did not

+allow one to penetrate to his soul, and his delicate white hands, which

+Prince Andrew involuntarily watched as one does watch the hands of

+those who possess power. This mirrorlike gaze and those delicate hands

+irritated Prince Andrew, he knew not why. He was unpleasantly

+struck, too, by the excessive contempt for others that he observed in

+Speránski, and by the diversity of lines of argument he used to

+support his opinions. He made use of every kind of mental device, except

+analogy, and passed too boldly, it seemed to Prince Andrew, from one

+to another. Now he would take up the position of a practical man and

+condemn dreamers; now that of a satirist, and laugh ironically at his

+opponents; now grow severely logical, or suddenly rise to the realm of

+metaphysics. (This last resource was one he very frequently employed.)

+He would transfer a question to metaphysical heights, pass on to

+definitions of space, time, and thought, and, having deduced the

+refutation he needed, would again descend to the level of the original

+discussion.

+

+In general the trait of Speránski’s mentality which struck Prince

+Andrew most was his absolute and unshakable belief in the power and

+authority of reason. It was evident that the thought could never occur

+to him which to Prince Andrew seemed so natural, namely, that it is

+after all impossible to express all one thinks; and that he had never

+felt the doubt, “Is not all I think and believe nonsense?” And

+it was just this peculiarity of Speránski’s mind that particularly

+attracted Prince Andrew.

+

+During the first period of their acquaintance Bolkónski felt a

+passionate admiration for him similar to that which he had once felt for

+Bonaparte. The fact that Speránski was the son of a village priest,

+and that stupid people might meanly despise him on account of his

+humble origin (as in fact many did), caused Prince Andrew to cherish his

+sentiment for him the more, and unconsciously to strengthen it.

+

+On that first evening Bolkónski spent with him, having mentioned the

+Commission for the Revision of the Code of Laws, Speránski told him

+sarcastically that the Commission had existed for a hundred and fifty

+years, had cost millions, and had done nothing except that Rosenkampf

+had stuck labels on the corresponding paragraphs of the different codes.

+

+“And that is all the state has for the millions it has spent,” said

+he. “We want to give the Senate new juridical powers, but we have no

+laws. That is why it is a sin for men like you, Prince, not to serve in

+these times!”

+

+Prince Andrew said that for that work an education in jurisprudence was

+needed which he did not possess.

+

+“But nobody possesses it, so what would you have? It is a vicious

+circle from which we must break a way out.”

+

+A week later Prince Andrew was a member of the Committee on Army

+Regulations and—what he had not at all expected—was chairman of a

+section of the committee for the revision of the laws. At Speránski’s

+request he took the first part of the Civil Code that was being drawn up

+and, with the aid of the Code Napoléon and the Institutes of Justinian,

+he worked at formulating the section on Personal Rights.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER VII

+

+Nearly two years before this, in 1808, Pierre on returning to Petersburg

+after visiting his estates had involuntarily found himself in a leading

+position among the Petersburg Freemasons. He arranged dining and funeral

+lodge meetings, enrolled new members, and busied himself uniting various

+lodges and acquiring authentic charters. He gave money for the erection

+of temples and supplemented as far as he could the collection of alms,

+in regard to which the majority of members were stingy and irregular.

+He supported almost singlehanded a poorhouse the order had founded in

+Petersburg.

+

+His life meanwhile continued as before, with the same infatuations and

+dissipations. He liked to dine and drink well, and though he considered

+it immoral and humiliating could not resist the temptations of the

+bachelor circles in which he moved.

+

+Amid the turmoil of his activities and distractions, however, Pierre at

+the end of a year began to feel that the more firmly he tried to rest

+upon it, the more Masonic ground on which he stood gave way under him.

+At the same time he felt that the deeper the ground sank under him the

+closer bound he involuntarily became to the order. When he had joined

+the Freemasons he had experienced the feeling of one who confidently

+steps onto the smooth surface of a bog. When he put his foot down it

+sank in. To make quite sure of the firmness of the ground, he put

+his other foot down and sank deeper still, became stuck in it, and

+involuntarily waded knee-deep in the bog.

+

+Joseph Alexéevich was not in Petersburg—he had of late stood aside

+from the affairs of the Petersburg lodges, and lived almost entirely in

+Moscow. All the members of the lodges were men Pierre knew in ordinary

+life, and it was difficult for him to regard them merely as Brothers in

+Freemasonry and not as Prince B. or Iván Vasílevich D., whom he knew

+in society mostly as weak and insignificant men. Under the Masonic

+aprons and insignia he saw the uniforms and decorations at which they

+aimed in ordinary life. Often after collecting alms, and reckoning up

+twenty to thirty rubles received for the most part in promises from a

+dozen members, of whom half were as well able to pay as himself, Pierre

+remembered the Masonic vow in which each Brother promised to devote

+all his belongings to his neighbor, and doubts on which he tried not to

+dwell arose in his soul.

+

+He divided the Brothers he knew into four categories. In the first he

+put those who did not take an active part in the affairs of the lodges

+or in human affairs, but were exclusively occupied with the mystical

+science of the order: with questions of the threefold designation of

+God, the three primordial elements—sulphur, mercury, and salt—or

+the meaning of the square and all the various figures of the temple of

+Solomon. Pierre respected this class of Brothers to which the elder ones

+chiefly belonged, including, Pierre thought, Joseph Alexéevich himself,

+but he did not share their interests. His heart was not in the mystical

+aspect of Freemasonry.

+

+In the second category Pierre reckoned himself and others like him,

+seeking and vacillating, who had not yet found in Freemasonry a straight

+and comprehensible path, but hoped to do so.

+

+In the third category he included those Brothers (the majority) who saw

+nothing in Freemasonry but the external forms and ceremonies, and prized

+the strict performance of these forms without troubling about their

+purport or significance. Such were Willarski and even the Grand Master

+of the principal lodge.

+

+Finally, to the fourth category also a great many Brothers belonged,

+particularly those who had lately joined. These according to Pierre’s

+observations were men who had no belief in anything, nor desire for

+anything, but joined the Freemasons merely to associate with the wealthy

+young Brothers who were influential through their connections or rank,

+and of whom there were very many in the lodge.

+

+Pierre began to feel dissatisfied with what he was doing. Freemasonry,

+at any rate as he saw it here, sometimes seemed to him based merely

+on externals. He did not think of doubting Freemasonry itself, but

+suspected that Russian Masonry had taken a wrong path and deviated

+from its original principles. And so toward the end of the year he went

+abroad to be initiated into the higher secrets of the order.

+

+In the summer of 1809 Pierre returned to Petersburg. Our Freemasons knew

+from correspondence with those abroad that Bezúkhov had obtained the

+confidence of many highly placed persons, had been initiated into many

+mysteries, had been raised to a higher grade, and was bringing back with

+him much that might conduce to the advantage of the Masonic cause

+in Russia. The Petersburg Freemasons all came to see him, tried to

+ingratiate themselves with him, and it seemed to them all that he was

+preparing something for them and concealing it.

+

+A solemn meeting of the lodge of the second degree was convened, at

+which Pierre promised to communicate to the Petersburg Brothers what

+he had to deliver to them from the highest leaders of their order. The

+meeting was a full one. After the usual ceremonies Pierre rose and began

+his address.

+

+“Dear Brothers,” he began, blushing and stammering, with a written

+speech in his hand, “it is not sufficient to observe our mysteries in

+the seclusion of our lodge—we must act—act! We are drowsing, but we

+must act.” Pierre raised his notebook and began to read.

+

+“For the dissemination of pure truth and to secure the triumph of

+virtue,” he read, “we must cleanse men from prejudice, diffuse

+principles in harmony with the spirit of the times, undertake the

+education of the young, unite ourselves in indissoluble bonds with the

+wisest men, boldly yet prudently overcome superstitions, infidelity, and

+folly, and form of those devoted to us a body linked together by unity

+of purpose and possessed of authority and power.

+

+“To attain this end we must secure a preponderance of virtue over vice

+and must endeavor to secure that the honest man may, even in this world,

+receive a lasting reward for his virtue. But in these great endeavors we

+are gravely hampered by the political institutions of today. What is

+to be done in these circumstances? To favor revolutions, overthrow

+everything, repel force by force?... No! We are very far from that.

+Every violent reform deserves censure, for it quite fails to remedy

+evil while men remain what they are, and also because wisdom needs no

+violence.

+

+“The whole plan of our order should be based on the idea of

+preparing men of firmness and virtue bound together by unity of

+conviction—aiming at the punishment of vice and folly, and patronizing

+talent and virtue: raising worthy men from the dust and attaching

+them to our Brotherhood. Only then will our order have the power

+unobtrusively to bind the hands of the protectors of disorder and to

+control them without their being aware of it. In a word, we must found a

+form of government holding universal sway, which should be diffused over

+the whole world without destroying the bonds of citizenship, and beside

+which all other governments can continue in their customary course and

+do everything except what impedes the great aim of our order, which

+is to obtain for virtue the victory over vice. This aim was that of

+Christianity itself. It taught men to be wise and good and for their

+own benefit to follow the example and instruction of the best and wisest

+men.

+

+“At that time, when everything was plunged in darkness, preaching

+alone was of course sufficient. The novelty of Truth endowed her with

+special strength, but now we need much more powerful methods. It is

+now necessary that man, governed by his senses, should find in virtue

+a charm palpable to those senses. It is impossible to eradicate the

+passions; but we must strive to direct them to a noble aim, and it is

+therefore necessary that everyone should be able to satisfy his passions

+within the limits of virtue. Our order should provide means to that end.

+

+“As soon as we have a certain number of worthy men in every state,

+each of them again training two others and all being closely united,

+everything will be possible for our order, which has already in secret

+accomplished much for the welfare of mankind.”

+

+This speech not only made a strong impression, but created excitement in

+the lodge. The majority of the Brothers, seeing in it dangerous designs

+of Illuminism, * met it with a coldness that surprised Pierre. The Grand

+Master began answering him, and Pierre began developing his views with

+more and more warmth. It was long since there had been so stormy a

+meeting. Parties were formed, some accusing Pierre of Illuminism, others

+supporting him. At that meeting he was struck for the first time by

+the endless variety of men’s minds, which prevents a truth from ever

+presenting itself identically to two persons. Even those members

+who seemed to be on his side understood him in their own way with

+limitations and alterations he could not agree to, as what he always

+wanted most was to convey his thought to others just as he himself

+understood it.

+

+     * The Illuminati sought to substitute republican for

+     monarchical institutions.

+

+At the end of the meeting the Grand Master with irony and ill-will

+reproved Bezúkhov for his vehemence and said it was not love of virtue

+alone, but also a love of strife that had moved him in the dispute.

+Pierre did not answer him and asked briefly whether his proposal would

+be accepted. He was told that it would not, and without waiting for the

+usual formalities he left the lodge and went home.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER VIII

+

+Again Pierre was overtaken by the depression he so dreaded. For three

+days after the delivery of his speech at the lodge he lay on a sofa at

+home receiving no one and going nowhere.

+

+It was just then that he received a letter from his wife, who implored

+him to see her, telling him how grieved she was about him and how she

+wished to devote her whole life to him.

+

+At the end of the letter she informed him that in a few days she would

+return to Petersburg from abroad.

+

+Following this letter one of the Masonic Brothers whom Pierre respected

+less than the others forced his way in to see him and, turning the

+conversation upon Pierre’s matrimonial affairs, by way of fraternal

+advice expressed the opinion that his severity to his wife was wrong

+and that he was neglecting one of the first rules of Freemasonry by not

+forgiving the penitent.

+

+At the same time his mother-in-law, Prince Vasíli’s wife, sent to

+him imploring him to come if only for a few minutes to discuss a most

+important matter. Pierre saw that there was a conspiracy against him and

+that they wanted to reunite him with his wife, and in the mood he then

+was, this was not even unpleasant to him. Nothing mattered to him.

+Nothing in life seemed to him of much importance, and under the

+influence of the depression that possessed him he valued neither his

+liberty nor his resolution to punish his wife.

+

+“No one is right and no one is to blame; so she too is not to

+blame,” he thought.

+

+If he did not at once give his consent to a reunion with his wife, it

+was only because in his state of depression he did not feel able to take

+any step. Had his wife come to him, he would not have turned her away.

+Compared to what preoccupied him, was it not a matter of indifference

+whether he lived with his wife or not?

+

+Without replying either to his wife or his mother-in-law, Pierre late

+one night prepared for a journey and started for Moscow to see Joseph

+Alexéevich. This is what he noted in his diary:

+

+Moscow, 17th November

+

+I have just returned from my benefactor, and hasten to write down what I

+have experienced. Joseph Alexéevich is living poorly and has for three

+years been suffering from a painful disease of the bladder. No one has

+ever heard him utter a groan or a word of complaint. From morning till

+late at night, except when he eats his very plain food, he is working

+at science. He received me graciously and made me sit down on the bed

+on which he lay. I made the sign of the Knights of the East and of

+Jerusalem, and he responded in the same manner, asking me with a mild

+smile what I had learned and gained in the Prussian and Scottish lodges.

+I told him everything as best I could, and told him what I had proposed

+to our Petersburg lodge, of the bad reception I had encountered, and of

+my rupture with the Brothers. Joseph Alexéevich, having remained silent

+and thoughtful for a good while, told me his view of the matter, which

+at once lit up for me my whole past and the future path I should follow.

+He surprised me by asking whether I remembered the threefold aim of

+the order: (1) The preservation and study of the mystery. (2) The

+purification and reformation of oneself for its reception, and (3) The

+improvement of the human race by striving for such purification. Which

+is the principal aim of these three? Certainly self-reformation and

+self-purification. Only to this aim can we always strive independently

+of circumstances. But at the same time just this aim demands the

+greatest efforts of us; and so, led astray by pride, losing sight of

+this aim, we occupy ourselves either with the mystery which in our

+impurity we are unworthy to receive, or seek the reformation of

+the human race while ourselves setting an example of baseness and

+profligacy. Illuminism is not a pure doctrine, just because it is

+attracted by social activity and puffed up by pride. On this ground

+Joseph Alexéevich condemned my speech and my whole activity, and in the

+depth of my soul I agreed with him. Talking of my family affairs he said

+to me, “the chief duty of a true Mason, as I have told you, lies in

+perfecting himself. We often think that by removing all the difficulties

+of our life we shall more quickly reach our aim, but on the contrary,

+my dear sir, it is only in the midst of worldly cares that we can attain

+our three chief aims: (1) Self-knowledge—for man can only know himself

+by comparison, (2) Self-perfecting, which can only be attained by

+conflict, and (3) The attainment of the chief virtue—love of death.

+Only the vicissitudes of life can show us its vanity and develop our

+innate love of death or of rebirth to a new life.” These words are all

+the more remarkable because, in spite of his great physical sufferings,

+Joseph Alexéevich is never weary of life though he loves death, for

+which—in spite of the purity and loftiness of his inner man—he does

+not yet feel himself sufficiently prepared. My benefactor then explained

+to me fully the meaning of the Great Square of creation and pointed out

+to me that the numbers three and seven are the basis of everything. He

+advised me not to avoid intercourse with the Petersburg Brothers, but

+to take up only second-grade posts in the lodge, to try, while

+diverting the Brothers from pride, to turn them toward the true path

+self-knowledge and self-perfecting. Besides this he advised me for

+myself personally above all to keep a watch over myself, and to that end

+he gave me a notebook, the one I am now writing in and in which I will

+in future note down all my actions.

+

+Petersburg, 23rd November

+

+I am again living with my wife. My mother-in-law came to me in tears and

+said that Hélène was here and that she implored me to hear her; that

+she was innocent and unhappy at my desertion, and much more. I knew

+that if I once let myself see her I should not have strength to go on

+refusing what she wanted. In my perplexity I did not know whose aid and

+advice to seek. Had my benefactor been here he would have told me what

+to do. I went to my room and reread Joseph Alexéevich’s letters and

+recalled my conversations with him, and deduced from it all that I

+ought not to refuse a supplicant, and ought to reach a helping hand to

+everyone—especially to one so closely bound to me—and that I must

+bear my cross. But if I forgive her for the sake of doing right, then

+let union with her have only a spiritual aim. That is what I decided,

+and what I wrote to Joseph Alexéevich. I told my wife that I begged her

+to forget the past, to forgive me whatever wrong I may have done her,

+and that I had nothing to forgive. It gave me joy to tell her this. She

+need not know how hard it was for me to see her again. I have settled on

+the upper floor of this big house and am experiencing a happy feeling of

+regeneration.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER IX

+

+At that time, as always happens, the highest society that met at court

+and at the grand balls was divided into several circles, each with its

+own particular tone. The largest of these was the French circle of the

+Napoleonic alliance, the circle of Count Rumyántsev and Caulaincourt.

+In this group Hélène, as soon as she had settled in Petersburg with

+her husband, took a very prominent place. She was visited by the members

+of the French embassy and by many belonging to that circle and noted for

+their intellect and polished manners.

+

+Hélène had been at Erfurt during the famous meeting of the Emperors

+and had brought from there these connections with the Napoleonic

+notabilities. At Erfurt her success had been brilliant. Napoleon himself

+had noticed her in the theater and said of her: “C’est un superbe

+animal.” * Her success as a beautiful and elegant woman did not

+surprise Pierre, for she had become even handsomer than before. What did

+surprise him was that during these last two years his wife had succeeded

+in gaining the reputation “d’ une femme charmante, aussi spirituelle

+que belle.” *(2) The distinguished Prince de Ligne wrote her

+eight-page letters. Bilíbin saved up his epigrams to produce them

+in Countess Bezúkhova’s presence. To be received in the Countess

+Bezúkhova’s salon was regarded as a diploma of intellect. Young men

+read books before attending Hélène’s evenings, to have something to

+say in her salon, and secretaries of the embassy, and even ambassadors,

+confided diplomatic secrets to her, so that in a way Hélène was a

+power. Pierre, who knew she was very stupid, sometimes attended, with a

+strange feeling of perplexity and fear, her evenings and dinner parties,

+where politics, poetry, and philosophy were discussed. At these parties

+his feelings were like those of a conjuror who always expects his trick

+to be found out at any moment. But whether because stupidity was just

+what was needed to run such a salon, or because those who were deceived

+found pleasure in the deception, at any rate it remained unexposed and

+Hélène Bezúkhova’s reputation as a lovely and clever woman became

+so firmly established that she could say the emptiest and stupidest

+things and everybody would go into raptures over every word of hers

+and look for a profound meaning in it of which she herself had no

+conception.

+

+     * “That’s a superb animal.”

+

+     * (2) “Of a charming woman, as witty as she is lovely.”

+

+

+Pierre was just the husband needed for a brilliant society woman. He was

+that absent-minded crank, a grand seigneur husband who was in no one’s

+way, and far from spoiling the high tone and general impression of the

+drawing room, he served, by the contrast he presented to her, as an

+advantageous background to his elegant and tactful wife. Pierre during

+the last two years, as a result of his continual absorption in abstract

+interests and his sincere contempt for all else, had acquired in his

+wife’s circle, which did not interest him, that air of unconcern,

+indifference, and benevolence toward all, which cannot be acquired

+artificially and therefore inspires involuntary respect. He entered

+his wife’s drawing room as one enters a theater, was acquainted with

+everybody, equally pleased to see everyone, and equally indifferent to

+them all. Sometimes he joined in a conversation which interested him

+and, regardless of whether any “gentlemen of the embassy” were

+present or not, lispingly expressed his views, which were sometimes not

+at all in accord with the accepted tone of the moment. But the general

+opinion concerning the queer husband of “the most distinguished woman

+in Petersburg” was so well established that no one took his freaks

+seriously.

+

+Among the many young men who frequented her house every day, Borís

+Drubetskóy, who had already achieved great success in the service, was

+the most intimate friend of the Bezúkhov household since Hélène’s

+return from Erfurt. Hélène spoke of him as “mon page” and treated

+him like a child. Her smile for him was the same as for everybody,

+but sometimes that smile made Pierre uncomfortable. Toward him Borís

+behaved with a particularly dignified and sad deference. This shade

+of deference also disturbed Pierre. He had suffered so painfully three

+years before from the mortification to which his wife had subjected him

+that he now protected himself from the danger of its repetition, first

+by not being a husband to his wife, and secondly by not allowing himself

+to suspect.

+

+“No, now that she has become a bluestocking she has finally renounced

+her former infatuations,” he told himself. “There has never been

+an instance of a bluestocking being carried away by affairs of the

+heart”—a statement which, though gathered from an unknown source,

+he believed implicitly. Yet strange to say Borís’ presence in his

+wife’s drawing room (and he was almost always there) had a physical

+effect upon Pierre; it constricted his limbs and destroyed the

+unconsciousness and freedom of his movements.

+

+“What a strange antipathy,” thought Pierre, “yet I used to like

+him very much.”

+

+In the eyes of the world Pierre was a great gentleman, the rather blind

+and absurd husband of a distinguished wife, a clever crank who did

+nothing but harmed nobody and was a first-rate, good-natured fellow. But

+a complex and difficult process of internal development was taking place

+all this time in Pierre’s soul, revealing much to him and causing him

+many spiritual doubts and joys.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER X

+

+Pierre went on with his diary, and this is what he wrote in it during

+that time:

+

+

+24th November

+

+Got up at eight, read the Scriptures, then went to my duties. (By Joseph

+Alexéevich’s advice Pierre had entered the service of the state and

+served on one of the committees.) Returned home for dinner and dined

+alone—the countess had many visitors I do not like. I ate and drank

+moderately and after dinner copied out some passages for the Brothers.

+In the evening I went down to the countess and told a funny story about

+B., and only remembered that I ought not to have done so when everybody

+laughed loudly at it.

+

+I am going to bed with a happy and tranquil mind. Great God, help me to

+walk in Thy paths, (1) to conquer anger by calmness and deliberation,

+(2) to vanquish lust by self-restraint and repulsion, (3) to withdraw

+from worldliness, but not avoid (a) the service of the state, (b) family

+duties, (c) relations with my friends, and the management of my affairs.

+

+

+27th November

+

+I got up late. On waking I lay long in bed yielding to sloth. O God,

+help and strengthen me that I may walk in Thy ways! Read the Scriptures,

+but without proper feeling. Brother Urúsov came and we talked about

+worldly vanities. He told me of the Emperor’s new projects. I began

+to criticize them, but remembered my rules and my benefactor’s

+words—that a true Freemason should be a zealous worker for the state

+when his aid is required and a quiet onlooker when not called on to

+assist. My tongue is my enemy. Brothers G. V. and O. visited me and we

+had a preliminary talk about the reception of a new Brother. They laid

+on me the duty of Rhetor. I feel myself weak and unworthy. Then our

+talk turned to the interpretation of the seven pillars and steps of the

+Temple, the seven sciences, the seven virtues, the seven vices, and the

+seven gifts of the Holy Spirit. Brother O. was very eloquent. In the

+evening the admission took place. The new decoration of the Premises

+contributed much to the magnificence of the spectacle. It was Borís

+Drubetskóy who was admitted. I nominated him and was the Rhetor. A

+strange feeling agitated me all the time I was alone with him in the

+dark chamber. I caught myself harboring a feeling of hatred toward him

+which I vainly tried to overcome. That is why I should really like

+to save him from evil and lead him into the path of truth, but evil

+thoughts of him did not leave me. It seemed to me that his object in

+entering the Brotherhood was merely to be intimate and in favor with

+members of our lodge. Apart from the fact that he had asked me several

+times whether N. and S. were members of our lodge (a question to which I

+could not reply) and that according to my observation he is incapable of

+feeling respect for our holy order and is too preoccupied and satisfied

+with the outer man to desire spiritual improvement, I had no cause to

+doubt him, but he seemed to me insincere, and all the time I stood

+alone with him in the dark temple it seemed to me that he was smiling

+contemptuously at my words, and I wished really to stab his bare breast

+with the sword I held to it. I could not be eloquent, nor could I

+frankly mention my doubts to the Brothers and to the Grand Master. Great

+Architect of Nature, help me to find the true path out of the labyrinth

+of lies!

+

+

+After this, three pages were left blank in the diary, and then the

+following was written:

+

+

+I have had a long and instructive talk alone with Brother V., who

+advised me to hold fast by Brother A. Though I am unworthy, much was

+revealed to me. Adonai is the name of the creator of the world. Elohim

+is the name of the ruler of all. The third name is the name unutterable

+which means the All. Talks with Brother V. strengthen, refresh, and

+support me in the path of virtue. In his presence doubt has no place.

+The distinction between the poor teachings of mundane science and our

+sacred all-embracing teaching is clear to me. Human sciences dissect

+everything to comprehend it, and kill everything to examine it. In the

+holy science of our order all is one, all is known in its entirety and

+life. The Trinity—the three elements of matter—are sulphur, mercury,

+and salt. Sulphur is of an oily and fiery nature; in combination with

+salt by its fiery nature it arouses a desire in the latter by means

+of which it attracts mercury, seizes it, holds it, and in combination

+produces other bodies. Mercury is a fluid, volatile, spiritual essence.

+Christ, the Holy Spirit, Him!...

+

+

+3rd December

+

+Awoke late, read the Scriptures but was apathetic. Afterwards went and

+paced up and down the large hall. I wished to meditate, but instead my

+imagination pictured an occurrence of four years ago, when Dólokhov,

+meeting me in Moscow after our duel, said he hoped I was enjoying

+perfect peace of mind in spite of my wife’s absence. At the time I

+gave him no answer. Now I recalled every detail of that meeting and in

+my mind gave him the most malevolent and bitter replies. I recollected

+myself and drove away that thought only when I found myself glowing with

+anger, but I did not sufficiently repent. Afterwards Borís Drubetskóy

+came and began relating various adventures. His coming vexed me from the

+first, and I said something disagreeable to him. He replied. I flared

+up and said much that was unpleasant and even rude to him. He became

+silent, and I recollected myself only when it was too late. My God, I

+cannot get on with him at all. The cause of this is my egotism. I set

+myself above him and so become much worse than he, for he is lenient

+to my rudeness while I on the contrary nourish contempt for him. O God,

+grant that in his presence I may rather see my own vileness, and behave

+so that he too may benefit. After dinner I fell asleep and as I was

+drowsing off I clearly heard a voice saying in my left ear, “Thy

+day!”

+

+I dreamed that I was walking in the dark and was suddenly surrounded by

+dogs, but I went on undismayed. Suddenly a smallish dog seized my left

+thigh with its teeth and would not let go. I began to throttle it with

+my hands. Scarcely had I torn it off before another, a bigger one, began

+biting me. I lifted it up, but the higher I lifted it the bigger and

+heavier it grew. And suddenly Brother A. came and, taking my arm, led

+me to a building to enter which we had to pass along a narrow plank.

+I stepped on it, but it bent and gave way and I began to clamber up a

+fence which I could scarcely reach with my hands. After much effort I

+dragged myself up, so that my leg hung down on one side and my body on

+the other. I looked round and saw Brother A. standing on the fence and

+pointing me to a broad avenue and garden, and in the garden was a large

+and beautiful building. I woke up. O Lord, great Architect of Nature,

+help me to tear from myself these dogs—my passions especially the

+last, which unites in itself the strength of all the former ones, and

+aid me to enter that temple of virtue to a vision of which I attained in

+my dream.

+

+

+7th December

+

+I dreamed that Joseph Alexéevich was sitting in my house, and that I

+was very glad and wished to entertain him. It seemed as if I chattered

+incessantly with other people and suddenly remembered that this could

+not please him, and I wished to come close to him and embrace him. But

+as soon as I drew near I saw that his face had changed and grown young,

+and he was quietly telling me something about the teaching of our order,

+but so softly that I could not hear it. Then it seemed that we all left

+the room and something strange happened. We were sitting or lying on

+the floor. He was telling me something, and I wished to show him my

+sensibility, and not listening to what he was saying I began picturing

+to myself the condition of my inner man and the grace of God sanctifying

+me. And tears came into my eyes, and I was glad he noticed this. But he

+looked at me with vexation and jumped up, breaking off his remarks. I

+felt abashed and asked whether what he had been saying did not concern

+me; but he did not reply, gave me a kind look, and then we suddenly

+found ourselves in my bedroom where there is a double bed. He lay down

+on the edge of it and I burned with longing to caress him and lie down

+too. And he said, “Tell me frankly what is your chief temptation? Do

+you know it? I think you know it already.” Abashed by this question,

+I replied that sloth was my chief temptation. He shook his head

+incredulously; and even more abashed, I said that though I was living

+with my wife as he advised, I was not living with her as her husband. To

+this he replied that one should not deprive a wife of one’s embraces

+and gave me to understand that that was my duty. But I replied that

+I should be ashamed to do it, and suddenly everything vanished. And I

+awoke and found in my mind the text from the Gospel: “The life was

+the light of men. And the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness

+comprehended it not.” Joseph Alexéevich’s face had looked young

+and bright. That day I received a letter from my benefactor in which he

+wrote about “conjugal duties.”

+

+

+9th December

+

+I had a dream from which I awoke with a throbbing heart. I saw that

+I was in Moscow in my house, in the big sitting room, and Joseph

+Alexéevich came in from the drawing room. I seemed to know at once that

+the process of regeneration had already taken place in him, and I rushed

+to meet him. I embraced him and kissed his hands, and he said, “Hast

+thou noticed that my face is different?” I looked at him, still

+holding him in my arms, and saw that his face was young, but that he

+had no hair on his head and his features were quite changed. And I said,

+“I should have known you had I met you by chance,” and I thought to

+myself, “Am I telling the truth?” And suddenly I saw him lying like

+a dead body; then he gradually recovered and went with me into my study

+carrying a large book of sheets of drawing paper; I said, “I drew

+that,” and he answered by bowing his head. I opened the book, and on

+all the pages there were excellent drawings. And in my dream I knew

+that these drawings represented the love adventures of the soul with its

+beloved. And on its pages I saw a beautiful representation of a maiden

+in transparent garments and with a transparent body, flying up to the

+clouds. And I seemed to know that this maiden was nothing else than a

+representation of the Song of Songs. And looking at those drawings I

+dreamed I felt that I was doing wrong, but could not tear myself away

+from them. Lord, help me! My God, if Thy forsaking me is Thy doing, Thy

+will be done; but if I am myself the cause, teach me what I should do! I

+shall perish of my debauchery if Thou utterly desertest me!

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XI

+

+The Rostóvs’ monetary affairs had not improved during the two years

+they had spent in the country.

+

+Though Nicholas Rostóv had kept firmly to his resolution and was still

+serving modestly in an obscure regiment, spending comparatively little,

+the way of life at Otrádnoe—Mítenka’s management of affairs, in

+particular—was such that the debts inevitably increased every year.

+The only resource obviously presenting itself to the old count was to

+apply for an official post, so he had come to Petersburg to look for one

+and also, as he said, to let the lassies enjoy themselves for the last

+time.

+

+Soon after their arrival in Petersburg Berg proposed to Véra and was

+accepted.

+

+Though in Moscow the Rostóvs belonged to the best society without

+themselves giving it a thought, yet in Petersburg their circle of

+acquaintances was a mixed and indefinite one. In Petersburg they were

+provincials, and the very people they had entertained in Moscow without

+inquiring to what set they belonged, here looked down on them.

+

+The Rostóvs lived in the same hospitable way in Petersburg as in

+Moscow, and the most diverse people met at their suppers. Country

+neighbors from Otrádnoe, impoverished old squires and their daughters,

+Perónskaya a maid of honor, Pierre Bezúkhov, and the son of their

+district postmaster who had obtained a post in Petersburg. Among the

+men who very soon became frequent visitors at the Rostóvs’ house in

+Petersburg were Borís, Pierre whom the count had met in the street and

+dragged home with him, and Berg who spent whole days at the Rostóvs’

+and paid the eldest daughter, Countess Véra, the attentions a young man

+pays when he intends to propose.

+

+Not in vain had Berg shown everybody his right hand wounded at

+Austerlitz and held a perfectly unnecessary sword in his left. He

+narrated that episode so persistently and with so important an air that

+everyone believed in the merit and usefulness of his deed, and he had

+obtained two decorations for Austerlitz.

+

+In the Finnish war he also managed to distinguish himself. He had picked

+up the scrap of a grenade that had killed an aide-de-camp standing near

+the commander in chief and had taken it to his commander. Just as he had

+done after Austerlitz, he related this occurrence at such length and

+so insistently that everyone again believed it had been necessary to do

+this, and he received two decorations for the Finnish war also. In

+1809 he was a captain in the Guards, wore medals, and held some special

+lucrative posts in Petersburg.

+

+Though some skeptics smiled when told of Berg’s merits, it could not

+be denied that he was a painstaking and brave officer, on excellent

+terms with his superiors, and a moral young man with a brilliant career

+before him and an assured position in society.

+

+Four years before, meeting a German comrade in the stalls of a Moscow

+theater, Berg had pointed out Véra Rostóva to him and had said in

+German, “das soll mein Weib werden,” * and from that moment had

+made up his mind to marry her. Now in Petersburg, having considered the

+Rostóvs’ position and his own, he decided that the time had come to

+propose.

+

+    * “That girl shall be my wife.”

+

+

+Berg’s proposal was at first received with a perplexity that was not

+flattering to him. At first it seemed strange that the son of an obscure

+Livonian gentleman should propose marriage to a Countess Rostóva; but

+Berg’s chief characteristic was such a naïve and good natured egotism

+that the Rostóvs involuntarily came to think it would be a good thing,

+since he himself was so firmly convinced that it was good, indeed

+excellent. Moreover, the Rostóvs’ affairs were seriously embarrassed,

+as the suitor could not but know; and above all, Véra was twenty-four,

+had been taken out everywhere, and though she was certainly good-looking

+and sensible, no one up to now had proposed to her. So they gave their

+consent.

+

+“You see,” said Berg to his comrade, whom he called “friend”

+only because he knew that everyone has friends, “you see, I have

+considered it all, and should not marry if I had not thought it all out

+or if it were in any way unsuitable. But on the contrary, my papa and

+mamma are now provided for—I have arranged that rent for them in the

+Baltic Provinces—and I can live in Petersburg on my pay, and with

+her fortune and my good management we can get along nicely. I am not

+marrying for money—I consider that dishonorable—but a wife should

+bring her share and a husband his. I have my position in the service,

+she has connections and some means. In our times that is worth

+something, isn’t it? But above all, she is a handsome, estimable girl,

+and she loves me....”

+

+Berg blushed and smiled.

+

+“And I love her, because her character is sensible and very good.

+Now the other sister, though they are the same family, is quite

+different—an unpleasant character and has not the same intelligence.

+She is so... you know?... Unpleasant... But my fiancée!... Well, you

+will be coming,” he was going to say, “to dine,” but changed his

+mind and said “to take tea with us,” and quickly doubling up his

+tongue he blew a small round ring of tobacco smoke, perfectly embodying

+his dream of happiness.

+

+After the first feeling of perplexity aroused in the parents by Berg’s

+proposal, the holiday tone of joyousness usual at such times took

+possession of the family, but the rejoicing was external and insincere.

+In the family’s feeling toward this wedding a certain awkwardness

+and constraint was evident, as if they were ashamed of not having loved

+Véra sufficiently and of being so ready to get her off their hands. The

+old count felt this most. He would probably have been unable to state

+the cause of his embarrassment, but it resulted from the state of his

+affairs. He did not know at all how much he had, what his debts amounted

+to, or what dowry he could give Véra. When his daughters were born

+he had assigned to each of them, for her dowry, an estate with three

+hundred serfs; but one of these estates had already been sold, and the

+other was mortgaged and the interest so much in arrears that it would

+have to be sold, so that it was impossible to give it to Véra. Nor had

+he any money.

+

+Berg had already been engaged a month, and only a week remained before

+the wedding, but the count had not yet decided in his own mind the

+question of the dowry, nor spoken to his wife about it. At one time the

+count thought of giving her the Ryazán estate or of selling a forest,

+at another time of borrowing money on a note of hand. A few days before

+the wedding Berg entered the count’s study early one morning and, with

+a pleasant smile, respectfully asked his future father-in-law to let

+him know what Véra’s dowry would be. The count was so disconcerted by

+this long-foreseen inquiry that without consideration he gave the first

+reply that came into his head. “I like your being businesslike about

+it.... I like it. You shall be satisfied....”

+

+And patting Berg on the shoulder he got up, wishing to end the

+conversation. But Berg, smiling pleasantly, explained that if he did not

+know for certain how much Véra would have and did not receive at least

+part of the dowry in advance, he would have to break matters off.

+

+“Because, consider, Count—if I allowed myself to marry now

+without having definite means to maintain my wife, I should be acting

+badly....”

+

+The conversation ended by the count, who wished to be generous and to

+avoid further importunity, saying that he would give a note of hand

+for eighty thousand rubles. Berg smiled meekly, kissed the count on the

+shoulder, and said that he was very grateful, but that it was impossible

+for him to arrange his new life without receiving thirty thousand in

+ready money. “Or at least twenty thousand, Count,” he added, “and

+then a note of hand for only sixty thousand.”

+

+“Yes, yes, all right!” said the count hurriedly. “Only excuse me,

+my dear fellow, I’ll give you twenty thousand and a note of hand for

+eighty thousand as well. Yes, yes! Kiss me.”

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XII

+

+Natásha was sixteen and it was the year 1809, the very year to which

+she had counted on her fingers with Borís after they had kissed four

+years ago. Since then she had not seen him. Before Sónya and her

+mother, if Borís happened to be mentioned, she spoke quite freely of

+that episode as of some childish, long-forgotten matter that was not

+worth mentioning. But in the secret depths of her soul the question

+whether her engagement to Borís was a jest or an important, binding

+promise tormented her.

+

+Since Borís left Moscow in 1805 to join the army he had not seen the

+Rostóvs. He had been in Moscow several times, and had passed near

+Otrádnoe, but had never been to see them.

+

+Sometimes it occurred to Natásha that he did not wish to see her, and

+this conjecture was confirmed by the sad tone in which her elders spoke

+of him.

+

+“Nowadays old friends are not remembered,” the countess would say

+when Borís was mentioned.

+

+Anna Mikháylovna also had of late visited them less frequently, seemed

+to hold herself with particular dignity, and always spoke rapturously

+and gratefully of the merits of her son and the brilliant career on

+which he had entered. When the Rostóvs came to Petersburg Borís called

+on them.

+

+He drove to their house in some agitation. The memory of Natásha was

+his most poetic recollection. But he went with the firm intention of

+letting her and her parents feel that the childish relations between

+himself and Natásha could not be binding either on her or on him. He

+had a brilliant position in society thanks to his intimacy with Countess

+Bezúkhova, a brilliant position in the service thanks to the patronage

+of an important personage whose complete confidence he enjoyed, and he

+was beginning to make plans for marrying one of the richest heiresses in

+Petersburg, plans which might very easily be realized. When he entered

+the Rostóvs’ drawing room Natásha was in her own room. When she

+heard of his arrival she almost ran into the drawing room, flushed and

+beaming with a more than cordial smile.

+

+Borís remembered Natásha in a short dress, with dark eyes shining from

+under her curls and boisterous, childish laughter, as he had known her

+four years before; and so he was taken aback when quite a different

+Natásha entered, and his face expressed rapturous astonishment. This

+expression on his face pleased Natásha.

+

+“Well, do you recognize your little madcap playmate?” asked the

+countess.

+

+Borís kissed Natásha’s hand and said that he was astonished at the

+change in her.

+

+“How handsome you have grown!”

+

+“I should think so!” replied Natásha’s laughing eyes.

+

+“And is Papa older?” she asked.

+

+Natásha sat down and, without joining in Borís’ conversation with

+the countess, silently and minutely studied her childhood’s suitor. He

+felt the weight of that resolute and affectionate scrutiny and glanced

+at her occasionally.

+

+Borís’ uniform, spurs, tie, and the way his hair was brushed were all

+comme il faut and in the latest fashion. This Natásha noticed at once.

+He sat rather sideways in the armchair next to the countess, arranging

+with his right hand the cleanest of gloves that fitted his left hand

+like a skin, and he spoke with a particularly refined compression of his

+lips about the amusements of the highest Petersburg society, recalling

+with mild irony old times in Moscow and Moscow acquaintances. It was

+not accidentally, Natásha felt, that he alluded, when speaking of the

+highest aristocracy, to an ambassador’s ball he had attended, and to

+invitations he had received from N.N. and S.S.

+

+All this time Natásha sat silent, glancing up at him from under her

+brows. This gaze disturbed and confused Borís more and more. He looked

+round more frequently toward her, and broke off in what he was saying.

+He did not stay more than ten minutes, then rose and took his leave. The

+same inquisitive, challenging, and rather mocking eyes still looked

+at him. After his first visit Borís said to himself that Natásha

+attracted him just as much as ever, but that he must not yield to that

+feeling, because to marry her, a girl almost without fortune, would

+mean ruin to his career, while to renew their former relations without

+intending to marry her would be dishonorable. Borís made up his mind

+to avoid meeting Natásha, but despite that resolution he called again

+a few days later and began calling often and spending whole days at the

+Rostóvs’. It seemed to him that he ought to have an explanation with

+Natásha and tell her that the old times must be forgotten, that in

+spite of everything... she could not be his wife, that he had no means,

+and they would never let her marry him. But he failed to do so and felt

+awkward about entering on such an explanation. From day to day he

+became more and more entangled. It seemed to her mother and Sónya that

+Natásha was in love with Borís as of old. She sang him his favorite

+songs, showed him her album, making him write in it, did not allow him

+to allude to the past, letting it be understood how delightful was the

+present; and every day he went away in a fog, without having said what

+he meant to, and not knowing what he was doing or why he came, or how

+it would all end. He left off visiting Hélène and received reproachful

+notes from her every day, and yet he continued to spend whole days with

+the Rostóvs.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XIII

+

+One night when the old countess, in nightcap and dressing jacket,

+without her false curls, and with her poor little knob of hair showing

+under her white cotton cap, knelt sighing and groaning on a rug and

+bowing to the ground in prayer, her door creaked and Natásha, also in

+a dressing jacket with slippers on her bare feet and her hair in

+curlpapers, ran in. The countess—her prayerful mood dispelled—looked

+round and frowned. She was finishing her last prayer: “Can it be that

+this couch will be my grave?” Natásha, flushed and eager, seeing

+her mother in prayer, suddenly checked her rush, half sat down, and

+unconsciously put out her tongue as if chiding herself. Seeing that

+her mother was still praying she ran on tiptoe to the bed and, rapidly

+slipping one little foot against the other, pushed off her slippers and

+jumped onto the bed the countess had feared might become her grave. This

+couch was high, with a feather bed and five pillows each smaller than

+the one below. Natásha jumped on it, sank into the feather bed, rolled

+over to the wall, and began snuggling up the bedclothes as she settled

+down, raising her knees to her chin, kicking out and laughing almost

+inaudibly, now covering herself up head and all, and now peeping at her

+mother. The countess finished her prayers and came to the bed with a

+stern face, but seeing, that Natásha’s head was covered, she smiled

+in her kind, weak way.

+

+“Now then, now then!” said she.

+

+“Mamma, can we have a talk? Yes?” said Natásha. “Now, just one on

+your throat and another... that’ll do!” And seizing her mother round

+the neck, she kissed her on the throat. In her behavior to her mother

+Natásha seemed rough, but she was so sensitive and tactful that however

+she clasped her mother she always managed to do it without hurting her

+or making her feel uncomfortable or displeased.

+

+“Well, what is it tonight?” said the mother, having arranged her

+pillows and waited until Natásha, after turning over a couple of times,

+had settled down beside her under the quilt, spread out her arms, and

+assumed a serious expression.

+

+These visits of Natásha’s at night before the count returned from his

+club were one of the greatest pleasures of both mother, and daughter.

+

+“What is it tonight?—But I have to tell you...”

+

+Natásha put her hand on her mother’s mouth.

+

+“About Borís... I know,” she said seriously; “that’s what I

+have come about. Don’t say it—I know. No, do tell me!” and she

+removed her hand. “Tell me, Mamma! He’s nice?”

+

+“Natásha, you are sixteen. At your age I was married. You say Borís

+is nice. He is very nice, and I love him like a son. But what then?...

+What are you thinking about? You have quite turned his head, I can see

+that....”

+

+As she said this the countess looked round at her daughter. Natásha

+was lying looking steadily straight before her at one of the mahogany

+sphinxes carved on the corners of the bedstead, so that the countess

+only saw her daughter’s face in profile. That face struck her by its

+peculiarly serious and concentrated expression.

+

+Natásha was listening and considering.

+

+“Well, what then?” said she.

+

+“You have quite turned his head, and why? What do you want of him? You

+know you can’t marry him.”

+

+“Why not?” said Natásha, without changing her position.

+

+“Because he is young, because he is poor, because he is a relation...

+and because you yourself don’t love him.”

+

+“How do you know?”

+

+“I know. It is not right, darling!”

+

+“But if I want to...” said Natásha.

+

+“Leave off talking nonsense,” said the countess.

+

+“But if I want to...”

+

+“Natásha, I am in earnest...”

+

+Natásha did not let her finish. She drew the countess’ large hand to

+her, kissed it on the back and then on the palm, then again turned it

+over and began kissing first one knuckle, then the space between the

+knuckles, then the next knuckle, whispering, “January, February,

+March, April, May. Speak, Mamma, why don’t you say anything? Speak!”

+said she, turning to her mother, who was tenderly gazing at her daughter

+and in that contemplation seemed to have forgotten all she had wished to

+say.

+

+“It won’t do, my love! Not everyone will understand this friendship

+dating from your childish days, and to see him so intimate with you may

+injure you in the eyes of other young men who visit us, and above all

+it torments him for nothing. He may already have found a suitable and

+wealthy match, and now he’s half crazy.”

+

+“Crazy?” repeated Natásha.

+

+“I’ll tell you some things about myself. I had a cousin...”

+

+“I know! Cyril Matvéich... but he is old.”

+

+“He was not always old. But this is what I’ll do, Natásha, I’ll

+have a talk with Borís. He need not come so often....”

+

+“Why not, if he likes to?”

+

+“Because I know it will end in nothing....”

+

+“How can you know? No, Mamma, don’t speak to him! What nonsense!”

+said Natásha in the tone of one being deprived of her property.

+“Well, I won’t marry, but let him come if he enjoys it and I enjoy

+it.” Natásha smiled and looked at her mother. “Not to marry, but

+just so,” she added.

+

+“How so, my pet?”

+

+“Just so. There’s no need for me to marry him. But... just so.”

+

+“Just so, just so,” repeated the countess, and shaking all over, she

+went off into a good humored, unexpected, elderly laugh.

+

+“Don’t laugh, stop!” cried Natásha. “You’re shaking the whole

+bed! You’re awfully like me, just such another giggler.... Wait...”

+and she seized the countess’ hands and kissed a knuckle of the little

+finger, saying, “June,” and continued, kissing, “July, August,”

+on the other hand. “But, Mamma, is he very much in love? What do you

+think? Was anybody ever so much in love with you? And he’s very nice,

+very, very nice. Only not quite my taste—he is so narrow, like the

+dining-room clock.... Don’t you understand? Narrow, you know—gray,

+light gray...”

+

+“What rubbish you’re talking!” said the countess.

+

+Natásha continued: “Don’t you really understand? Nicholas would

+understand.... Bezúkhov, now, is blue, dark-blue and red, and he is

+square.”

+

+“You flirt with him too,” said the countess, laughing.

+

+“No, he is a Freemason, I have found out. He is fine, dark-blue and

+red.... How can I explain it to you?”

+

+“Little countess!” the count’s voice called from behind the door.

+“You’re not asleep?” Natásha jumped up, snatched up her slippers,

+and ran barefoot to her own room.

+

+It was a long time before she could sleep. She kept thinking that no one

+could understand all that she understood and all there was in her.

+

+“Sónya?” she thought, glancing at that curled-up, sleeping little

+kitten with her enormous plait of hair. “No, how could she? She’s

+virtuous. She fell in love with Nicholas and does not wish to know

+anything more. Even Mamma does not understand. It is wonderful how

+clever I am and how... charming she is,” she went on, speaking

+of herself in the third person, and imagining it was some very wise

+man—the wisest and best of men—who was saying it of her. “There

+is everything, everything in her,” continued this man. “She is

+unusually intelligent, charming... and then she is pretty, uncommonly

+pretty, and agile—she swims and rides splendidly... and her voice! One

+can really say it’s a wonderful voice!”

+

+She hummed a scrap from her favorite opera by Cherubini, threw herself

+on her bed, laughed at the pleasant thought that she would immediately

+fall asleep, called Dunyásha the maid to put out the candle, and before

+Dunyásha had left the room had already passed into yet another happier

+world of dreams, where everything was as light and beautiful as in

+reality, and even more so because it was different.

+

+Next day the countess called Borís aside and had a talk with him, after

+which he ceased coming to the Rostóvs’.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XIV

+

+On the thirty-first of December, New Year’s Eve, 1809 - 10 an old

+grandee of Catherine’s day was giving a ball and midnight supper. The

+diplomatic corps and the Emperor himself were to be present.

+

+The grandee’s well-known mansion on the English Quay glittered with

+innumerable lights. Police were stationed at the brightly lit entrance

+which was carpeted with red baize, and not only gendarmes but dozens of

+police officers and even the police master himself stood at the porch.

+Carriages kept driving away and fresh ones arriving, with red-liveried

+footmen and footmen in plumed hats. From the carriages emerged men

+wearing uniforms, stars, and ribbons, while ladies in satin and ermine

+cautiously descended the carriage steps which were let down for them

+with a clatter, and then walked hurriedly and noiselessly over the baize

+at the entrance.

+

+Almost every time a new carriage drove up a whisper ran through the

+crowd and caps were doffed.

+

+“The Emperor?... No, a minister... prince... ambassador. Don’t you

+see the plumes?...” was whispered among the crowd.

+

+One person, better dressed than the rest, seemed to know everyone and

+mentioned by name the greatest dignitaries of the day.

+

+A third of the visitors had already arrived, but the Rostóvs, who were

+to be present, were still hurrying to get dressed.

+

+There had been many discussions and preparations for this ball in the

+Rostóv family, many fears that the invitation would not arrive, that

+the dresses would not be ready, or that something would not be arranged

+as it should be.

+

+Márya Ignátevna Perónskaya, a thin and shallow maid of honor at

+the court of the Dowager Empress, who was a friend and relation of the

+countess and piloted the provincial Rostóvs in Petersburg high society,

+was to accompany them to the ball.

+

+They were to call for her at her house in the Taurida Gardens at ten

+o’clock, but it was already five minutes to ten, and the girls were

+not yet dressed.

+

+Natásha was going to her first grand ball. She had got up at eight that

+morning and had been in a fever of excitement and activity all day. All

+her powers since morning had been concentrated on ensuring that they

+all—she herself, Mamma, and Sónya—should be as well dressed as

+possible. Sónya and her mother put themselves entirely in her hands.

+The countess was to wear a claret-colored velvet dress, and the two

+girls white gauze over pink silk slips, with roses on their bodices and

+their hair dressed à la grecque.

+

+Everything essential had already been done; feet, hands, necks, and

+ears washed, perfumed, and powdered, as befits a ball; the openwork

+silk stockings and white satin shoes with ribbons were already on; the

+hairdressing was almost done. Sónya was finishing dressing and so was

+the countess, but Natásha, who had bustled about helping them all, was

+behindhand. She was still sitting before a looking-glass with a dressing

+jacket thrown over her slender shoulders. Sónya stood ready dressed in

+the middle of the room and, pressing the head of a pin till it hurt her

+dainty finger, was fixing on a last ribbon that squeaked as the pin went

+through it.

+

+“That’s not the way, that’s not the way, Sónya!” cried Natásha

+turning her head and clutching with both hands at her hair which the

+maid who was dressing it had not time to release. “That bow is not

+right. Come here!”

+

+Sónya sat down and Natásha pinned the ribbon on differently.

+

+“Allow me, Miss! I can’t do it like that,” said the maid who was

+holding Natásha’s hair.

+

+“Oh, dear! Well then, wait. That’s right, Sónya.”

+

+“Aren’t you ready? It is nearly ten,” came the countess’ voice.

+

+“Directly! Directly! And you, Mamma?”

+

+“I have only my cap to pin on.”

+

+“Don’t do it without me!” called Natásha. “You won’t do it

+right.”

+

+“But it’s already ten.”

+

+They had decided to be at the ball by half-past ten, and Natásha had

+still to get dressed and they had to call at the Taurida Gardens.

+

+When her hair was done, Natásha, in her short petticoat from under

+which her dancing shoes showed, and in her mother’s dressing jacket,

+ran up to Sónya, scrutinized her, and then ran to her mother. Turning

+her mother’s head this way and that, she fastened on the cap and,

+hurriedly kissing her gray hair, ran back to the maids who were turning

+up the hem of her skirt.

+

+The cause of the delay was Natásha’s skirt, which was too long.

+Two maids were turning up the hem and hurriedly biting off the ends of

+thread. A third with pins in her mouth was running about between the

+countess and Sónya, and a fourth held the whole of the gossamer garment

+up high on one uplifted hand.

+

+“Mávra, quicker, darling!”

+

+“Give me my thimble, Miss, from there...”

+

+“Whenever will you be ready?” asked the count coming to the door.

+“Here is some scent. Perónskaya must be tired of waiting.”

+

+“It’s ready, Miss,” said the maid, holding up the shortened gauze

+dress with two fingers, and blowing and shaking something off it, as if

+by this to express a consciousness of the airiness and purity of what

+she held.

+

+Natásha began putting on the dress.

+

+“In a minute! In a minute! Don’t come in, Papa!” she cried to her

+father as he opened the door—speaking from under the filmy skirt which

+still covered her whole face.

+

+Sónya slammed the door to. A minute later they let the count in. He was

+wearing a blue swallow-tail coat, shoes and stockings, and was perfumed

+and his hair pomaded.

+

+“Oh, Papa! how nice you look! Charming!” cried Natásha, as she

+stood in the middle of the room smoothing out the folds of the gauze.

+

+“If you please, Miss! allow me,” said the maid, who on her knees was

+pulling the skirt straight and shifting the pins from one side of her

+mouth to the other with her tongue.

+

+“Say what you like,” exclaimed Sónya, in a despairing voice as she

+looked at Natásha, “say what you like, it’s still too long.”

+

+Natásha stepped back to look at herself in the pier glass. The dress

+was too long.

+

+“Really, madam, it is not at all too long,” said Mávra, crawling on

+her knees after her young lady.

+

+“Well, if it’s too long we’ll tack it up... we’ll tack it up

+in one minute,” said the resolute Dunyásha taking a needle that was

+stuck on the front of her little shawl and, still kneeling on the floor,

+set to work once more.

+

+At that moment, with soft steps, the countess came in shyly, in her cap

+and velvet gown.

+

+“Oo-oo, my beauty!” exclaimed the count, “she looks better than

+any of you!”

+

+He would have embraced her but, blushing, she stepped aside fearing to

+be rumpled.

+

+“Mamma, your cap, more to this side,” said Natásha. “I’ll

+arrange it,” and she rushed forward so that the maids who were tacking

+up her skirt could not move fast enough and a piece of gauze was torn

+off.

+

+“Oh goodness! What has happened? Really it was not my fault!”

+

+“Never mind, I’ll run it up, it won’t show,” said Dunyásha.

+

+“What a beauty—a very queen!” said the nurse as she came to the

+door. “And Sónya! They are lovely!”

+

+At a quarter past ten they at last got into their carriages and started.

+But they had still to call at the Taurida Gardens.

+

+Perónskaya was quite ready. In spite of her age and plainness she

+had gone through the same process as the Rostóvs, but with less

+flurry—for to her it was a matter of routine. Her ugly old body was

+washed, perfumed, and powdered in just the same way. She had washed

+behind her ears just as carefully, and when she entered her drawing

+room in her yellow dress, wearing her badge as maid of honor, her old

+lady’s maid was as full of rapturous admiration as the Rostóvs’

+servants had been.

+

+She praised the Rostóvs’ toilets. They praised her taste and toilet,

+and at eleven o’clock, careful of their coiffures and dresses, they

+settled themselves in their carriages and drove off.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XV

+

+Natásha had not had a moment free since early morning and had not once

+had time to think of what lay before her.

+

+In the damp chill air and crowded closeness of the swaying carriage, she

+for the first time vividly imagined what was in store for her there at

+the ball, in those brightly lighted rooms—with music, flowers, dances,

+the Emperor, and all the brilliant young people of Petersburg. The

+prospect was so splendid that she hardly believed it would come true,

+so out of keeping was it with the chill darkness and closeness of the

+carriage. She understood all that awaited her only when, after stepping

+over the red baize at the entrance, she entered the hall, took off her

+fur cloak, and, beside Sónya and in front of her mother, mounted the

+brightly illuminated stairs between the flowers. Only then did she

+remember how she must behave at a ball, and tried to assume the majestic

+air she considered indispensable for a girl on such an occasion. But,

+fortunately for her, she felt her eyes growing misty, she saw nothing

+clearly, her pulse beat a hundred to the minute, and the blood throbbed

+at her heart. She could not assume that pose, which would have made her

+ridiculous, and she moved on almost fainting from excitement and trying

+with all her might to conceal it. And this was the very attitude that

+became her best. Before and behind them other visitors were entering,

+also talking in low tones and wearing ball dresses. The mirrors on the

+landing reflected ladies in white, pale-blue, and pink dresses, with

+diamonds and pearls on their bare necks and arms.

+

+Natásha looked in the mirrors and could not distinguish her reflection

+from the others. All was blended into one brilliant procession.

+On entering the ballroom the regular hum of voices, footsteps, and

+greetings deafened Natásha, and the light and glitter dazzled her still

+more. The host and hostess, who had already been standing at the door

+for half an hour repeating the same words to the various arrivals,

+“Charmé de vous voir,” * greeted the Rostóvs and Perónskaya in

+the same manner.

+

+    * “Delighted to see you.”

+

+

+The two girls in their white dresses, each with a rose in her

+black hair, both curtsied in the same way, but the hostess’ eye

+involuntarily rested longer on the slim Natásha. She looked at her

+and gave her alone a special smile in addition to her usual smile as

+hostess. Looking at her she may have recalled the golden, irrecoverable

+days of her own girlhood and her own first ball. The host also followed

+Natásha with his eyes and asked the count which was his daughter.

+

+“Charming!” said he, kissing the tips of his fingers.

+

+In the ballroom guests stood crowding at the entrance doors awaiting

+the Emperor. The countess took up a position in one of the front rows

+of that crowd. Natásha heard and felt that several people were asking

+about her and looking at her. She realized that those noticing her liked

+her, and this observation helped to calm her.

+

+“There are some like ourselves and some worse,” she thought.

+

+Perónskaya was pointing out to the countess the most important people

+at the ball.

+

+“That is the Dutch ambassador, do you see? That gray-haired man,”

+she said, indicating an old man with a profusion of silver-gray curly

+hair, who was surrounded by ladies laughing at something he said.

+

+“Ah, here she is, the Queen of Petersburg, Countess Bezúkhova,”

+said Perónskaya, indicating Hélène who had just entered. “How

+lovely! She is quite equal to Márya Antónovna. See how the men, young

+and old, pay court to her. Beautiful and clever... they say Prince

+—— is quite mad about her. But see, those two, though not

+good-looking, are even more run after.”

+

+She pointed to a lady who was crossing the room followed by a very plain

+daughter.

+

+“She is a splendid match, a millionairess,” said Perónskaya. “And

+look, here come her suitors.”

+

+“That is Bezúkhova’s brother, Anatole Kurágin,” she said,

+indicating a handsome officer of the Horse Guards who passed by them

+with head erect, looking at something over the heads of the ladies.

+“He’s handsome, isn’t he? I hear they will marry him to that rich

+girl. But your cousin, Drubetskóy, is also very attentive to her. They

+say she has millions. Oh yes, that’s the French ambassador himself!”

+she replied to the countess’ inquiry about Caulaincourt. “Looks as

+if he were a king! All the same, the French are charming, very charming.

+No one more charming in society. Ah, here she is! Yes, she is still the

+most beautiful of them all, our Márya Antónovna! And how simply she

+is dressed! Lovely! And that stout one in spectacles is the universal

+Freemason,” she went on, indicating Pierre. “Put him beside his wife

+and he looks a regular buffoon!”

+

+Pierre, swaying his stout body, advanced, making way through the crowd

+and nodding to right and left as casually and good-naturedly as if he

+were passing through a crowd at a fair. He pushed through, evidently

+looking for someone.

+

+Natásha looked joyfully at the familiar face of Pierre, “the

+buffoon,” as Perónskaya had called him, and knew he was looking for

+them, and for her in particular. He had promised to be at the ball and

+introduce partners to her.

+

+But before he reached them Pierre stopped beside a very handsome, dark

+man of middle height, and in a white uniform, who stood by a window

+talking to a tall man wearing stars and a ribbon. Natásha at once

+recognized the shorter and younger man in the white uniform: it was

+Bolkónski, who seemed to her to have grown much younger, happier, and

+better-looking.

+

+“There’s someone else we know—Bolkónski, do you see, Mamma?”

+said Natásha, pointing out Prince Andrew. “You remember, he stayed a

+night with us at Otrádnoe.”

+

+“Oh, you know him?” said Perónskaya. “I can’t bear him. Il fait

+à présent la pluie et le beau temps. * He’s too proud for anything.

+Takes after his father. And he’s hand in glove with Speránski,

+writing some project or other. Just look how he treats the ladies!

+There’s one talking to him and he has turned away,” she said,

+pointing at him. “I’d give it to him if he treated me as he does

+those ladies.”

+

+    * “He is all the rage just now.”

+

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XVI

+

+Suddenly everybody stirred, began talking, and pressed forward and then

+back, and between the two rows, which separated, the Emperor entered to

+the sounds of music that had immediately struck up. Behind him walked

+his host and hostess. He walked in rapidly, bowing to right and left

+as if anxious to get the first moments of the reception over. The band

+played the polonaise in vogue at that time on account of the words that

+had been set to it, beginning: “Alexander, Elisaveta, all our hearts

+you ravish quite...” The Emperor passed on to the drawing room, the

+crowd made a rush for the doors, and several persons with excited faces

+hurried there and back again. Then the crowd hastily retired from

+the drawing room door, at which the Emperor reappeared talking to the

+hostess. A young man, looking distraught, pounced down on the ladies,

+asking them to move aside. Some ladies, with faces betraying complete

+forgetfulness of all the rules of decorum, pushed forward to the

+detriment of their toilets. The men began to choose partners and take

+their places for the polonaise.

+

+Everyone moved back, and the Emperor came smiling out of the drawing

+room leading his hostess by the hand but not keeping time to the

+music. The host followed with Márya Antónovna Narýshkina; then

+came ambassadors, ministers, and various generals, whom Perónskaya

+diligently named. More than half the ladies already had partners

+and were taking up, or preparing to take up, their positions for the

+polonaise. Natásha felt that she would be left with her mother and

+Sónya among a minority of women who crowded near the wall, not having

+been invited to dance. She stood with her slender arms hanging down,

+her scarcely defined bosom rising and falling regularly, and with

+bated breath and glittering, frightened eyes gazed straight before

+her, evidently prepared for the height of joy or misery. She was

+not concerned about the Emperor or any of those great people whom

+Perónskaya was pointing out—she had but one thought: “Is it

+possible no one will ask me, that I shall not be among the first to

+dance? Is it possible that not one of all these men will notice me?

+They do not even seem to see me, or if they do they look as if they

+were saying, ‘Ah, she’s not the one I’m after, so it’s not worth

+looking at her!’ No, it’s impossible,” she thought. “They must

+know how I long to dance, how splendidly I dance, and how they would

+enjoy dancing with me.”

+

+The strains of the polonaise, which had continued for a considerable

+time, had begun to sound like a sad reminiscence to Natásha’s ears.

+She wanted to cry. Perónskaya had left them. The count was at the

+other end of the room. She and the countess and Sónya were standing by

+themselves as in the depths of a forest amid that crowd of strangers,

+with no one interested in them and not wanted by anyone. Prince Andrew

+with a lady passed by, evidently not recognizing them. The handsome

+Anatole was smilingly talking to a partner on his arm and looked at

+Natásha as one looks at a wall. Borís passed them twice and each time

+turned away. Berg and his wife, who were not dancing, came up to them.

+

+This family gathering seemed humiliating to Natásha—as if there were

+nowhere else for the family to talk but here at the ball. She did not

+listen to or look at Véra, who was telling her something about her own

+green dress.

+

+At last the Emperor stopped beside his last partner (he had danced

+with three) and the music ceased. A worried aide-de-camp ran up to the

+Rostóvs requesting them to stand farther back, though as it was they

+were already close to the wall, and from the gallery resounded the

+distinct, precise, enticingly rhythmical strains of a waltz. The Emperor

+looked smilingly down the room. A minute passed but no one had yet begun

+dancing. An aide-de-camp, the Master of Ceremonies, went up to Countess

+Bezúkhova and asked her to dance. She smilingly raised her hand and

+laid it on his shoulder without looking at him. The aide-de-camp, an

+adept in his art, grasping his partner firmly round her waist, with

+confident deliberation started smoothly, gliding first round the edge of

+the circle, then at the corner of the room he caught Hélène’s

+left hand and turned her, the only sound audible, apart from the

+ever-quickening music, being the rhythmic click of the spurs on his

+rapid, agile feet, while at every third beat his partner’s velvet

+dress spread out and seemed to flash as she whirled round. Natásha

+gazed at them and was ready to cry because it was not she who was

+dancing that first turn of the waltz.

+

+Prince Andrew, in the white uniform of a cavalry colonel, wearing

+stockings and dancing shoes, stood looking animated and bright in the

+front row of the circle not far from the Rostóvs. Baron Firhoff was

+talking to him about the first sitting of the Council of State to be

+held next day. Prince Andrew, as one closely connected with Speránski

+and participating in the work of the legislative commission, could give

+reliable information about that sitting, concerning which various rumors

+were current. But not listening to what Firhoff was saying, he was

+gazing now at the sovereign and now at the men intending to dance who

+had not yet gathered courage to enter the circle.

+

+Prince Andrew was watching these men abashed by the Emperor’s

+presence, and the women who were breathlessly longing to be asked to

+dance.

+

+Pierre came up to him and caught him by the arm.

+

+“You always dance. I have a protégée, the young Rostóva, here. Ask

+her,” he said.

+

+“Where is she?” asked Bolkónski. “Excuse me!” he added, turning

+to the baron, “we will finish this conversation elsewhere—at a ball

+one must dance.” He stepped forward in the direction Pierre indicated.

+The despairing, dejected expression of Natásha’s face caught his eye.

+He recognized her, guessed her feelings, saw that it was her début,

+remembered her conversation at the window, and with an expression of

+pleasure on his face approached Countess Rostóva.

+

+“Allow me to introduce you to my daughter,” said the countess, with

+heightened color.

+

+“I have the pleasure of being already acquainted, if the countess

+remembers me,” said Prince Andrew with a low and courteous bow quite

+belying Perónskaya’s remarks about his rudeness, and approaching

+Natásha he held out his arm to grasp her waist before he had completed

+his invitation. He asked her to waltz. That tremulous expression on

+Natásha’s face, prepared either for despair or rapture, suddenly

+brightened into a happy, grateful, childlike smile.

+

+“I have long been waiting for you,” that frightened happy little

+girl seemed to say by the smile that replaced the threatened tears, as

+she raised her hand to Prince Andrew’s shoulder. They were the second

+couple to enter the circle. Prince Andrew was one of the best dancers of

+his day and Natásha danced exquisitely. Her little feet in their white

+satin dancing shoes did their work swiftly, lightly, and independently

+of herself, while her face beamed with ecstatic happiness. Her slender

+bare arms and neck were not beautiful—compared to Hélène’s her

+shoulders looked thin and her bosom undeveloped. But Hélène seemed, as

+it were, hardened by a varnish left by the thousands of looks that had

+scanned her person, while Natásha was like a girl exposed for the first

+time, who would have felt very much ashamed had she not been assured

+that this was absolutely necessary.

+

+Prince Andrew liked dancing, and wishing to escape as quickly as

+possible from the political and clever talk which everyone addressed

+to him, wishing also to break up the circle of restraint he disliked,

+caused by the Emperor’s presence, he danced, and had chosen Natásha

+because Pierre pointed her out to him and because she was the first

+pretty girl who caught his eye; but scarcely had he embraced that

+slender supple figure and felt her stirring so close to him and smiling

+so near him than the wine of her charm rose to his head, and he

+felt himself revived and rejuvenated when after leaving her he stood

+breathing deeply and watching the other dancers.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XVII

+

+After Prince Andrew, Borís came up to ask Natásha for a dance, and

+then the aide-de-camp who had opened the ball, and several other young

+men, so that, flushed and happy, and passing on her superfluous partners

+to Sónya, she did not cease dancing all the evening. She noticed and

+saw nothing of what occupied everyone else. Not only did she fail to

+notice that the Emperor talked a long time with the French ambassador,

+and how particularly gracious he was to a certain lady, or that Prince

+So-and-so and So-and-so did and said this and that, and that Hélène

+had great success and was honored by the special attention of So-and-so,

+but she did not even see the Emperor, and only noticed that he had gone

+because the ball became livelier after his departure. For one of the

+merry cotillions before supper Prince Andrew was again her partner. He

+reminded her of their first encounter in the Otrádnoe avenue, and how

+she had been unable to sleep that moonlight night, and told her how he

+had involuntarily overheard her. Natásha blushed at that recollection

+and tried to excuse herself, as if there had been something to be

+ashamed of in what Prince Andrew had overheard.

+

+Like all men who have grown up in society, Prince Andrew liked meeting

+someone there not of the conventional society stamp. And such was

+Natásha, with her surprise, her delight, her shyness, and even her

+mistakes in speaking French. With her he behaved with special care and

+tenderness, sitting beside her and talking of the simplest and most

+unimportant matters; he admired her shy grace. In the middle of the

+cotillion, having completed one of the figures, Natásha, still out of

+breath, was returning to her seat when another dancer chose her. She was

+tired and panting and evidently thought of declining, but immediately

+put her hand gaily on the man’s shoulder, smiling at Prince Andrew.

+

+“I’d be glad to sit beside you and rest: I’m tired; but you see

+how they keep asking me, and I’m glad of it, I’m happy and I love

+everybody, and you and I understand it all,” and much, much more was

+said in her smile. When her partner left her Natásha ran across the

+room to choose two ladies for the figure.

+

+“If she goes to her cousin first and then to another lady, she will be

+my wife,” said Prince Andrew to himself quite to his own surprise, as

+he watched her. She did go first to her cousin.

+

+“What rubbish sometimes enters one’s head!” thought Prince Andrew,

+“but what is certain is that that girl is so charming, so original,

+that she won’t be dancing here a month before she will be married....

+Such as she are rare here,” he thought, as Natásha, readjusting a

+rose that was slipping on her bodice, settled herself beside him.

+

+When the cotillion was over the old count in his blue coat came up to

+the dancers. He invited Prince Andrew to come and see them, and asked

+his daughter whether she was enjoying herself. Natásha did not answer

+at once but only looked up with a smile that said reproachfully: “How

+can you ask such a question?”

+

+“I have never enjoyed myself so much before!” she said, and Prince

+Andrew noticed how her thin arms rose quickly as if to embrace her

+father and instantly dropped again. Natásha was happier than she had

+ever been in her life. She was at that height of bliss when one becomes

+completely kind and good and does not believe in the possibility of

+evil, unhappiness, or sorrow.

+

+At that ball Pierre for the first time felt humiliated by the position

+his wife occupied in court circles. He was gloomy and absent-minded. A

+deep furrow ran across his forehead, and standing by a window he stared

+over his spectacles seeing no one.

+

+On her way to supper Natásha passed him.

+

+Pierre’s gloomy, unhappy look struck her. She stopped in front of him.

+She wished to help him, to bestow on him the superabundance of her own

+happiness.

+

+“How delightful it is, Count!” said she. “Isn’t it?”

+

+Pierre smiled absent-mindedly, evidently not grasping what she said.

+

+“Yes, I am very glad,” he said.

+

+“How can people be dissatisfied with anything?” thought Natásha.

+“Especially such a capital fellow as Bezúkhov!” In Natásha’s

+eyes all the people at the ball alike were good, kind, and splendid

+people, loving one another; none of them capable of injuring

+another—and so they ought all to be happy.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XVIII

+

+Next day Prince Andrew thought of the ball, but his mind did not dwell

+on it long. “Yes, it was a very brilliant ball,” and then... “Yes,

+that little Rostóva is very charming. There’s something fresh,

+original, un-Petersburg-like about her that distinguishes her.” That

+was all he thought about yesterday’s ball, and after his morning tea

+he set to work.

+

+But either from fatigue or want of sleep he was ill-disposed for work

+and could get nothing done. He kept criticizing his own work, as he

+often did, and was glad when he heard someone coming.

+

+The visitor was Bítski, who served on various committees, frequented

+all the societies in Petersburg, and a passionate devotee of the new

+ideas and of Speránski, and a diligent Petersburg newsmonger—one of

+those men who choose their opinions like their clothes according to

+the fashion, but who for that very reason appear to be the warmest

+partisans. Hardly had he got rid of his hat before he ran into Prince

+Andrew’s room with a preoccupied air and at once began talking. He

+had just heard particulars of that morning’s sitting of the Council

+of State opened by the Emperor, and he spoke of it enthusiastically. The

+Emperor’s speech had been extraordinary. It had been a speech such as

+only constitutional monarchs deliver. “The Sovereign plainly said

+that the Council and Senate are estates of the realm, he said that the

+government must rest not on authority but on secure bases. The Emperor

+said that the fiscal system must be reorganized and the accounts

+published,” recounted Bítski, emphasizing certain words and opening

+his eyes significantly.

+

+“Ah, yes! Today’s events mark an epoch, the greatest epoch in our

+history,” he concluded.

+

+Prince Andrew listened to the account of the opening of the Council of

+State, which he had so impatiently awaited and to which he had attached

+such importance, and was surprised that this event, now that it had

+taken place, did not affect him, and even seemed quite insignificant. He

+listened with quiet irony to Bítski’s enthusiastic account of it. A

+very simple thought occurred to him: “What does it matter to me or to

+Bítski what the Emperor was pleased to say at the Council? Can all that

+make me any happier or better?”

+

+And this simple reflection suddenly destroyed all the interest Prince

+Andrew had felt in the impending reforms. He was going to dine that

+evening at Speránski’s, “with only a few friends,” as the host

+had said when inviting him. The prospect of that dinner in the intimate

+home circle of the man he so admired had greatly interested Prince

+Andrew, especially as he had not yet seen Speránski in his domestic

+surroundings, but now he felt disinclined to go to it.

+

+At the appointed hour, however, he entered the modest house Speránski

+owned in the Taurida Gardens. In the parqueted dining room this small

+house, remarkable for its extreme cleanliness (suggesting that of a

+monastery), Prince Andrew, who was rather late, found the friendly

+gathering of Speránski’s intimate acquaintances already assembled

+at five o’clock. There were no ladies present except Speránski’s

+little daughter (long-faced like her father) and her governess. The

+other guests were Gervais, Magnítski, and Stolýpin. While still in

+the anteroom Prince Andrew heard loud voices and a ringing staccato

+laugh—a laugh such as one hears on the stage. Someone—it sounded

+like Speránski—was distinctly ejaculating ha-ha-ha. Prince Andrew

+had never before heard Speránski’s famous laugh, and this ringing,

+high-pitched laughter from a statesman made a strange impression on him.

+

+He entered the dining room. The whole company were standing between two

+windows at a small table laid with hors-d’oeuvres. Speránski, wearing

+a gray swallow-tail coat with a star on the breast, and evidently still

+the same waistcoat and high white stock he had worn at the meeting of

+the Council of State, stood at the table with a beaming countenance. His

+guests surrounded him. Magnítski, addressing himself to Speránski,

+was relating an anecdote, and Speránski was laughing in advance at

+what Magnítski was going to say. When Prince Andrew entered the room

+Magnítski’s words were again crowned by laughter. Stolýpin gave

+a deep bass guffaw as he munched a piece of bread and cheese. Gervais

+laughed softly with a hissing chuckle, and Speránski in a high-pitched

+staccato manner.

+

+Still laughing, Speránski held out his soft white hand to Prince

+Andrew.

+

+“Very pleased to see you, Prince,” he said. “One moment...” he

+went on, turning to Magnítski and interrupting his story. “We have

+agreed that this is a dinner for recreation, with not a word about

+business!” and turning again to the narrator he began to laugh afresh.

+

+Prince Andrew looked at the laughing Speránski with astonishment,

+regret, and disillusionment. It seemed to him that this was not

+Speránski but someone else. Everything that had formerly appeared

+mysterious and fascinating in Speránski suddenly became plain and

+unattractive.

+

+At dinner the conversation did not cease for a moment and seemed to

+consist of the contents of a book of funny anecdotes. Before Magnítski

+had finished his story someone else was anxious to relate something

+still funnier. Most of the anecdotes, if not relating to the state

+service, related to people in the service. It seemed that in this

+company the insignificance of those people was so definitely accepted

+that the only possible attitude toward them was one of good humored

+ridicule. Speránski related how at the Council that morning a deaf

+dignitary, when asked his opinion, replied that he thought so too.

+Gervais gave a long account of an official revision, remarkable for the

+stupidity of everybody concerned. Stolýpin, stuttering, broke into

+the conversation and began excitedly talking of the abuses that existed

+under the former order of things—threatening to give a serious turn

+to the conversation. Magnítski starting quizzing Stolýpin about his

+vehemence. Gervais intervened with a joke, and the talk reverted to its

+former lively tone.

+

+Evidently Speránski liked to rest after his labors and find amusement

+in a circle of friends, and his guests, understanding his wish, tried

+to enliven him and amuse themselves. But their gaiety seemed to Prince

+Andrew mirthless and tiresome. Speránski’s high-pitched voice struck

+him unpleasantly, and the incessant laughter grated on him like a false

+note. Prince Andrew did not laugh and feared that he would be a damper

+on the spirits of the company, but no one took any notice of his being

+out of harmony with the general mood. They all seemed very gay.

+

+He tried several times to join in the conversation, but his remarks were

+tossed aside each time like a cork thrown out of the water, and he could

+not jest with them.

+

+There was nothing wrong or unseemly in what they said, it was witty and

+might have been funny, but it lacked just that something which is the

+salt of mirth, and they were not even aware that such a thing existed.

+

+After dinner Speránski’s daughter and her governess rose. He patted

+the little girl with his white hand and kissed her. And that gesture,

+too, seemed unnatural to Prince Andrew.

+

+The men remained at table over their port—English fashion. In the

+midst of a conversation that was started about Napoleon’s Spanish

+affairs, which they all agreed in approving, Prince Andrew began to

+express a contrary opinion. Speránski smiled and, with an evident wish

+to prevent the conversation from taking an unpleasant course, told a

+story that had no connection with the previous conversation. For a few

+moments all were silent.

+

+Having sat some time at table, Speránski corked a bottle of wine and,

+remarking, “Nowadays good wine rides in a carriage and pair,” passed

+it to the servant and got up. All rose and continuing to talk loudly

+went into the drawing room. Two letters brought by a courier were handed

+to Speránski and he took them to his study. As soon as he had left

+the room the general merriment stopped and the guests began to converse

+sensibly and quietly with one another.

+

+“Now for the recitation!” said Speránski on returning from

+his study. “A wonderful talent!” he said to Prince Andrew, and

+Magnítski immediately assumed a pose and began reciting some humorous

+verses in French which he had composed about various well-known

+Petersburg people. He was interrupted several times by applause. When

+the verses were finished Prince Andrew went up to Speránski and took

+his leave.

+

+“Where are you off to so early?” asked Speránski.

+

+“I promised to go to a reception.”

+

+They said no more. Prince Andrew looked closely into those mirrorlike,

+impenetrable eyes, and felt that it had been ridiculous of him to have

+expected anything from Speránski and from any of his own activities

+connected with him, or ever to have attributed importance to what

+Speránski was doing. That precise, mirthless laughter rang in Prince

+Andrew’s ears long after he had left the house.

+

+When he reached home Prince Andrew began thinking of his life in

+Petersburg during those last four months as if it were something new. He

+recalled his exertions and solicitations, and the history of his project

+of army reform, which had been accepted for consideration and which they

+were trying to pass over in silence simply because another, a very poor

+one, had already been prepared and submitted to the Emperor. He thought

+of the meetings of a committee of which Berg was a member. He remembered

+how carefully and at what length everything relating to form and

+procedure was discussed at those meetings, and how sedulously and

+promptly all that related to the gist of the business was evaded. He

+recalled his labors on the Legal Code, and how painstakingly he had

+translated the articles of the Roman and French codes into Russian,

+and he felt ashamed of himself. Then he vividly pictured to himself

+Boguchárovo, his occupations in the country, his journey to Ryazán;

+he remembered the peasants and Dron the village elder, and mentally

+applying to them the Personal Rights he had divided into paragraphs, he

+felt astonished that he could have spent so much time on such useless

+work.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XIX

+

+Next day Prince Andrew called at a few houses he had not visited before,

+and among them at the Rostóvs’ with whom he had renewed acquaintance

+at the ball. Apart from considerations of politeness which demanded the

+call, he wanted to see that original, eager girl who had left such a

+pleasant impression on his mind, in her own home.

+

+Natásha was one of the first to meet him. She was wearing a dark-blue

+house dress in which Prince Andrew thought her even prettier than in

+her ball dress. She and all the Rostóv family welcomed him as an old

+friend, simply and cordially. The whole family, whom he had formerly

+judged severely, now seemed to him to consist of excellent, simple,

+and kindly people. The old count’s hospitality and good nature, which

+struck one especially in Petersburg as a pleasant surprise, were such

+that Prince Andrew could not refuse to stay to dinner. “Yes,”

+he thought, “they are capital people, who of course have not the

+slightest idea what a treasure they possess in Natásha; but they are

+kindly folk and form the best possible setting for this strikingly

+poetic, charming girl, overflowing with life!”

+

+In Natásha Prince Andrew was conscious of a strange world completely

+alien to him and brimful of joys unknown to him, a different world,

+that in the Otrádnoe avenue and at the window that moonlight night

+had already begun to disconcert him. Now this world disconcerted him no

+longer and was no longer alien to him, but he himself having entered it

+found in it a new enjoyment.

+

+After dinner Natásha, at Prince Andrew’s request, went to the

+clavichord and began singing. Prince Andrew stood by a window talking

+to the ladies and listened to her. In the midst of a phrase he ceased

+speaking and suddenly felt tears choking him, a thing he had thought

+impossible for him. He looked at Natásha as she sang, and something new

+and joyful stirred in his soul. He felt happy and at the same time sad.

+He had absolutely nothing to weep about yet he was ready to weep. What

+about? His former love? The little princess? His disillusionments?...

+His hopes for the future?... Yes and no. The chief reason was a sudden,

+vivid sense of the terrible contrast between something infinitely great

+and illimitable within him and that limited and material something that

+he, and even she, was. This contrast weighed on and yet cheered him

+while she sang.

+

+As soon as Natásha had finished she went up to him and asked how he

+liked her voice. She asked this and then became confused, feeling that

+she ought not to have asked it. He smiled, looking at her, and said he

+liked her singing as he liked everything she did.

+

+Prince Andrew left the Rostóvs’ late in the evening. He went to bed

+from habit, but soon realized that he could not sleep. Having lit his

+candle he sat up in bed, then got up, then lay down again not at all

+troubled by his sleeplessness: his soul was as fresh and joyful as if he

+had stepped out of a stuffy room into God’s own fresh air. It did not

+enter his head that he was in love with Natásha; he was not thinking

+about her, but only picturing her to himself, and in consequence all

+life appeared in a new light. “Why do I strive, why do I toil in this

+narrow, confined frame, when life, all life with all its joys, is open

+to me?” said he to himself. And for the first time for a very long

+while he began making happy plans for the future. He decided that he

+must attend to his son’s education by finding a tutor and putting

+the boy in his charge, then he ought to retire from the service and go

+abroad, and see England, Switzerland and Italy. “I must use my freedom

+while I feel so much strength and youth in me,” he said to himself.

+“Pierre was right when he said one must believe in the possibility of

+happiness in order to be happy, and now I do believe in it. Let the dead

+bury their dead, but while one has life one must live and be happy!”

+thought he.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XX

+

+One morning Colonel Berg, whom Pierre knew as he knew everybody in

+Moscow and Petersburg, came to see him. Berg arrived in an immaculate

+brand-new uniform, with his hair pomaded and brushed forward over his

+temples as the Emperor Alexander wore his hair.

+

+“I have just been to see the countess, your wife. Unfortunately she

+could not grant my request, but I hope, Count, I shall be more fortunate

+with you,” he said with a smile.

+

+“What is it you wish, Colonel? I am at your service.”

+

+“I have now quite settled in my new rooms, Count” (Berg said

+this with perfect conviction that this information could not but be

+agreeable), “and so I wish to arrange just a small party for my own

+and my wife’s friends.” (He smiled still more pleasantly.) “I

+wished to ask the countess and you to do me the honor of coming to tea

+and to supper.”

+

+Only Countess Hélène, considering the society of such people as the

+Bergs beneath her, could be cruel enough to refuse such an invitation.

+Berg explained so clearly why he wanted to collect at his house a small

+but select company, and why this would give him pleasure, and why though

+he grudged spending money on cards or anything harmful, he was prepared

+to run into some expense for the sake of good society—that Pierre

+could not refuse, and promised to come.

+

+“But don’t be late, Count, if I may venture to ask; about ten

+minutes to eight, please. We shall make up a rubber. Our general is

+coming. He is very good to me. We shall have supper, Count. So you will

+do me the favor.”

+

+Contrary to his habit of being late, Pierre on that day arrived at the

+Bergs’ house, not at ten but at fifteen minutes to eight.

+

+Having prepared everything necessary for the party, the Bergs were ready

+for their guests’ arrival.

+

+In their new, clean, and light study with its small busts and pictures

+and new furniture sat Berg and his wife. Berg, closely buttoned up in

+his new uniform, sat beside his wife explaining to her that one always

+could and should be acquainted with people above one, because only then

+does one get satisfaction from acquaintances.

+

+“You can get to know something, you can ask for something. See how I

+managed from my first promotion.” (Berg measured his life not by years

+but by promotions.) “My comrades are still nobodies, while I am only

+waiting for a vacancy to command a regiment, and have the happiness to

+be your husband.” (He rose and kissed Véra’s hand, and on the way

+to her straightened out a turned-up corner of the carpet.) “And

+how have I obtained all this? Chiefly by knowing how to choose my

+aquaintances. It goes without saying that one must be conscientious and

+methodical.”

+

+Berg smiled with a sense of his superiority over a weak woman, and

+paused, reflecting that this dear wife of his was after all but a weak

+woman who could not understand all that constitutes a man’s dignity,

+what it was ein Mann zu sein. * Véra at the same time smiling with a

+sense of superiority over her good, conscientious husband, who all the

+same understood life wrongly, as according to Véra all men did. Berg,

+judging by his wife, thought all women weak and foolish. Véra, judging

+only by her husband and generalizing from that observation, supposed

+that all men, though they understand nothing and are conceited and

+selfish, ascribe common sense to themselves alone.

+

+    * To be a man.

+

+Berg rose and embraced his wife carefully, so as not to crush her lace

+fichu for which he had paid a good price, kissing her straight on the

+lips.

+

+“The only thing is, we mustn’t have children too soon,” he

+continued, following an unconscious sequence of ideas.

+

+“Yes,” answered Véra, “I don’t at all want that. We must live

+for society.”

+

+“Princess Yusúpova wore one exactly like this,” said Berg, pointing

+to the fichu with a happy and kindly smile.

+

+Just then Count Bezúkhov was announced. Husband and wife glanced at one

+another, both smiling with self-satisfaction, and each mentally claiming

+the honor of this visit.

+

+“This is what comes of knowing how to make acquaintances,” thought

+Berg. “This is what comes of knowing how to conduct oneself.”

+

+“But please don’t interrupt me when I am entertaining the guests,”

+said Véra, “because I know what interests each of them and what to

+say to different people.”

+

+Berg smiled again.

+

+“It can’t be helped: men must sometimes have masculine

+conversation,” said he.

+

+They received Pierre in their small, new drawing room, where it was

+impossible to sit down anywhere without disturbing its symmetry,

+neatness, and order; so it was quite comprehensible and not strange that

+Berg, having generously offered to disturb the symmetry of an armchair

+or of the sofa for his dear guest, but being apparently painfully

+undecided on the matter himself, eventually left the visitor to settle

+the question of selection. Pierre disturbed the symmetry by moving a

+chair for himself, and Berg and Véra immediately began their evening

+party, interrupting each other in their efforts to entertain their

+guest.

+

+Véra, having decided in her own mind that Pierre ought to be

+entertained with conversation about the French embassy, at once began

+accordingly. Berg, having decided that masculine conversation was

+required, interrupted his wife’s remarks and touched on the question

+of the war with Austria, and unconsciously jumped from the general

+subject to personal considerations as to the proposals made him to take

+part in the Austrian campaign and the reasons why he had declined them.

+Though the conversation was very incoherent and Véra was angry at the

+intrusion of the masculine element, both husband and wife felt with

+satisfaction that, even if only one guest was present, their evening had

+begun very well and was as like as two peas to every other evening party

+with its talk, tea, and lighted candles.

+

+Before long Borís, Berg’s old comrade, arrived. There was a shade of

+condescension and patronage in his treatment of Berg and Véra. After

+Borís came a lady with the colonel, then the general himself, then the

+Rostóvs, and the party became unquestionably exactly like all other

+evening parties. Berg and Véra could not repress their smiles of

+satisfaction at the sight of all this movement in their drawing room,

+at the sound of the disconnected talk, the rustling of dresses, and the

+bowing and scraping. Everything was just as everybody always has it,

+especially so the general, who admired the apartment, patted Berg on the

+shoulder, and with parental authority superintended the setting out of

+the table for boston. The general sat down by Count Ilyá Rostóv, who

+was next to himself the most important guest. The old people sat with

+the old, the young with the young, and the hostess at the tea table, on

+which stood exactly the same kind of cakes in a silver cake basket as

+the Panins had at their party. Everything was just as it was everywhere

+else.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XXI

+

+Pierre, as one of the principal guests, had to sit down to boston

+with Count Rostóv, the general, and the colonel. At the card table he

+happened to be directly facing Natásha, and was struck by a curious

+change that had come over her since the ball. She was silent, and not

+only less pretty than at the ball, but only redeemed from plainness by

+her look of gentle indifference to everything around.

+

+“What’s the matter with her?” thought Pierre, glancing at her.

+She was sitting by her sister at the tea table, and reluctantly, without

+looking at him, made some reply to Borís who sat down beside her. After

+playing out a whole suit and to his partner’s delight taking five

+tricks, Pierre, hearing greetings and the steps of someone who had

+entered the room while he was picking up his tricks, glanced again at

+Natásha.

+

+“What has happened to her?” he asked himself with still greater

+surprise.

+

+Prince Andrew was standing before her, saying something to her with a

+look of tender solicitude. She, having raised her head, was looking up

+at him, flushed and evidently trying to master her rapid breathing. And

+the bright glow of some inner fire that had been suppressed was again

+alight in her. She was completely transformed and from a plain girl had

+again become what she had been at the ball.

+

+Prince Andrew went up to Pierre, and the latter noticed a new and

+youthful expression in his friend’s face.

+

+Pierre changed places several times during the game, sitting now with

+his back to Natásha and now facing her, but during the whole of the six

+rubbers he watched her and his friend.

+

+“Something very important is happening between them,” thought

+Pierre, and a feeling that was both joyful and painful agitated him and

+made him neglect the game.

+

+After six rubbers the general got up, saying that it was no use playing

+like that, and Pierre was released. Natásha on one side was talking

+with Sónya and Borís, and Véra with a subtle smile was saying

+something to Prince Andrew. Pierre went up to his friend and, asking

+whether they were talking secrets, sat down beside them. Véra, having

+noticed Prince Andrew’s attentions to Natásha, decided that at a

+party, a real evening party, subtle allusions to the tender passion were

+absolutely necessary and, seizing a moment when Prince Andrew was alone,

+began a conversation with him about feelings in general and about her

+sister. With so intellectual a guest as she considered Prince Andrew to

+be, she felt that she had to employ her diplomatic tact.

+

+When Pierre went up to them he noticed that Véra was being carried away

+by her self-satisfied talk, but that Prince Andrew seemed embarrassed, a

+thing that rarely happened with him.

+

+“What do you think?” Véra was saying with an arch smile. “You are

+so discerning, Prince, and understand people’s characters so well at

+a glance. What do you think of Natalie? Could she be constant in her

+attachments? Could she, like other women” (Véra meant herself),

+“love a man once for all and remain true to him forever? That is what

+I consider true love. What do you think, Prince?”

+

+“I know your sister too little,” replied Prince Andrew, with a

+sarcastic smile under which he wished to hide his embarrassment, “to

+be able to solve so delicate a question, and then I have noticed that

+the less attractive a woman is the more constant she is likely to be,”

+he added, and looked up at Pierre who was just approaching them.

+

+“Yes, that is true, Prince. In our days,” continued

+Véra—mentioning “our days” as people of limited intelligence are

+fond of doing, imagining that they have discovered and appraised the

+peculiarities of “our days” and that human characteristics change

+with the times—“in our days a girl has so much freedom that the

+pleasure of being courted often stifles real feeling in her. And it must

+be confessed that Natalie is very susceptible.” This return to

+the subject of Natalie caused Prince Andrew to knit his brows with

+discomfort: he was about to rise, but Véra continued with a still more

+subtle smile:

+

+“I think no one has been more courted than she,” she went on, “but

+till quite lately she never cared seriously for anyone. Now you know,

+Count,” she said to Pierre, “even our dear cousin Borís, who,

+between ourselves, was very far gone in the land of tenderness...”

+(alluding to a map of love much in vogue at that time).

+

+Prince Andrew frowned and remained silent.

+

+“You are friendly with Borís, aren’t you?” asked Véra.

+

+“Yes, I know him....”

+

+“I expect he has told you of his childish love for Natásha?”

+

+“Oh, there was childish love?” suddenly asked Prince Andrew,

+blushing unexpectedly.

+

+“Yes, you know between cousins intimacy often leads to love. Le

+cousinage est un dangereux voisinage. * Don’t you think so?”

+

+    * “Cousinhood is a dangerous neighborhood.”

+

+

+“Oh, undoubtedly!” said Prince Andrew, and with sudden and unnatural

+liveliness he began chaffing Pierre about the need to be very careful

+with his fifty-year-old Moscow cousins, and in the midst of these

+jesting remarks he rose, taking Pierre by the arm, and drew him aside.

+

+“Well?” asked Pierre, seeing his friend’s strange animation with

+surprise, and noticing the glance he turned on Natásha as he rose.

+

+“I must... I must have a talk with you,” said Prince Andrew. “You

+know that pair of women’s gloves?” (He referred to the Masonic

+gloves given to a newly initiated Brother to present to the woman he

+loved.) “I... but no, I will talk to you later on,” and with a

+strange light in his eyes and restlessness in his movements, Prince

+Andrew approached Natásha and sat down beside her. Pierre saw how

+Prince Andrew asked her something and how she flushed as she replied.

+

+But at that moment Berg came to Pierre and began insisting that he

+should take part in an argument between the general and the colonel on

+the affairs in Spain.

+

+Berg was satisfied and happy. The smile of pleasure never left his face.

+The party was very successful and quite like other parties he had

+seen. Everything was similar: the ladies’ subtle talk, the cards, the

+general raising his voice at the card table, and the samovar and the tea

+cakes; only one thing was lacking that he had always seen at the evening

+parties he wished to imitate. They had not yet had a loud conversation

+among the men and a dispute about something important and clever. Now

+the general had begun such a discussion and so Berg drew Pierre to it.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XXII

+

+Next day, having been invited by the count, Prince Andrew dined with the

+Rostóvs and spent the rest of the day there.

+

+Everyone in the house realized for whose sake Prince Andrew came, and

+without concealing it he tried to be with Natásha all day. Not only in

+the soul of the frightened yet happy and enraptured Natásha, but in the

+whole house, there was a feeling of awe at something important that was

+bound to happen. The countess looked with sad and sternly serious eyes

+at Prince Andrew when he talked to Natásha and timidly started some

+artificial conversation about trifles as soon as he looked her way.

+Sónya was afraid to leave Natásha and afraid of being in the way when

+she was with them. Natásha grew pale, in a panic of expectation, when

+she remained alone with him for a moment. Prince Andrew surprised her by

+his timidity. She felt that he wanted to say something to her but could

+not bring himself to do so.

+

+In the evening, when Prince Andrew had left, the countess went up to

+Natásha and whispered: “Well, what?”

+

+“Mamma! For heaven’s sake don’t ask me anything now! One can’t

+talk about that,” said Natásha.

+

+But all the same that night Natásha, now agitated and now frightened,

+lay a long time in her mother’s bed gazing straight before her. She

+told her how he had complimented her, how he told her he was going

+abroad, asked her where they were going to spend the summer, and then

+how he had asked her about Borís.

+

+“But such a... such a... never happened to me before!” she said.

+“Only I feel afraid in his presence. I am always afraid when I’m

+with him. What does that mean? Does it mean that it’s the real thing?

+Yes? Mamma, are you asleep?”

+

+“No, my love; I am frightened myself,” answered her mother. “Now

+go!”

+

+“All the same I shan’t sleep. What silliness, to sleep! Mummy!

+Mummy! such a thing never happened to me before,” she said, surprised

+and alarmed at the feeling she was aware of in herself. “And could we

+ever have thought!...”

+

+It seemed to Natásha that even at the time she first saw Prince Andrew

+at Otrádnoe she had fallen in love with him. It was as if she feared

+this strange, unexpected happiness of meeting again the very man she had

+then chosen (she was firmly convinced she had done so) and of finding

+him, as it seemed, not indifferent to her.

+

+“And it had to happen that he should come specially to Petersburg

+while we are here. And it had to happen that we should meet at that

+ball. It is fate. Clearly it is fate that everything led up to this!

+Already then, directly I saw him I felt something peculiar.”

+

+“What else did he say to you? What are those verses? Read them...”

+said her mother, thoughtfully, referring to some verses Prince Andrew

+had written in Natásha’s album.

+

+“Mamma, one need not be ashamed of his being a widower?”

+

+“Don’t, Natásha! Pray to God. ‘Marriages are made in

+heaven,’” said her mother.

+

+“Darling Mummy, how I love you! How happy I am!” cried Natásha,

+shedding tears of joy and excitement and embracing her mother.

+

+At that very time Prince Andrew was sitting with Pierre and telling him

+of his love for Natásha and his firm resolve to make her his wife.

+

+That day Countess Hélène had a reception at her house. The French

+ambassador was there, and a foreign prince of the blood who had of

+late become a frequent visitor of hers, and many brilliant ladies and

+gentlemen. Pierre, who had come downstairs, walked through the rooms and

+struck everyone by his preoccupied, absent-minded, and morose air.

+

+Since the ball he had felt the approach of a fit of nervous depression

+and had made desperate efforts to combat it. Since the intimacy of

+his wife with the royal prince, Pierre had unexpectedly been made a

+gentleman of the bedchamber, and from that time he had begun to feel

+oppressed and ashamed in court society, and dark thoughts of the vanity

+of all things human came to him oftener than before. At the same time

+the feeling he had noticed between his protégée Natásha and Prince

+Andrew accentuated his gloom by the contrast between his own position

+and his friend’s. He tried equally to avoid thinking about his wife,

+and about Natásha and Prince Andrew; and again everything seemed to him

+insignificant in comparison with eternity; again the question: for what?

+presented itself; and he forced himself to work day and night at Masonic

+labors, hoping to drive away the evil spirit that threatened him. Toward

+midnight, after he had left the countess’ apartments, he was sitting

+upstairs in a shabby dressing gown, copying out the original transaction

+of the Scottish lodge of Freemasons at a table in his low room cloudy

+with tobacco smoke, when someone came in. It was Prince Andrew.

+

+“Ah, it’s you!” said Pierre with a preoccupied, dissatisfied air.

+“And I, you see, am hard at it.” He pointed to his manuscript book

+with that air of escaping from the ills of life with which unhappy

+people look at their work.

+

+Prince Andrew, with a beaming, ecstatic expression of renewed life on

+his face, paused in front of Pierre and, not noticing his sad look,

+smiled at him with the egotism of joy.

+

+“Well, dear heart,” said he, “I wanted to tell you about it

+yesterday and I have come to do so today. I never experienced anything

+like it before. I am in love, my friend!”

+

+Suddenly Pierre heaved a deep sigh and dumped his heavy person down on

+the sofa beside Prince Andrew.

+

+“With Natásha Rostóva, yes?” said he.

+

+“Yes, yes! Who else should it be? I should never have believed it,

+but the feeling is stronger than I. Yesterday I tormented myself and

+suffered, but I would not exchange even that torment for anything in

+the world, I have not lived till now. At last I live, but I can’t

+live without her! But can she love me?... I am too old for her.... Why

+don’t you speak?”

+

+“I? I? What did I tell you?” said Pierre suddenly, rising and

+beginning to pace up and down the room. “I always thought it.... That

+girl is such a treasure... she is a rare girl.... My dear friend,

+I entreat you, don’t philosophize, don’t doubt, marry, marry,

+marry.... And I am sure there will not be a happier man than you.”

+

+“But what of her?”

+

+“She loves you.”

+

+“Don’t talk rubbish...” said Prince Andrew, smiling and looking

+into Pierre’s eyes.

+

+“She does, I know,” Pierre cried fiercely.

+

+“But do listen,” returned Prince Andrew, holding him by the

+arm. “Do you know the condition I am in? I must talk about it to

+someone.”

+

+“Well, go on, go on. I am very glad,” said Pierre, and his face

+really changed, his brow became smooth, and he listened gladly to Prince

+Andrew. Prince Andrew seemed, and really was, quite a different, quite

+a new man. Where was his spleen, his contempt for life, his

+disillusionment? Pierre was the only person to whom he made up his mind

+to speak openly; and to him he told all that was in his soul. Now he

+boldly and lightly made plans for an extended future, said he could not

+sacrifice his own happiness to his father’s caprice, and spoke of how

+he would either make his father consent to this marriage and love her,

+or would do without his consent; then he marveled at the feeling that

+had mastered him as at something strange, apart from and independent of

+himself.

+

+“I should not have believed anyone who told me that I was capable of

+such love,” said Prince Andrew. “It is not at all the same feeling

+that I knew in the past. The whole world is now for me divided into two

+halves: one half is she, and there all is joy, hope, light: the

+other half is everything where she is not, and there is all gloom and

+darkness....”

+

+“Darkness and gloom,” reiterated Pierre: “yes, yes, I understand

+that.”

+

+“I cannot help loving the light, it is not my fault. And I am very

+happy! You understand me? I know you are glad for my sake.”

+

+“Yes, yes,” Pierre assented, looking at his friend with a touched

+and sad expression in his eyes. The brighter Prince Andrew’s lot

+appeared to him, the gloomier seemed his own.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XXIII

+

+Prince Andrew needed his father’s consent to his marriage, and to

+obtain this he started for the country next day.

+

+His father received his son’s communication with external composure,

+but inward wrath. He could not comprehend how anyone could wish to

+alter his life or introduce anything new into it, when his own life

+was already ending. “If only they would let me end my days as I want

+to,” thought the old man, “then they might do as they please.”

+With his son, however, he employed the diplomacy he reserved for

+important occasions and, adopting a quiet tone, discussed the whole

+matter.

+

+In the first place the marriage was not a brilliant one as regards

+birth, wealth, or rank. Secondly, Prince Andrew was no longer as young

+as he had been and his health was poor (the old man laid special stress

+on this), while she was very young. Thirdly, he had a son whom it would

+be a pity to entrust to a chit of a girl. “Fourthly and finally,”

+the father said, looking ironically at his son, “I beg you to put it

+off for a year: go abroad, take a cure, look out as you wanted to for

+a German tutor for Prince Nicholas. Then if your love or passion or

+obstinacy—as you please—is still as great, marry! And that’s my

+last word on it. Mind, the last...” concluded the prince, in a tone

+which showed that nothing would make him alter his decision.

+

+Prince Andrew saw clearly that the old man hoped that his feelings, or

+his fiancée’s, would not stand a year’s test, or that he (the old

+prince himself) would die before then, and he decided to conform to his

+father’s wish—to propose, and postpone the wedding for a year.

+

+Three weeks after the last evening he had spent with the Rostóvs,

+Prince Andrew returned to Petersburg.

+

+

+Next day after her talk with her mother Natásha expected Bolkónski all

+day, but he did not come. On the second and third day it was the same.

+Pierre did not come either and Natásha, not knowing that Prince Andrew

+had gone to see his father, could not explain his absence to herself.

+

+Three weeks passed in this way. Natásha had no desire to go out

+anywhere and wandered from room to room like a shadow, idle and

+listless; she wept secretly at night and did not go to her mother in the

+evenings. She blushed continually and was irritable. It seemed to her

+that everybody knew about her disappointment and was laughing at her and

+pitying her. Strong as was her inward grief, this wound to her vanity

+intensified her misery.

+

+Once she came to her mother, tried to say something, and suddenly began

+to cry. Her tears were those of an offended child who does not know why

+it is being punished.

+

+The countess began to soothe Natásha, who after first listening to her

+mother’s words, suddenly interrupted her:

+

+“Leave off, Mamma! I don’t think, and don’t want to think about

+it! He just came and then left off, left off....”

+

+Her voice trembled, and she again nearly cried, but recovered and went

+on quietly:

+

+“And I don’t at all want to get married. And I am afraid of him; I

+have now become quite calm, quite calm.”

+

+The day after this conversation Natásha put on the old dress which

+she knew had the peculiar property of conducing to cheerfulness in the

+mornings, and that day she returned to the old way of life which she had

+abandoned since the ball. Having finished her morning tea she went to

+the ballroom, which she particularly liked for its loud resonance, and

+began singing her solfeggio. When she had finished her first exercise

+she stood still in the middle of the room and sang a musical phrase that

+particularly pleased her. She listened joyfully (as though she had not

+expected it) to the charm of the notes reverberating, filling the

+whole empty ballroom, and slowly dying away; and all at once she felt

+cheerful. “What’s the good of making so much of it? Things are nice

+as it is,” she said to herself, and she began walking up and down the

+room, not stepping simply on the resounding parquet but treading with

+each step from the heel to the toe (she had on a new and favorite pair

+of shoes) and listening to the regular tap of the heel and creak of

+the toe as gladly as she had to the sounds of her own voice. Passing a

+mirror she glanced into it. “There, that’s me!” the expression of

+her face seemed to say as she caught sight of herself. “Well, and very

+nice too! I need nobody.”

+

+A footman wanted to come in to clear away something in the room but she

+would not let him, and having closed the door behind him continued her

+walk. That morning she had returned to her favorite mood—love of,

+and delight in, herself. “How charming that Natásha is!” she said

+again, speaking as some third, collective, male person. “Pretty,

+a good voice, young, and in nobody’s way if only they leave her in

+peace.” But however much they left her in peace she could not now be

+at peace, and immediately felt this.

+

+In the hall the porch door opened, and someone asked, “At home?” and

+then footsteps were heard. Natásha was looking at the mirror, but did

+not see herself. She listened to the sounds in the hall. When she saw

+herself, her face was pale. It was he. She knew this for certain, though

+she hardly heard his voice through the closed doors.

+

+Pale and agitated, Natásha ran into the drawing room.

+

+“Mamma! Bolkónski has come!” she said. “Mamma, it is awful, it is

+unbearable! I don’t want... to be tormented? What am I to do?...”

+

+Before the countess could answer, Prince Andrew entered the room with

+an agitated and serious face. As soon as he saw Natásha his face

+brightened. He kissed the countess’ hand and Natásha’s, and sat

+down beside the sofa.

+

+“It is long since we had the pleasure...” began the countess,

+but Prince Andrew interrupted her by answering her intended question,

+obviously in haste to say what he had to.

+

+“I have not been to see you all this time because I have been at my

+father’s. I had to talk over a very important matter with him. I only

+got back last night,” he said glancing at Natásha; “I want to have

+a talk with you, Countess,” he added after a moment’s pause.

+

+The countess lowered her eyes, sighing deeply.

+

+“I am at your disposal,” she murmured.

+

+Natásha knew that she ought to go away, but was unable to do so:

+something gripped her throat, and regardless of manners she stared

+straight at Prince Andrew with wide-open eyes.

+

+“At once? This instant!... No, it can’t be!” she thought.

+

+Again he glanced at her, and that glance convinced her that she was not

+mistaken. Yes, at once, that very instant, her fate would be decided.

+

+“Go, Natásha! I will call you,” said the countess in a whisper.

+

+Natásha glanced with frightened imploring eyes at Prince Andrew and at

+her mother and went out.

+

+“I have come, Countess, to ask for your daughter’s hand,” said

+Prince Andrew.

+

+The countess’ face flushed hotly, but she said nothing.

+

+“Your offer...” she began at last sedately. He remained silent,

+looking into her eyes. “Your offer...” (she grew confused) “is

+agreeable to us, and I accept your offer. I am glad. And my husband... I

+hope... but it will depend on her....”

+

+“I will speak to her when I have your consent.... Do you give it to

+me?” said Prince Andrew.

+

+“Yes,” replied the countess. She held out her hand to him, and with

+a mixed feeling of estrangement and tenderness pressed her lips to his

+forehead as he stooped to kiss her hand. She wished to love him as a

+son, but felt that to her he was a stranger and a terrifying man. “I

+am sure my husband will consent,” said the countess, “but your

+father...”

+

+“My father, to whom I have told my plans, has made it an express

+condition of his consent that the wedding is not to take place for a

+year. And I wished to tell you of that,” said Prince Andrew.

+

+“It is true that Natásha is still young, but—so long as that?...”

+

+“It is unavoidable,” said Prince Andrew with a sigh.

+

+“I will send her to you,” said the countess, and left the room.

+

+“Lord have mercy upon us!” she repeated while seeking her daughter.

+

+Sónya said that Natásha was in her bedroom. Natásha was sitting on

+the bed, pale and dry-eyed, and was gazing at the icons and whispering

+something as she rapidly crossed herself. Seeing her mother she jumped

+up and flew to her.

+

+“Well, Mamma?... Well?...”

+

+“Go, go to him. He is asking for your hand,” said the countess,

+coldly it seemed to Natásha. “Go... go,” said the mother, sadly and

+reproachfully, with a deep sigh, as her daughter ran away.

+

+Natásha never remembered how she entered the drawing room. When she

+came in and saw him she paused. “Is it possible that this stranger

+has now become everything to me?” she asked herself, and immediately

+answered, “Yes, everything! He alone is now dearer to me than

+everything in the world.” Prince Andrew came up to her with downcast

+eyes.

+

+“I have loved you from the very first moment I saw you. May I hope?”

+

+He looked at her and was struck by the serious impassioned expression of

+her face. Her face said: “Why ask? Why doubt what you cannot but know?

+Why speak, when words cannot express what one feels?”

+

+She drew near to him and stopped. He took her hand and kissed it.

+

+“Do you love me?”

+

+“Yes, yes!” Natásha murmured as if in vexation. Then she sighed

+loudly and, catching her breath more and more quickly, began to sob.

+

+“What is it? What’s the matter?”

+

+“Oh, I am so happy!” she replied, smiled through her tears, bent

+over closer to him, paused for an instant as if asking herself whether

+she might, and then kissed him.

+

+Prince Andrew held her hands, looked into her eyes, and did not find

+in his heart his former love for her. Something in him had suddenly

+changed; there was no longer the former poetic and mystic charm of

+desire, but there was pity for her feminine and childish weakness, fear

+at her devotion and trustfulness, and an oppressive yet joyful sense of

+the duty that now bound him to her forever. The present feeling, though

+not so bright and poetic as the former, was stronger and more serious.

+

+“Did your mother tell you that it cannot be for a year?” asked

+Prince Andrew, still looking into her eyes.

+

+“Is it possible that I—the ‘chit of a girl,’ as everybody called

+me,” thought Natásha—“is it possible that I am now to be the

+wife and the equal of this strange, dear, clever man whom even my father

+looks up to? Can it be true? Can it be true that there can be no

+more playing with life, that now I am grown up, that on me now lies

+a responsibility for my every word and deed? Yes, but what did he ask

+me?”

+

+“No,” she replied, but she had not understood his question.

+

+“Forgive me!” he said. “But you are so young, and I have already

+been through so much in life. I am afraid for you, you do not yet know

+yourself.”

+

+Natásha listened with concentrated attention, trying but failing to

+take in the meaning of his words.

+

+“Hard as this year which delays my happiness will be,” continued

+Prince Andrew, “it will give you time to be sure of yourself. I ask

+you to make me happy in a year, but you are free: our engagement shall

+remain a secret, and should you find that you do not love me, or should

+you come to love...” said Prince Andrew with an unnatural smile.

+

+“Why do you say that?” Natásha interrupted him. “You know that

+from the very day you first came to Otrádnoe I have loved you,” she

+cried, quite convinced that she spoke the truth.

+

+“In a year you will learn to know yourself....”

+

+“A whole year!” Natásha repeated suddenly, only now realizing that

+the marriage was to be postponed for a year. “But why a year? Why a

+year?...”

+

+Prince Andrew began to explain to her the reasons for this delay.

+Natásha did not hear him.

+

+“And can’t it be helped?” she asked. Prince Andrew did not reply,

+but his face expressed the impossibility of altering that decision.

+

+“It’s awful! Oh, it’s awful! awful!” Natásha suddenly cried,

+and again burst into sobs. “I shall die, waiting a year: it’s

+impossible, it’s awful!” She looked into her lover’s face and saw

+in it a look of commiseration and perplexity.

+

+“No, no! I’ll do anything!” she said, suddenly checking her tears.

+“I am so happy.”

+

+The father and mother came into the room and gave the betrothed couple

+their blessing.

+

+From that day Prince Andrew began to frequent the Rostóvs’ as

+Natásha’s affianced lover.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XXIV

+

+No betrothal ceremony took place and Natásha’s engagement to

+Bolkónski was not announced; Prince Andrew insisted on that. He said

+that as he was responsible for the delay he ought to bear the whole

+burden of it; that he had given his word and bound himself forever, but

+that he did not wish to bind Natásha and gave her perfect freedom. If

+after six months she felt that she did not love him she would have full

+right to reject him. Naturally neither Natásha nor her parents wished

+to hear of this, but Prince Andrew was firm. He came every day to the

+Rostóvs’, but did not behave to Natásha as an affianced lover: he

+did not use the familiar thou, but said you to her, and kissed only her

+hand. After their engagement, quite different, intimate, and natural

+relations sprang up between them. It was as if they had not known each

+other till now. Both liked to recall how they had regarded each other

+when as yet they were nothing to one another; they felt themselves

+now quite different beings: then they were artificial, now natural and

+sincere. At first the family felt some constraint in intercourse with

+Prince Andrew; he seemed a man from another world, and for a long time

+Natásha trained the family to get used to him, proudly assuring them

+all that he only appeared to be different, but was really just like all

+of them, and that she was not afraid of him and no one else ought to be.

+After a few days they grew accustomed to him, and without restraint in

+his presence pursued their usual way of life, in which he took his part.

+He could talk about rural economy with the count, fashions with the

+countess and Natásha, and about albums and fancywork with Sónya.

+Sometimes the household both among themselves and in his presence

+expressed their wonder at how it had all happened, and at the evident

+omens there had been of it: Prince Andrew’s coming to Otrádnoe and

+their coming to Petersburg, and the likeness between Natásha and Prince

+Andrew which her nurse had noticed on his first visit, and Andrew’s

+encounter with Nicholas in 1805, and many other incidents betokening

+that it had to be.

+

+In the house that poetic dullness and quiet reigned which always

+accompanies the presence of a betrothed couple. Often when all sitting

+together everyone kept silent. Sometimes the others would get up and

+go away and the couple, left alone, still remained silent. They rarely

+spoke of their future life. Prince Andrew was afraid and ashamed to

+speak of it. Natásha shared this as she did all his feelings, which she

+constantly divined. Once she began questioning him about his son. Prince

+Andrew blushed, as he often did now—Natásha particularly liked it in

+him—and said that his son would not live with them.

+

+“Why not?” asked Natásha in a frightened tone.

+

+“I cannot take him away from his grandfather, and besides...”

+

+“How I should have loved him!” said Natásha, immediately guessing

+his thought; “but I know you wish to avoid any pretext for finding

+fault with us.”

+

+Sometimes the old count would come up, kiss Prince Andrew, and ask

+his advice about Pétya’s education or Nicholas’ service. The

+old countess sighed as she looked at them; Sónya was always getting

+frightened lest she should be in the way and tried to find excuses for

+leaving them alone, even when they did not wish it. When Prince Andrew

+spoke (he could tell a story very well), Natásha listened to him

+with pride; when she spoke she noticed with fear and joy that he gazed

+attentively and scrutinizingly at her. She asked herself in perplexity:

+“What does he look for in me? He is trying to discover something by

+looking at me! What if what he seeks in me is not there?” Sometimes

+she fell into one of the mad, merry moods characteristic of her, and

+then she particularly loved to hear and see how Prince Andrew laughed.

+He seldom laughed, but when he did he abandoned himself entirely to his

+laughter, and after such a laugh she always felt nearer to him. Natásha

+would have been completely happy if the thought of the separation

+awaiting her and drawing near had not terrified her, just as the mere

+thought of it made him turn pale and cold.

+

+On the eve of his departure from Petersburg Prince Andrew brought with

+him Pierre, who had not been to the Rostóvs’ once since the ball.

+Pierre seemed disconcerted and embarrassed. He was talking to the

+countess, and Natásha sat down beside a little chess table with Sónya,

+thereby inviting Prince Andrew to come too. He did so.

+

+“You have known Bezúkhov a long time?” he asked. “Do you like

+him?”

+

+“Yes, he’s a dear, but very absurd.”

+

+And as usual when speaking of Pierre, she began to tell anecdotes of his

+absent-mindedness, some of which had even been invented about him.

+

+“Do you know I have entrusted him with our secret? I have known him

+from childhood. He has a heart of gold. I beg you, Natalie,” Prince

+Andrew said with sudden seriousness—“I am going away and heaven

+knows what may happen. You may cease to... all right, I know I am not

+to say that. Only this, then: whatever may happen to you when I am not

+here...”

+

+“What can happen?”

+

+“Whatever trouble may come,” Prince Andrew continued, “I beg

+you, Mademoiselle Sophie, whatever may happen, to turn to him alone for

+advice and help! He is a most absent-minded and absurd fellow, but he

+has a heart of gold.”

+

+Neither her father, nor her mother, nor Sónya, nor Prince Andrew

+himself could have foreseen how the separation from her lover would act

+on Natásha. Flushed and agitated she went about the house all that day,

+dry-eyed, occupied with most trivial matters as if not understanding

+what awaited her. She did not even cry when, on taking leave, he kissed

+her hand for the last time. “Don’t go!” she said in a tone

+that made him wonder whether he really ought not to stay and which he

+remembered long afterwards. Nor did she cry when he was gone; but

+for several days she sat in her room dry-eyed, taking no interest in

+anything and only saying now and then, “Oh, why did he go away?”

+

+But a fortnight after his departure, to the surprise of those around

+her, she recovered from her mental sickness just as suddenly and became

+her old self again, but with a change in her moral physiognomy, as a

+child gets up after a long illness with a changed expression of face.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XXV

+

+During that year after his son’s departure, Prince Nicholas

+Bolkónski’s health and temper became much worse. He grew still more

+irritable, and it was Princess Mary who generally bore the brunt of his

+frequent fits of unprovoked anger. He seemed carefully to seek out

+her tender spots so as to torture her mentally as harshly as possible.

+Princess Mary had two passions and consequently two joys—her nephew,

+little Nicholas, and religion—and these were the favorite subjects

+of the prince’s attacks and ridicule. Whatever was spoken of he would

+bring round to the superstitiousness of old maids, or the petting

+and spoiling of children. “You want to make him”—little

+Nicholas—“into an old maid like yourself! A pity! Prince Andrew

+wants a son and not an old maid,” he would say. Or, turning to

+Mademoiselle Bourienne, he would ask her in Princess Mary’s presence

+how she liked our village priests and icons and would joke about them.

+

+He continually hurt Princess Mary’s feelings and tormented her, but it

+cost her no effort to forgive him. Could he be to blame toward her, or

+could her father, whom she knew loved her in spite of it all, be unjust?

+And what is justice? The princess never thought of that proud word

+“justice.” All the complex laws of man centered for her in one clear

+and simple law—the law of love and self-sacrifice taught us by Him who

+lovingly suffered for mankind though He Himself was God. What had she to

+do with the justice or injustice of other people? She had to endure and

+love, and that she did.

+

+During the winter Prince Andrew had come to Bald Hills and had been gay,

+gentle, and more affectionate than Princess Mary had known him for a

+long time past. She felt that something had happened to him, but he said

+nothing to her about his love. Before he left he had a long talk with

+his father about something, and Princess Mary noticed that before his

+departure they were dissatisfied with one another.

+

+Soon after Prince Andrew had gone, Princess Mary wrote to her friend

+Julie Karágina in Petersburg, whom she had dreamed (as all girls dream)

+of marrying to her brother, and who was at that time in mourning for her

+own brother, killed in Turkey.

+

+Sorrow, it seems, is our common lot, my dear, tender friend Julie.

+

+Your loss is so terrible that I can only explain it to myself as a

+special providence of God who, loving you, wishes to try you and your

+excellent mother. Oh, my friend! Religion, and religion alone, can—I

+will not say comfort us—but save us from despair. Religion alone can

+explain to us what without its help man cannot comprehend: why, for what

+cause, kind and noble beings able to find happiness in life—not merely

+harming no one but necessary to the happiness of others—are called

+away to God, while cruel, useless, harmful persons, or such as are a

+burden to themselves and to others, are left living. The first death I

+saw, and one I shall never forget—that of my dear sister-in-law—left

+that impression on me. Just as you ask destiny why your splendid brother

+had to die, so I asked why that angel Lise, who not only never wronged

+anyone, but in whose soul there were never any unkind thoughts, had to

+die. And what do you think, dear friend? Five years have passed since

+then, and already I, with my petty understanding, begin to see clearly

+why she had to die, and in what way that death was but an expression

+of the infinite goodness of the Creator, whose every action, though

+generally incomprehensible to us, is but a manifestation of His infinite

+love for His creatures. Perhaps, I often think, she was too angelically

+innocent to have the strength to perform all a mother’s duties. As a

+young wife she was irreproachable; perhaps she could not have been so

+as a mother. As it is, not only has she left us, and particularly Prince

+Andrew, with the purest regrets and memories, but probably she will

+there receive a place I dare not hope for myself. But not to speak of

+her alone, that early and terrible death has had the most beneficent

+influence on me and on my brother in spite of all our grief. Then, at

+the moment of our loss, these thoughts could not occur to me; I should

+then have dismissed them with horror, but now they are very clear and

+certain. I write all this to you, dear friend, only to convince you

+of the Gospel truth which has become for me a principle of life: not

+a single hair of our heads will fall without His will. And His will is

+governed only by infinite love for us, and so whatever befalls us is for

+our good.

+

+You ask whether we shall spend next winter in Moscow. In spite of my

+wish to see you, I do not think so and do not want to do so. You will

+be surprised to hear that the reason for this is Buonaparte! The case is

+this: my father’s health is growing noticeably worse, he cannot stand

+any contradiction and is becoming irritable. This irritability is, as

+you know, chiefly directed to political questions. He cannot endure

+the notion that Buonaparte is negotiating on equal terms with all the

+sovereigns of Europe and particularly with our own, the grandson of the

+Great Catherine! As you know, I am quite indifferent to politics, but

+from my father’s remarks and his talks with Michael Ivánovich I know

+all that goes on in the world and especially about the honors conferred

+on Buonaparte, who only at Bald Hills in the whole world, it seems, is

+not accepted as a great man, still less as Emperor of France. And my

+father cannot stand this. It seems to me that it is chiefly because of

+his political views that my father is reluctant to speak of going to

+Moscow; for he foresees the encounters that would result from his way

+of expressing his views regardless of anybody. All the benefit he might

+derive from a course of treatment he would lose as a result of the

+disputes about Buonaparte which would be inevitable. In any case it will

+be decided very shortly.

+

+Our family life goes on in the old way except for my brother Andrew’s

+absence. He, as I wrote you before, has changed very much of late. After

+his sorrow he only this year quite recovered his spirits. He has again

+become as I used to know him when a child: kind, affectionate, with that

+heart of gold to which I know no equal. He has realized, it seems to me,

+that life is not over for him. But together with this mental change

+he has grown physically much weaker. He has become thinner and more

+nervous. I am anxious about him and glad he is taking this trip abroad

+which the doctors recommended long ago. I hope it will cure him. You

+write that in Petersburg he is spoken of as one of the most active,

+cultivated, and capable of the young men. Forgive my vanity as a

+relation, but I never doubted it. The good he has done to everybody

+here, from his peasants up to the gentry, is incalculable. On his

+arrival in Petersburg he received only his due. I always wonder at the

+way rumors fly from Petersburg to Moscow, especially such false ones as

+that you write about—I mean the report of my brother’s betrothal to

+the little Rostóva. I do not think my brother will ever marry again,

+and certainly not her; and this is why: first, I know that though he

+rarely speaks about the wife he has lost, the grief of that loss

+has gone too deep in his heart for him ever to decide to give her a

+successor and our little angel a stepmother. Secondly because, as far

+as I know, that girl is not the kind of girl who could please Prince

+Andrew. I do not think he would choose her for a wife, and frankly I do

+not wish it. But I am running on too long and am at the end of my second

+sheet. Good-by, my dear friend. May God keep you in His holy and mighty

+care. My dear friend, Mademoiselle Bourienne, sends you kisses.

+

+MARY

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XXVI

+

+In the middle of the summer Princess Mary received an unexpected letter

+from Prince Andrew in Switzerland in which he gave her strange and

+surprising news. He informed her of his engagement to Natásha Rostóva.

+The whole letter breathed loving rapture for his betrothed and tender

+and confiding affection for his sister. He wrote that he had never loved

+as he did now and that only now did he understand and know what life

+was. He asked his sister to forgive him for not having told her of his

+resolve when he had last visited Bald Hills, though he had spoken of it

+to his father. He had not done so for fear Princess Mary should ask her

+father to give his consent, irritating him and having to bear the brunt

+of his displeasure without attaining her object. “Besides,” he

+wrote, “the matter was not then so definitely settled as it is now.

+My father then insisted on a delay of a year and now already six months,

+half of that period, have passed, and my resolution is firmer than ever.

+If the doctors did not keep me here at the spas I should be back in

+Russia, but as it is I have to postpone my return for three months. You

+know me and my relations with Father. I want nothing from him. I have

+been and always shall be independent; but to go against his will and

+arouse his anger, now that he may perhaps remain with us such a short

+time, would destroy half my happiness. I am now writing to him about

+the same question, and beg you to choose a good moment to hand him the

+letter and to let me know how he looks at the whole matter and whether

+there is hope that he may consent to reduce the term by four months.”

+

+After long hesitations, doubts, and prayers, Princess Mary gave the

+letter to her father. The next day the old prince said to her quietly:

+

+“Write and tell your brother to wait till I am dead.... It won’t be

+long—I shall soon set him free.”

+

+The princess was about to reply, but her father would not let her speak

+and, raising his voice more and more, cried:

+

+“Marry, marry, my boy!... A good family!... Clever people, eh? Rich,

+eh? Yes, a nice stepmother little Nicholas will have! Write and tell him

+that he may marry tomorrow if he likes. She will be little Nicholas’

+stepmother and I’ll marry Bourienne!... Ha, ha, ha! He mustn’t be

+without a stepmother either! Only one thing, no more women are wanted

+in my house—let him marry and live by himself. Perhaps you will go

+and live with him too?” he added, turning to Princess Mary. “Go in

+heaven’s name! Go out into the frost... the frost... the frost!”

+

+After this outburst the prince did not speak any more about the matter.

+But repressed vexation at his son’s poor-spirited behavior found

+expression in his treatment of his daughter. To his former pretexts

+for irony a fresh one was now added—allusions to stepmothers and

+amiabilities to Mademoiselle Bourienne.

+

+“Why shouldn’t I marry her?” he asked his daughter. “She’ll

+make a splendid princess!”

+

+And latterly, to her surprise and bewilderment, Princess Mary

+noticed that her father was really associating more and more with the

+Frenchwoman. She wrote to Prince Andrew about the reception of his

+letter, but comforted him with hopes of reconciling their father to the

+idea.

+

+Little Nicholas and his education, her brother Andrew, and religion

+were Princess Mary’s joys and consolations; but besides that, since

+everyone must have personal hopes, Princess Mary in the profoundest

+depths of her heart had a hidden dream and hope that supplied the chief

+consolation of her life. This comforting dream and hope were given her

+by God’s folk—the half-witted and other pilgrims who visited

+her without the prince’s knowledge. The longer she lived, the more

+experience and observation she had of life, the greater was her wonder

+at the short-sightedness of men who seek enjoyment and happiness here

+on earth: toiling, suffering, struggling, and harming one another, to

+obtain that impossible, visionary, sinful happiness. Prince Andrew had

+loved his wife, she died, but that was not enough: he wanted to bind

+his happiness to another woman. Her father objected to this because he

+wanted a more distinguished and wealthier match for Andrew. And they

+all struggled and suffered and tormented one another and injured their

+souls, their eternal souls, for the attainment of benefits which endure

+but for an instant. Not only do we know this ourselves, but Christ, the

+Son of God, came down to earth and told us that this life is but for

+a moment and is a probation; yet we cling to it and think to find

+happiness in it. “How is it that no one realizes this?” thought

+Princess Mary. “No one except these despised God’s folk who, wallet

+on back, come to me by the back door, afraid of being seen by the

+prince, not for fear of ill-usage by him but for fear of causing him

+to sin. To leave family, home, and all the cares of worldly welfare, in

+order without clinging to anything to wander in hempen rags from place

+to place under an assumed name, doing no one any harm but praying for

+all—for those who drive one away as well as for those who protect one:

+higher than that life and truth there is no life or truth!”

+

+There was one pilgrim, a quiet pockmarked little woman of fifty called

+Theodosia, who for over thirty years had gone about barefoot and worn

+heavy chains. Princess Mary was particularly fond of her. Once, when in

+a room with a lamp dimly lit before the icon Theodosia was talking of

+her life, the thought that Theodosia alone had found the true path of

+life suddenly came to Princess Mary with such force that she resolved to

+become a pilgrim herself. When Theodosia had gone to sleep Princess Mary

+thought about this for a long time, and at last made up her mind that,

+strange as it might seem, she must go on a pilgrimage. She disclosed

+this thought to no one but to her confessor, Father Akínfi, the monk,

+and he approved of her intention. Under guise of a present for the

+pilgrims, Princess Mary prepared a pilgrim’s complete costume for

+herself: a coarse smock, bast shoes, a rough coat, and a black kerchief.

+Often, approaching the chest of drawers containing this secret treasure,

+Princess Mary paused, uncertain whether the time had not already come to

+put her project into execution.

+

+Often, listening to the pilgrims’ tales, she was so stimulated by

+their simple speech, mechanical to them but to her so full of deep

+meaning, that several times she was on the point of abandoning

+everything and running away from home. In imagination she already

+pictured herself by Theodosia’s side, dressed in coarse rags, walking

+with a staff, a wallet on her back, along the dusty road, directing her

+wanderings from one saint’s shrine to another, free from envy, earthly

+love, or desire, and reaching at last the place where there is no more

+sorrow or sighing, but eternal joy and bliss.

+

+“I shall come to a place and pray there, and before having time to get

+used to it or getting to love it, I shall go farther. I will go on till

+my legs fail, and I’ll lie down and die somewhere, and shall at last

+reach that eternal, quiet haven, where there is neither sorrow nor

+sighing...” thought Princess Mary.

+

+But afterwards, when she saw her father and especially little Koko

+(Nicholas), her resolve weakened. She wept quietly, and felt that she

+was a sinner who loved her father and little nephew more than God.

+

+

+

+

+

+BOOK SEVEN: 1810 - 11

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER I

+

+The Bible legend tells us that the absence of labor—idleness—was a

+condition of the first man’s blessedness before the Fall. Fallen man

+has retained a love of idleness, but the curse weighs on the race not

+only because we have to seek our bread in the sweat of our brows, but

+because our moral nature is such that we cannot be both idle and at

+ease. An inner voice tells us we are in the wrong if we are idle. If man

+could find a state in which he felt that though idle he was fulfilling

+his duty, he would have found one of the conditions of man’s primitive

+blessedness. And such a state of obligatory and irreproachable idleness

+is the lot of a whole class—the military. The chief attraction of

+military service has consisted and will consist in this compulsory and

+irreproachable idleness.

+

+Nicholas Rostóv experienced this blissful condition to the full when,

+after 1807, he continued to serve in the Pávlograd regiment, in which

+he already commanded the squadron he had taken over from Denísov.

+

+Rostóv had become a bluff, good-natured fellow, whom his Moscow

+acquaintances would have considered rather bad form, but who was liked

+and respected by his comrades, subordinates, and superiors, and was well

+contented with his life. Of late, in 1809, he found in letters from home

+more frequent complaints from his mother that their affairs were falling

+into greater and greater disorder, and that it was time for him to come

+back to gladden and comfort his old parents.

+

+Reading these letters, Nicholas felt a dread of their wanting to

+take him away from surroundings in which, protected from all the

+entanglements of life, he was living so calmly and quietly. He felt that

+sooner or later he would have to re-enter that whirlpool of life, with

+its embarrassments and affairs to be straightened out, its accounts

+with stewards, quarrels, and intrigues, its ties, society, and with

+Sónya’s love and his promise to her. It was all dreadfully difficult

+and complicated; and he replied to his mother in cold, formal letters

+in French, beginning: “My dear Mamma,” and ending: “Your obedient

+son,” which said nothing of when he would return. In 1810 he received

+letters from his parents, in which they told him of Natásha’s

+engagement to Bolkónski, and that the wedding would be in a year’s

+time because the old prince made difficulties. This letter grieved and

+mortified Nicholas. In the first place he was sorry that Natásha, for

+whom he cared more than for anyone else in the family, should be lost to

+the home; and secondly, from his hussar point of view, he regretted not

+to have been there to show that fellow Bolkónski that connection with

+him was no such great honor after all, and that if he loved Natásha he

+might dispense with permission from his dotard father. For a moment he

+hesitated whether he should not apply for leave in order to see Natásha

+before she was married, but then came the maneuvers, and considerations

+about Sónya and about the confusion of their affairs, and Nicholas

+again put it off. But in the spring of that year, he received a letter

+from his mother, written without his father’s knowledge, and that

+letter persuaded him to return. She wrote that if he did not come and

+take matters in hand, their whole property would be sold by auction and

+they would all have to go begging. The count was so weak, and trusted

+Mítenka so much, and was so good-natured, that everybody took advantage

+of him and things were going from bad to worse. “For God’s sake, I

+implore you, come at once if you do not wish to make me and the whole

+family wretched,” wrote the countess.

+

+This letter touched Nicholas. He had that common sense of a

+matter-of-fact man which showed him what he ought to do.

+

+The right thing now was, if not to retire from the service, at any rate

+to go home on leave. Why he had to go he did not know; but after his

+after-dinner nap he gave orders to saddle Mars, an extremely vicious

+gray stallion that had not been ridden for a long time, and when

+he returned with the horse all in a lather, he informed Lavrúshka

+(Denísov’s servant who had remained with him) and his comrades who

+turned up in the evening that he was applying for leave and was going

+home. Difficult and strange as it was for him to reflect that he would

+go away without having heard from the staff—and this interested him

+extremely—whether he was promoted to a captaincy or would receive the

+Order of St. Anne for the last maneuvers; strange as it was to think

+that he would go away without having sold his three roans to the Polish

+Count Golukhovski, who was bargaining for the horses Rostóv had betted

+he would sell for two thousand rubles; incomprehensible as it

+seemed that the ball the hussars were giving in honor of the Polish

+Mademoiselle Przazdziecka (out of rivalry to the Uhlans who had given

+one in honor of their Polish Mademoiselle Borzozowska) would take place

+without him—he knew he must go away from this good, bright world to

+somewhere where everything was stupid and confused. A week later he

+obtained his leave. His hussar comrades—not only those of his own

+regiment, but the whole brigade—gave Rostóv a dinner to which the

+subscription was fifteen rubles a head, and at which there were two

+bands and two choirs of singers. Rostóv danced the Trepák with Major

+Básov; the tipsy officers tossed, embraced, and dropped Rostóv; the

+soldiers of the third squadron tossed him too, and shouted “hurrah!”

+and then they put him in his sleigh and escorted him as far as the first

+post station.

+

+During the first half of the journey—from Kremenchúg to Kiev—all

+Rostóv’s thoughts, as is usual in such cases, were behind him, with

+the squadron; but when he had gone more than halfway he began to forget

+his three roans and Dozhoyvéyko, his quartermaster, and to wonder

+anxiously how things would be at Otrádnoe and what he would find

+there. Thoughts of home grew stronger the nearer he approached it—far

+stronger, as though this feeling of his was subject to the law by which

+the force of attraction is in inverse proportion to the square of the

+distance. At the last post station before Otrádnoe he gave the driver a

+three-ruble tip, and on arriving he ran breathlessly, like a boy, up the

+steps of his home.

+

+After the rapture of meeting, and after that odd feeling of unsatisfied

+expectation—the feeling that “everything is just the same, so why

+did I hurry?”—Nicholas began to settle down in his old home world.

+His father and mother were much the same, only a little older. What was

+new in them was a certain uneasiness and occasional discord, which there

+used not to be, and which, as Nicholas soon found out, was due to the

+bad state of their affairs. Sónya was nearly twenty; she had stopped

+growing prettier and promised nothing more than she was already, but

+that was enough. She exhaled happiness and love from the time Nicholas

+returned, and the faithful, unalterable love of this girl had a

+gladdening effect on him. Pétya and Natásha surprised Nicholas

+most. Pétya was a big handsome boy of thirteen, merry, witty, and

+mischievous, with a voice that was already breaking. As for Natásha,

+for a long while Nicholas wondered and laughed whenever he looked at

+her.

+

+“You’re not the same at all,” he said.

+

+“How? Am I uglier?”

+

+“On the contrary, but what dignity? A princess!” he whispered to

+her.

+

+“Yes, yes, yes!” cried Natásha, joyfully.

+

+She told him about her romance with Prince Andrew and of his visit to

+Otrádnoe and showed him his last letter.

+

+“Well, are you glad?” Natásha asked. “I am so tranquil and happy

+now.”

+

+“Very glad,” answered Nicholas. “He is an excellent fellow.... And

+are you very much in love?”

+

+“How shall I put it?” replied Natásha. “I was in love with

+Borís, with my teacher, and with Denísov, but this is quite different.

+I feel at peace and settled. I know that no better man than he exists,

+and I am calm and contented now. Not at all as before.”

+

+Nicholas expressed his disapproval of the postponement of the marriage

+for a year; but Natásha attacked her brother with exasperation, proving

+to him that it could not be otherwise, and that it would be a bad thing

+to enter a family against the father’s will, and that she herself

+wished it so.

+

+“You don’t at all understand,” she said.

+

+Nicholas was silent and agreed with her.

+

+Her brother often wondered as he looked at her. She did not seem at

+all like a girl in love and parted from her affianced husband. She was

+even-tempered and calm and quite as cheerful as of old. This amazed

+Nicholas and even made him regard Bolkónski’s courtship skeptically.

+He could not believe that her fate was sealed, especially as he had

+not seen her with Prince Andrew. It always seemed to him that there was

+something not quite right about this intended marriage.

+

+“Why this delay? Why no betrothal?” he thought. Once, when he had

+touched on this topic with his mother, he discovered, to his surprise

+and somewhat to his satisfaction, that in the depth of her soul she too

+had doubts about this marriage.

+

+“You see he writes,” said she, showing her son a letter of Prince

+Andrew’s, with that latent grudge a mother always has in regard to a

+daughter’s future married happiness, “he writes that he won’t come

+before December. What can be keeping him? Illness, probably! His health

+is very delicate. Don’t tell Natásha. And don’t attach importance

+to her being so bright: that’s because she’s living through the last

+days of her girlhood, but I know what she is like every time we receive

+a letter from him! However, God grant that everything turns out well!”

+(She always ended with these words.) “He is an excellent man!”

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER II

+

+After reaching home Nicholas was at first serious and even dull. He was

+worried by the impending necessity of interfering in the stupid business

+matters for which his mother had called him home. To throw off this

+burden as quickly as possible, on the third day after his arrival he

+went, angry and scowling and without answering questions as to where he

+was going, to Mítenka’s lodge and demanded an account of everything.

+But what an account of everything might be Nicholas knew even less

+than the frightened and bewildered Mítenka. The conversation and the

+examination of the accounts with Mítenka did not last long. The village

+elder, a peasant delegate, and the village clerk, who were waiting in

+the passage, heard with fear and delight first the young count’s voice

+roaring and snapping and rising louder and louder, and then words of

+abuse, dreadful words, ejaculated one after the other.

+

+“Robber!... Ungrateful wretch!... I’ll hack the dog to pieces! I’m

+not my father!... Robbing us!...” and so on.

+

+Then with no less fear and delight they saw how the young count, red in

+the face and with bloodshot eyes, dragged Mítenka out by the scruff of

+the neck and applied his foot and knee to his behind with great agility

+at convenient moments between the words, shouting, “Be off! Never let

+me see your face here again, you villain!”

+

+Mítenka flew headlong down the six steps and ran away into the

+shrubbery. (This shrubbery was a well-known haven of refuge for culprits

+at Otrádnoe. Mítenka himself, returning tipsy from the town, used

+to hide there, and many of the residents at Otrádnoe, hiding from

+Mítenka, knew of its protective qualities.)

+

+Mítenka’s wife and sisters-in-law thrust their heads and frightened

+faces out of the door of a room where a bright samovar was boiling and

+where the steward’s high bedstead stood with its patchwork quilt.

+

+The young count paid no heed to them, but, breathing hard, passed by

+with resolute strides and went into the house.

+

+The countess, who heard at once from the maids what had happened at the

+lodge, was calmed by the thought that now their affairs would certainly

+improve, but on the other hand felt anxious as to the effect this

+excitement might have on her son. She went several times to his door on

+tiptoe and listened, as he lighted one pipe after another.

+

+Next day the old count called his son aside and, with an embarrassed

+smile, said to him:

+

+“But you know, my dear boy, it’s a pity you got excited! Mítenka

+has told me all about it.”

+

+“I knew,” thought Nicholas, “that I should never understand

+anything in this crazy world.”

+

+“You were angry that he had not entered those 700 rubles. But they

+were carried forward—and you did not look at the other page.”

+

+“Papa, he is a blackguard and a thief! I know he is! And what I have

+done, I have done; but, if you like, I won’t speak to him again.”

+

+“No, my dear boy” (the count, too, felt embarrassed. He knew he had

+mismanaged his wife’s property and was to blame toward his children,

+but he did not know how to remedy it). “No, I beg you to attend to the

+business. I am old. I...”

+

+“No, Papa. Forgive me if I have caused you unpleasantness. I

+understand it all less than you do.”

+

+“Devil take all these peasants, and money matters, and carryings

+forward from page to page,” he thought. “I used to understand what

+a ‘corner’ and the stakes at cards meant, but carrying forward to

+another page I don’t understand at all,” said he to himself, and

+after that he did not meddle in business affairs. But once the countess

+called her son and informed him that she had a promissory note from Anna

+Mikháylovna for two thousand rubles, and asked him what he thought of

+doing with it.

+

+“This,” answered Nicholas. “You say it rests with me. Well, I

+don’t like Anna Mikháylovna and I don’t like Borís, but they were

+our friends and poor. Well then, this!” and he tore up the note, and

+by so doing caused the old countess to weep tears of joy. After that,

+young Rostóv took no further part in any business affairs, but

+devoted himself with passionate enthusiasm to what was to him a new

+pursuit—the chase—for which his father kept a large establishment.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER III

+

+The weather was already growing wintry and morning frosts congealed

+an earth saturated by autumn rains. The verdure had thickened and its

+bright green stood out sharply against the brownish strips of winter rye

+trodden down by the cattle, and against the pale-yellow stubble of the

+spring buckwheat. The wooded ravines and the copses, which at the end of

+August had still been green islands amid black fields and stubble, had

+become golden and bright-red islands amid the green winter rye. The

+hares had already half changed their summer coats, the fox cubs were

+beginning to scatter, and the young wolves were bigger than dogs. It was

+the best time of the year for the chase. The hounds of that ardent young

+sportsman Rostóv had not merely reached hard winter condition, but were

+so jaded that at a meeting of the huntsmen it was decided to give them

+a three days’ rest and then, on the sixteenth of September, to go on

+a distant expedition, starting from the oak grove where there was an

+undisturbed litter of wolf cubs.

+

+All that day the hounds remained at home. It was frosty and the air was

+sharp, but toward evening the sky became overcast and it began to thaw.

+On the fifteenth, when young Rostóv, in his dressing gown, looked out

+of the window, he saw it was an unsurpassable morning for hunting: it

+was as if the sky were melting and sinking to the earth without any

+wind. The only motion in the air was that of the dripping, microscopic

+particles of drizzling mist. The bare twigs in the garden were hung with

+transparent drops which fell on the freshly fallen leaves. The earth in

+the kitchen garden looked wet and black and glistened like poppy seed

+and at a short distance merged into the dull, moist veil of mist.

+Nicholas went out into the wet and muddy porch. There was a smell of

+decaying leaves and of dog. Mílka, a black-spotted, broad-haunched

+bitch with prominent black eyes, got up on seeing her master, stretched

+her hind legs, lay down like a hare, and then suddenly jumped up and

+licked him right on his nose and mustache. Another borzoi, a dog,

+catching sight of his master from the garden path, arched his back

+and, rushing headlong toward the porch with lifted tail, began rubbing

+himself against his legs.

+

+“O-hoy!” came at that moment, that inimitable huntsman’s call

+which unites the deepest bass with the shrillest tenor, and round

+the corner came Daniel the head huntsman and head kennelman, a gray,

+wrinkled old man with hair cut straight over his forehead, Ukrainian

+fashion, a long bent whip in his hand, and that look of independence

+and scorn of everything that is only seen in huntsmen. He doffed his

+Circassian cap to his master and looked at him scornfully. This scorn

+was not offensive to his master. Nicholas knew that this Daniel,

+disdainful of everybody and who considered himself above them, was all

+the same his serf and huntsman.

+

+“Daniel!” Nicholas said timidly, conscious at the sight of the

+weather, the hounds, and the huntsman that he was being carried away

+by that irresistible passion for sport which makes a man forget all

+his previous resolutions, as a lover forgets in the presence of his

+mistress.

+

+“What orders, your excellency?” said the huntsman in his deep bass,

+deep as a proto-deacon’s and hoarse with hallooing—and two flashing

+black eyes gazed from under his brows at his master, who was silent.

+“Can you resist it?” those eyes seemed to be asking.

+

+“It’s a good day, eh? For a hunt and a gallop, eh?” asked

+Nicholas, scratching Mílka behind the ears.

+

+Daniel did not answer, but winked instead.

+

+“I sent Uvárka at dawn to listen,” his bass boomed out after a

+minute’s pause. “He says she’s moved them into the Otrádnoe

+enclosure. They were howling there.” (This meant that the she-wolf,

+about whom they both knew, had moved with her cubs to the Otrádnoe

+copse, a small place a mile and a half from the house.)

+

+“We ought to go, don’t you think so?” said Nicholas. “Come to me

+with Uvárka.”

+

+“As you please.”

+

+“Then put off feeding them.”

+

+“Yes, sir.”

+

+Five minutes later Daniel and Uvárka were standing in Nicholas’ big

+study. Though Daniel was not a big man, to see him in a room was

+like seeing a horse or a bear on the floor among the furniture and

+surroundings of human life. Daniel himself felt this, and as usual stood

+just inside the door, trying to speak softly and not move, for fear of

+breaking something in the master’s apartment, and he hastened to say

+all that was necessary so as to get from under that ceiling, out into

+the open under the sky once more.

+

+Having finished his inquiries and extorted from Daniel an opinion that

+the hounds were fit (Daniel himself wished to go hunting), Nicholas

+ordered the horses to be saddled. But just as Daniel was about to

+go Natásha came in with rapid steps, not having done up her hair or

+finished dressing and with her old nurse’s big shawl wrapped round

+her. Pétya ran in at the same time.

+

+“You are going?” asked Natásha. “I knew you would! Sónya said

+you wouldn’t go, but I knew that today is the sort of day when you

+couldn’t help going.”

+

+“Yes, we are going,” replied Nicholas reluctantly, for today, as he

+intended to hunt seriously, he did not want to take Natásha and Pétya.

+“We are going, but only wolf hunting: it would be dull for you.”

+

+“You know it is my greatest pleasure,” said Natásha. “It’s not

+fair; you are going by yourself, are having the horses saddled and said

+nothing to us about it.”

+

+“‘No barrier bars a Russian’s path’—we’ll go!” shouted

+Pétya.

+

+“But you can’t. Mamma said you mustn’t,” said Nicholas to

+Natásha.

+

+“Yes, I’ll go. I shall certainly go,” said Natásha decisively.

+“Daniel, tell them to saddle for us, and Michael must come with my

+dogs,” she added to the huntsman.

+

+It seemed to Daniel irksome and improper to be in a room at all, but to

+have anything to do with a young lady seemed to him impossible. He

+cast down his eyes and hurried out as if it were none of his business,

+careful as he went not to inflict any accidental injury on the young

+lady.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER IV

+

+The old count, who had always kept up an enormous hunting establishment

+but had now handed it all completely over to his son’s care, being

+in very good spirits on this fifteenth of September, prepared to go out

+with the others.

+

+In an hour’s time the whole hunting party was at the porch. Nicholas,

+with a stern and serious air which showed that now was no time for

+attending to trifles, went past Natásha and Pétya who were trying to

+tell him something. He had a look at all the details of the hunt, sent

+a pack of hounds and huntsmen on ahead to find the quarry, mounted his

+chestnut Donéts, and whistling to his own leash of borzois, set off

+across the threshing ground to a field leading to the Otrádnoe wood.

+The old count’s horse, a sorrel gelding called Viflyánka, was led by

+the groom in attendance on him, while the count himself was to drive in

+a small trap straight to a spot reserved for him.

+

+They were taking fifty-four hounds, with six hunt attendants and

+whippers-in. Besides the family, there were eight borzoi kennelmen

+and more than forty borzois, so that, with the borzois on the leash

+belonging to members of the family, there were about a hundred and

+thirty dogs and twenty horsemen.

+

+Each dog knew its master and its call. Each man in the hunt knew his

+business, his place, what he had to do. As soon as they had passed the

+fence they all spread out evenly and quietly, without noise or talk,

+along the road and field leading to the Otrádnoe covert.

+

+The horses stepped over the field as over a thick carpet, now and then

+splashing into puddles as they crossed a road. The misty sky still

+seemed to descend evenly and imperceptibly toward the earth, the air

+was still, warm, and silent. Occasionally the whistle of a huntsman,

+the snort of a horse, the crack of a whip, or the whine of a straggling

+hound could be heard.

+

+When they had gone a little less than a mile, five more riders with

+dogs appeared out of the mist, approaching the Rostóvs. In front rode a

+fresh-looking, handsome old man with a large gray mustache.

+

+“Good morning, Uncle!” said Nicholas, when the old man drew near.

+

+“That’s it. Come on!... I was sure of it,” began “Uncle.” (He

+was a distant relative of the Rostóvs’, a man of small means, and

+their neighbor.) “I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist it and

+it’s a good thing you’re going. That’s it! Come on!” (This was

+“Uncle’s” favorite expression.) “Take the covert at once, for my

+Gírchik says the Ilágins are at Kornikí with their hounds. That’s

+it. Come on!... They’ll take the cubs from under your very nose.”

+

+“That’s where I’m going. Shall we join up our packs?” asked

+Nicholas.

+

+The hounds were joined into one pack, and “Uncle” and Nicholas rode

+on side by side. Natásha, muffled up in shawls which did not hide her

+eager face and shining eyes, galloped up to them. She was followed by

+Pétya who always kept close to her, by Michael, a huntsman, and by a

+groom appointed to look after her. Pétya, who was laughing, whipped and

+pulled at his horse. Natásha sat easily and confidently on her black

+Arábchik and reined him in without effort with a firm hand.

+

+“Uncle” looked round disapprovingly at Pétya and Natásha. He did

+not like to combine frivolity with the serious business of hunting.

+

+“Good morning, Uncle! We are going too!” shouted Pétya.

+

+“Good morning, good morning! But don’t go overriding the hounds,”

+said “Uncle” sternly.

+

+“Nicholas, what a fine dog Truníla is! He knew me,” said Natásha,

+referring to her favorite hound.

+

+“In the first place, Truníla is not a ‘dog,’ but a harrier,”

+thought Nicholas, and looked sternly at his sister, trying to make her

+feel the distance that ought to separate them at that moment. Natásha

+understood it.

+

+“You mustn’t think we’ll be in anyone’s way, Uncle,” she said.

+“We’ll go to our places and won’t budge.”

+

+“A good thing too, little countess,” said “Uncle,” “only mind

+you don’t fall off your horse,” he added, “because—that’s it,

+come on!—you’ve nothing to hold on to.”

+

+The oasis of the Otrádnoe covert came in sight a few hundred yards off,

+the huntsmen were already nearing it. Rostóv, having finally settled

+with “Uncle” where they should set on the hounds, and having shown

+Natásha where she was to stand—a spot where nothing could possibly

+run out—went round above the ravine.

+

+“Well, nephew, you’re going for a big wolf,” said “Uncle.”

+“Mind and don’t let her slip!”

+

+“That’s as may happen,” answered Rostóv. “Karáy, here!” he

+shouted, answering “Uncle’s” remark by this call to his borzoi.

+Karáy was a shaggy old dog with a hanging jowl, famous for having

+tackled a big wolf unaided. They all took up their places.

+

+The old count, knowing his son’s ardor in the hunt, hurried so as not

+to be late, and the huntsmen had not yet reached their places when Count

+Ilyá Rostóv, cheerful, flushed, and with quivering cheeks, drove up

+with his black horses over the winter rye to the place reserved for him,

+where a wolf might come out. Having straightened his coat and fastened

+on his hunting knives and horn, he mounted his good, sleek, well-fed,

+and comfortable horse, Viflyánka, which was turning gray, like himself.

+His horses and trap were sent home. Count Ilyá Rostóv, though not at

+heart a keen sportsman, knew the rules of the hunt well, and rode to

+the bushy edge of the road where he was to stand, arranged his reins,

+settled himself in the saddle, and, feeling that he was ready, looked

+about with a smile.

+

+Beside him was Simon Chekmár, his personal attendant, an old horseman

+now somewhat stiff in the saddle. Chekmár held in leash three

+formidable wolfhounds, who had, however, grown fat like their master

+and his horse. Two wise old dogs lay down unleashed. Some hundred paces

+farther along the edge of the wood stood Mítka, the count’s other

+groom, a daring horseman and keen rider to hounds. Before the hunt, by

+old custom, the count had drunk a silver cupful of mulled brandy, taken

+a snack, and washed it down with half a bottle of his favorite Bordeaux.

+

+He was somewhat flushed with the wine and the drive. His eyes were

+rather moist and glittered more than usual, and as he sat in his saddle,

+wrapped up in his fur coat, he looked like a child taken out for an

+outing.

+

+The thin, hollow-cheeked Chekmár, having got everything ready, kept

+glancing at his master with whom he had lived on the best of terms for

+thirty years, and understanding the mood he was in expected a pleasant

+chat. A third person rode up circumspectly through the wood (it was

+plain that he had had a lesson) and stopped behind the count. This

+person was a gray-bearded old man in a woman’s cloak, with a tall

+peaked cap on his head. He was the buffoon, who went by a woman’s

+name, Nastásya Ivánovna.

+

+“Well, Nastásya Ivánovna!” whispered the count, winking at him.

+“If you scare away the beast, Daniel’ll give it you!”

+

+“I know a thing or two myself!” said Nastásya Ivánovna.

+

+“Hush!” whispered the count and turned to Simon. “Have you seen

+the young countess?” he asked. “Where is she?”

+

+“With young Count Peter, by the Zhárov rank grass,” answered Simon,

+smiling. “Though she’s a lady, she’s very fond of hunting.”

+

+“And you’re surprised at the way she rides, Simon, eh?” said the

+count. “She’s as good as many a man!”

+

+“Of course! It’s marvelous. So bold, so easy!”

+

+“And Nicholas? Where is he? By the Lyádov upland, isn’t he?”

+

+“Yes, sir. He knows where to stand. He understands the matter so well

+that Daniel and I are often quite astounded,” said Simon, well knowing

+what would please his master.

+

+“Rides well, eh? And how well he looks on his horse, eh?”

+

+“A perfect picture! How he chased a fox out of the rank grass by the

+Zavárzinsk thicket the other day! Leaped a fearful place; what a sight

+when they rushed from the covert... the horse worth a thousand rubles

+and the rider beyond all price! Yes, one would have to search far to

+find another as smart.”

+

+“To search far...” repeated the count, evidently sorry Simon had not

+said more. “To search far,” he said, turning back the skirt of his

+coat to get at his snuffbox.

+

+“The other day when he came out from Mass in full uniform, Michael

+Sidórych...” Simon did not finish, for on the still air he had

+distinctly caught the music of the hunt with only two or three hounds

+giving tongue. He bent down his head and listened, shaking a warning

+finger at his master. “They are on the scent of the cubs...” he

+whispered, “straight to the Lyádov uplands.”

+

+The count, forgetting to smooth out the smile on his face, looked into

+the distance straight before him, down the narrow open space, holding

+the snuffbox in his hand but not taking any. After the cry of the hounds

+came the deep tones of the wolf call from Daniel’s hunting horn; the

+pack joined the first three hounds and they could be heard in full cry,

+with that peculiar lift in the note that indicates that they are after

+a wolf. The whippers-in no longer set on the hounds, but changed to the

+cry of ulyulyu, and above the others rose Daniel’s voice, now a deep

+bass, now piercingly shrill. His voice seemed to fill the whole wood and

+carried far beyond out into the open field.

+

+After listening a few moments in silence, the count and his attendant

+convinced themselves that the hounds had separated into two packs: the

+sound of the larger pack, eagerly giving tongue, began to die away in

+the distance, the other pack rushed by the wood past the count, and

+it was with this that Daniel’s voice was heard calling ulyulyu.

+The sounds of both packs mingled and broke apart again, but both were

+becoming more distant.

+

+Simon sighed and stooped to straighten the leash a young borzoi had

+entangled; the count too sighed and, noticing the snuffbox in his hand,

+opened it and took a pinch. “Back!” cried Simon to a borzoi that

+was pushing forward out of the wood. The count started and dropped the

+snuffbox. Nastásya Ivánovna dismounted to pick it up. The count and

+Simon were looking at him.

+

+Then, unexpectedly, as often happens, the sound of the hunt suddenly

+approached, as if the hounds in full cry and Daniel ulyulyuing were just

+in front of them.

+

+The count turned and saw on his right Mítka staring at him with eyes

+starting out of his head, raising his cap and pointing before him to the

+other side.

+

+“Look out!” he shouted, in a voice plainly showing that he had long

+fretted to utter that word, and letting the borzois slip he galloped

+toward the count.

+

+The count and Simon galloped out of the wood and saw on their left a

+wolf which, softly swaying from side to side, was coming at a quiet

+lope farther to the left to the very place where they were standing.

+The angry borzois whined and getting free of the leash rushed past the

+horses’ feet at the wolf.

+

+The wolf paused, turned its heavy forehead toward the dogs awkwardly,

+like a man suffering from the quinsy, and, still slightly swaying

+from side to side, gave a couple of leaps and with a swish of its tail

+disappeared into the skirt of the wood. At the same instant, with a cry

+like a wail, first one hound, then another, and then another, sprang

+helter-skelter from the wood opposite and the whole pack rushed across

+the field toward the very spot where the wolf had disappeared. The hazel

+bushes parted behind the hounds and Daniel’s chestnut horse appeared,

+dark with sweat. On its long back sat Daniel, hunched forward, capless,

+his disheveled gray hair hanging over his flushed, perspiring face.

+

+“Ulyulyulyu! ulyulyu!...” he cried. When he caught sight of the

+count his eyes flashed lightning.

+

+“Blast you!” he shouted, holding up his whip threateningly at the

+count.

+

+“You’ve let the wolf go!... What sportsmen!” and as if scorning to

+say more to the frightened and shamefaced count, he lashed the heaving

+flanks of his sweating chestnut gelding with all the anger the count

+had aroused and flew off after the hounds. The count, like a punished

+schoolboy, looked round, trying by a smile to win Simon’s sympathy for

+his plight. But Simon was no longer there. He was galloping round by the

+bushes while the field was coming up on both sides, all trying to head

+the wolf, but it vanished into the wood before they could do so.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER V

+

+Nicholas Rostóv meanwhile remained at his post, waiting for the wolf.

+By the way the hunt approached and receded, by the cries of the dogs

+whose notes were familiar to him, by the way the voices of the huntsmen

+approached, receded, and rose, he realized what was happening at the

+copse. He knew that young and old wolves were there, that the hounds had

+separated into two packs, that somewhere a wolf was being chased, and

+that something had gone wrong. He expected the wolf to come his way any

+moment. He made thousands of different conjectures as to where and

+from what side the beast would come and how he would set upon it. Hope

+alternated with despair. Several times he addressed a prayer to God

+that the wolf should come his way. He prayed with that passionate and

+shamefaced feeling with which men pray at moments of great excitement

+arising from trivial causes. “What would it be to Thee to do this for

+me?” he said to God. “I know Thou art great, and that it is a sin to

+ask this of Thee, but for God’s sake do let the old wolf come my way

+and let Karáy spring at it—in sight of ‘Uncle’ who is watching

+from over there—and seize it by the throat in a death grip!” A

+thousand times during that half-hour Rostóv cast eager and restless

+glances over the edge of the wood, with the two scraggy oaks rising

+above the aspen undergrowth and the gully with its water-worn side and

+“Uncle’s” cap just visible above the bush on his right.

+

+“No, I shan’t have such luck,” thought Rostóv, “yet what

+wouldn’t it be worth! It is not to be! Everywhere, at cards and in

+war, I am always unlucky.” Memories of Austerlitz and of Dólokhov

+flashed rapidly and clearly through his mind. “Only once in my life

+to get an old wolf, I want only that!” thought he, straining eyes and

+ears and looking to the left and then to the right and listening to the

+slightest variation of note in the cries of the dogs.

+

+Again he looked to the right and saw something running toward him across

+the deserted field. “No, it can’t be!” thought Rostóv, taking a

+deep breath, as a man does at the coming of something long hoped for.

+The height of happiness was reached—and so simply, without warning, or

+noise, or display, that Rostóv could not believe his eyes and remained

+in doubt for over a second. The wolf ran forward and jumped heavily over

+a gully that lay in her path. She was an old animal with a gray back and

+big reddish belly. She ran without hurry, evidently feeling sure that no

+one saw her. Rostóv, holding his breath, looked round at the borzois.

+They stood or lay not seeing the wolf or understanding the situation.

+Old Karáy had turned his head and was angrily searching for fleas,

+baring his yellow teeth and snapping at his hind legs.

+

+“Ulyulyulyu!” whispered Rostóv, pouting his lips. The borzois

+jumped up, jerking the rings of the leashes and pricking their ears.

+Karáy finished scratching his hindquarters and, cocking his ears, got

+up with quivering tail from which tufts of matted hair hung down.

+

+“Shall I loose them or not?” Nicholas asked himself as the wolf

+approached him coming from the copse. Suddenly the wolf’s whole

+physiognomy changed: she shuddered, seeing what she had probably never

+seen before—human eyes fixed upon her—and turning her head a little

+toward Rostóv, she paused.

+

+“Back or forward? Eh, no matter, forward...” the wolf seemed to say

+to herself, and she moved forward without again looking round and with a

+quiet, long, easy yet resolute lope.

+

+“Ulyulyu!” cried Nicholas, in a voice not his own, and of its own

+accord his good horse darted headlong downhill, leaping over gullies

+to head off the wolf, and the borzois passed it, running faster still.

+Nicholas did not hear his own cry nor feel that he was galloping, nor

+see the borzois, nor the ground over which he went: he saw only the

+wolf, who, increasing her speed, bounded on in the same direction along

+the hollow. The first to come into view was Mílka, with her black

+markings and powerful quarters, gaining upon the wolf. Nearer and

+nearer... now she was ahead of it; but the wolf turned its head to face

+her, and instead of putting on speed as she usually did Mílka suddenly

+raised her tail and stiffened her forelegs.

+

+“Ulyulyulyulyu!” shouted Nicholas.

+

+The reddish Lyubím rushed forward from behind Mílka, sprang

+impetuously at the wolf, and seized it by its hindquarters, but

+immediately jumped aside in terror. The wolf crouched, gnashed her

+teeth, and again rose and bounded forward, followed at the distance of a

+couple of feet by all the borzois, who did not get any closer to her.

+

+“She’ll get away! No, it’s impossible!” thought Nicholas, still

+shouting with a hoarse voice.

+

+“Karáy, ulyulyu!...” he shouted, looking round for the old borzoi

+who was now his only hope. Karáy, with all the strength age had left

+him, stretched himself to the utmost and, watching the wolf, galloped

+heavily aside to intercept it. But the quickness of the wolf’s

+lope and the borzoi’s slower pace made it plain that Karáy had

+miscalculated. Nicholas could already see not far in front of him the

+wood where the wolf would certainly escape should she reach it. But,

+coming toward him, he saw hounds and a huntsman galloping almost

+straight at the wolf. There was still hope. A long, yellowish

+young borzoi, one Nicholas did not know, from another leash, rushed

+impetuously at the wolf from in front and almost knocked her over. But

+the wolf jumped up more quickly than anyone could have expected and,

+gnashing her teeth, flew at the yellowish borzoi, which, with a piercing

+yelp, fell with its head on the ground, bleeding from a gash in its

+side.

+

+“Karáy? Old fellow!...” wailed Nicholas.

+

+Thanks to the delay caused by this crossing of the wolf’s path, the

+old dog with its felted hair hanging from its thigh was within five

+paces of it. As if aware of her danger, the wolf turned her eyes on

+Karáy, tucked her tail yet further between her legs, and increased

+her speed. But here Nicholas only saw that something happened to

+Karáy—the borzoi was suddenly on the wolf, and they rolled together

+down into a gully just in front of them.

+

+That instant, when Nicholas saw the wolf struggling in the gully

+with the dogs, while from under them could be seen her gray hair and

+outstretched hind leg and her frightened choking head, with her ears

+laid back (Karáy was pinning her by the throat), was the happiest

+moment of his life. With his hand on his saddlebow, he was ready to

+dismount and stab the wolf, when she suddenly thrust her head up from

+among that mass of dogs, and then her forepaws were on the edge of the

+gully. She clicked her teeth (Karáy no longer had her by the throat),

+leaped with a movement of her hind legs out of the gully, and having

+disengaged herself from the dogs, with tail tucked in again, went

+forward. Karáy, his hair bristling, and probably bruised or wounded,

+climbed with difficulty out of the gully.

+

+“Oh my God! Why?” Nicholas cried in despair.

+

+“Uncle’s” huntsman was galloping from the other side across the

+wolf’s path and his borzois once more stopped the animal’s advance.

+She was again hemmed in.

+

+Nicholas and his attendant, with “Uncle” and his huntsman, were all

+riding round the wolf, crying “ulyulyu!” shouting and preparing to

+dismount each moment that the wolf crouched back, and starting forward

+again every time she shook herself and moved toward the wood where she

+would be safe.

+

+Already, at the beginning of this chase, Daniel, hearing the ulyulyuing,

+had rushed out from the wood. He saw Karáy seize the wolf, and checked

+his horse, supposing the affair to be over. But when he saw that the

+horsemen did not dismount and that the wolf shook herself and ran for

+safety, Daniel set his chestnut galloping, not at the wolf but straight

+toward the wood, just as Karáy had run to cut the animal off. As

+a result of this, he galloped up to the wolf just when she had been

+stopped a second time by “Uncle’s” borzois.

+

+Daniel galloped up silently, holding a naked dagger in his left hand and

+thrashing the laboring sides of his chestnut horse with his whip as if

+it were a flail.

+

+Nicholas neither saw nor heard Daniel until the chestnut, breathing

+heavily, panted past him, and he heard the fall of a body and saw Daniel

+lying on the wolf’s back among the dogs, trying to seize her by the

+ears. It was evident to the dogs, the hunters, and to the wolf herself

+that all was now over. The terrified wolf pressed back her ears and

+tried to rise, but the borzois stuck to her. Daniel rose a little, took

+a step, and with his whole weight, as if lying down to rest, fell on

+the wolf, seizing her by the ears. Nicholas was about to stab her, but

+Daniel whispered, “Don’t! We’ll gag her!” and, changing his

+position, set his foot on the wolf’s neck. A stick was thrust between

+her jaws and she was fastened with a leash, as if bridled, her legs were

+bound together, and Daniel rolled her over once or twice from side to

+side.

+

+With happy, exhausted faces, they laid the old wolf, alive, on a shying

+and snorting horse and, accompanied by the dogs yelping at her, took her

+to the place where they were all to meet. The hounds had killed two of

+the cubs and the borzois three. The huntsmen assembled with their booty

+and their stories, and all came to look at the wolf, which, with her

+broad-browed head hanging down and the bitten stick between her jaws,

+gazed with great glassy eyes at this crowd of dogs and men surrounding

+her. When she was touched, she jerked her bound legs and looked wildly

+yet simply at everybody. Old Count Rostóv also rode up and touched the

+wolf.

+

+“Oh, what a formidable one!” said he. “A formidable one, eh?” he

+asked Daniel, who was standing near.

+

+“Yes, your excellency,” answered Daniel, quickly doffing his cap.

+

+The count remembered the wolf he had let slip and his encounter with

+Daniel.

+

+“Ah, but you are a crusty fellow, friend!” said the count.

+

+For sole reply Daniel gave him a shy, childlike, meek, and amiable

+smile.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER VI

+

+The old count went home, and Natásha and Pétya promised to return very

+soon, but as it was still early the hunt went farther. At midday

+they put the hounds into a ravine thickly overgrown with young trees.

+Nicholas standing in a fallow field could see all his whips.

+

+Facing him lay a field of winter rye, there his own huntsman stood alone

+in a hollow behind a hazel bush. The hounds had scarcely been loosed

+before Nicholas heard one he knew, Voltórn, giving tongue at intervals;

+other hounds joined in, now pausing and now again giving tongue. A

+moment later he heard a cry from the wooded ravine that a fox had been

+found, and the whole pack, joining together, rushed along the ravine

+toward the ryefield and away from Nicholas.

+

+He saw the whips in their red caps galloping along the edge of the

+ravine, he even saw the hounds, and was expecting a fox to show itself

+at any moment on the ryefield opposite.

+

+The huntsman standing in the hollow moved and loosed his borzois, and

+Nicholas saw a queer, short-legged red fox with a fine brush going hard

+across the field. The borzois bore down on it.... Now they drew close

+to the fox which began to dodge between the field in sharper and sharper

+curves, trailing its brush, when suddenly a strange white borzoi dashed

+in followed by a black one, and everything was in confusion; the borzois

+formed a star-shaped figure, scarcely swaying their bodies and with

+tails turned away from the center of the group. Two huntsmen galloped up

+to the dogs; one in a red cap, the other, a stranger, in a green coat.

+

+“What’s this?” thought Nicholas. “Where’s that huntsman from?

+He is not ‘Uncle’s’ man.”

+

+The huntsmen got the fox, but stayed there a long time without strapping

+it to the saddle. Their horses, bridled and with high saddles, stood

+near them and there too the dogs were lying. The huntsmen waved their

+arms and did something to the fox. Then from that spot came the sound of

+a horn, with the signal agreed on in case of a fight.

+

+“That’s Ilágin’s huntsman having a row with our Iván,” said

+Nicholas’ groom.

+

+Nicholas sent the man to call Natásha and Pétya to him, and rode at a

+footpace to the place where the whips were getting the hounds together.

+Several of the field galloped to the spot where the fight was going on.

+

+Nicholas dismounted, and with Natásha and Pétya, who had ridden up,

+stopped near the hounds, waiting to see how the matter would end. Out of

+the bushes came the huntsman who had been fighting and rode toward

+his young master, with the fox tied to his crupper. While still at a

+distance he took off his cap and tried to speak respectfully, but he was

+pale and breathless and his face was angry. One of his eyes was black,

+but he probably was not even aware of it.

+

+“What has happened?” asked Nicholas.

+

+“A likely thing, killing a fox our dogs had hunted! And it was my gray

+bitch that caught it! Go to law, indeed!... He snatches at the fox! I

+gave him one with the fox. Here it is on my saddle! Do you want a taste

+of this?...” said the huntsman, pointing to his dagger and probably

+imagining himself still speaking to his foe.

+

+Nicholas, not stopping to talk to the man, asked his sister and Pétya

+to wait for him and rode to the spot where the enemy’s, Ilágin’s,

+hunting party was.

+

+The victorious huntsman rode off to join the field, and there,

+surrounded by inquiring sympathizers, recounted his exploits.

+

+The facts were that Ilágin, with whom the Rostóvs had a quarrel and

+were at law, hunted over places that belonged by custom to the Rostóvs,

+and had now, as if purposely, sent his men to the very woods the

+Rostóvs were hunting and let his man snatch a fox their dogs had

+chased.

+

+Nicholas, though he had never seen Ilágin, with his usual absence

+of moderation in judgment, hated him cordially from reports of his

+arbitrariness and violence, and regarded him as his bitterest foe. He

+rode in angry agitation toward him, firmly grasping his whip and fully

+prepared to take the most resolute and desperate steps to punish his

+enemy.

+

+Hardly had he passed an angle of the wood before a stout gentleman in

+a beaver cap came riding toward him on a handsome raven-black horse,

+accompanied by two hunt servants.

+

+Instead of an enemy, Nicholas found in Ilágin a stately and courteous

+gentleman who was particularly anxious to make the young count’s

+acquaintance. Having ridden up to Nicholas, Ilágin raised his beaver

+cap and said he much regretted what had occurred and would have the

+man punished who had allowed himself to seize a fox hunted by someone

+else’s borzois. He hoped to become better acquainted with the count

+and invited him to draw his covert.

+

+Natásha, afraid that her brother would do something dreadful, had

+followed him in some excitement. Seeing the enemies exchanging friendly

+greetings, she rode up to them. Ilágin lifted his beaver cap still

+higher to Natásha and said, with a pleasant smile, that the young

+countess resembled Diana in her passion for the chase as well as in her

+beauty, of which he had heard much.

+

+To expiate his huntsman’s offense, Ilágin pressed the Rostóvs to

+come to an upland of his about a mile away which he usually kept for

+himself and which, he said, swarmed with hares. Nicholas agreed, and the

+hunt, now doubled, moved on.

+

+The way to Iligin’s upland was across the fields. The hunt servants

+fell into line. The masters rode together. “Uncle,” Rostóv, and

+Ilágin kept stealthily glancing at one another’s dogs, trying not

+to be observed by their companions and searching uneasily for rivals to

+their own borzois.

+

+Rostóv was particularly struck by the beauty of a small, pure-bred,

+red-spotted bitch on Ilágin’s leash, slender but with muscles like

+steel, a delicate muzzle, and prominent black eyes. He had heard of

+the swiftness of Ilágin’s borzois, and in that beautiful bitch saw a

+rival to his own Mílka.

+

+In the middle of a sober conversation begun by Ilágin about the

+year’s harvest, Nicholas pointed to the red-spotted bitch.

+

+“A fine little bitch, that!” said he in a careless tone. “Is she

+swift?”

+

+“That one? Yes, she’s a good dog, gets what she’s after,”

+answered Ilágin indifferently, of the red-spotted bitch Erzá, for

+which, a year before, he had given a neighbor three families of house

+serfs. “So in your parts, too, the harvest is nothing to boast of,

+Count?” he went on, continuing the conversation they had begun. And

+considering it polite to return the young count’s compliment, Ilágin

+looked at his borzois and picked out Mílka who attracted his attention

+by her breadth. “That black-spotted one of yours is fine—well

+shaped!” said he.

+

+“Yes, she’s fast enough,” replied Nicholas, and thought: “If

+only a full-grown hare would cross the field now I’d show you what

+sort of borzoi she is,” and turning to his groom, he said he would

+give a ruble to anyone who found a hare.

+

+“I don’t understand,” continued Ilágin, “how some sportsmen can

+be so jealous about game and dogs. For myself, I can tell you, Count,

+I enjoy riding in company such as this... what could be better?” (he

+again raised his cap to Natásha) “but as for counting skins and what

+one takes, I don’t care about that.”

+

+“Of course not!”

+

+“Or being upset because someone else’s borzoi and not mine catches

+something. All I care about is to enjoy seeing the chase, is it not so,

+Count? For I consider that...”

+

+“A-tu!” came the long-drawn cry of one of the borzoi whippers-in,

+who had halted. He stood on a knoll in the stubble, holding his whip

+aloft, and again repeated his long-drawn cry, “A-tu!” (This call and

+the uplifted whip meant that he saw a sitting hare.)

+

+“Ah, he has found one, I think,” said Ilágin carelessly. “Yes, we

+must ride up.... Shall we both course it?” answered Nicholas, seeing

+in Erzá and “Uncle’s” red Rugáy two rivals he had never yet had

+a chance of pitting against his own borzois. “And suppose they outdo

+my Mílka at once!” he thought as he rode with “Uncle” and Ilágin

+toward the hare.

+

+“A full-grown one?” asked Ilágin as he approached the whip who

+had sighted the hare—and not without agitation he looked round and

+whistled to Erzá.

+

+“And you, Michael Nikanórovich?” he said, addressing “Uncle.”

+

+The latter was riding with a sullen expression on his face.

+

+“How can I join in? Why, you’ve given a village for each of your

+borzois! That’s it, come on! Yours are worth thousands. Try yours

+against one another, you two, and I’ll look on!”

+

+“Rugáy, hey, hey!” he shouted. “Rugáyushka!” he added,

+involuntarily by this diminutive expressing his affection and the hopes

+he placed on this red borzoi. Natásha saw and felt the agitation the

+two elderly men and her brother were trying to conceal, and was herself

+excited by it.

+

+The huntsman stood halfway up the knoll holding up his whip and the

+gentlefolk rode up to him at a footpace; the hounds that were far off

+on the horizon turned away from the hare, and the whips, but not the

+gentlefolk, also moved away. All were moving slowly and sedately.

+

+“How is it pointing?” asked Nicholas, riding a hundred paces toward

+the whip who had sighted the hare.

+

+But before the whip could reply, the hare, scenting the frost coming

+next morning, was unable to rest and leaped up. The pack on leash rushed

+downhill in full cry after the hare, and from all sides the borzois that

+were not on leash darted after the hounds and the hare. All the hunt,

+who had been moving slowly, shouted, “Stop!” calling in the hounds,

+while the borzoi whips, with a cry of “A-tu!” galloped across the

+field setting the borzois on the hare. The tranquil Ilágin, Nicholas,

+Natásha, and “Uncle” flew, reckless of where and how they went,

+seeing only the borzois and the hare and fearing only to lose sight even

+for an instant of the chase. The hare they had started was a strong and

+swift one. When he jumped up he did not run at once, but pricked his

+ears listening to the shouting and trampling that resounded from all

+sides at once. He took a dozen bounds, not very quickly, letting the

+borzois gain on him, and, finally having chosen his direction and

+realized his danger, laid back his ears and rushed off headlong. He had

+been lying in the stubble, but in front of him was the autumn sowing

+where the ground was soft. The two borzois of the huntsman who had

+sighted him, having been the nearest, were the first to see and pursue

+him, but they had not gone far before Ilágin’s red-spotted Erzá

+passed them, got within a length, flew at the hare with terrible

+swiftness aiming at his scut, and, thinking she had seized him, rolled

+over like a ball. The hare arched his back and bounded off yet more

+swiftly. From behind Erzá rushed the broad-haunched, black-spotted

+Mílka and began rapidly gaining on the hare.

+

+“Miláshka, dear!” rose Nicholas’ triumphant cry. It looked as if

+Mílka would immediately pounce on the hare, but she overtook him and

+flew past. The hare had squatted. Again the beautiful Erzá reached him,

+but when close to the hare’s scut paused as if measuring the distance,

+so as not to make a mistake this time but seize his hind leg.

+

+“Erzá, darling!” Ilágin wailed in a voice unlike his own. Erzá

+did not hearken to his appeal. At the very moment when she would have

+seized her prey, the hare moved and darted along the balk between the

+winter rye and the stubble. Again Erzá and Mílka were abreast, running

+like a pair of carriage horses, and began to overtake the hare, but

+it was easier for the hare to run on the balk and the borzois did not

+overtake him so quickly.

+

+“Rugáy, Rugáyushka! That’s it, come on!” came a third voice just

+then, and “Uncle’s” red borzoi, straining and curving its back,

+caught up with the two foremost borzois, pushed ahead of them regardless

+of the terrible strain, put on speed close to the hare, knocked it off

+the balk onto the ryefield, again put on speed still more viciously,

+sinking to his knees in the muddy field, and all one could see was

+how, muddying his back, he rolled over with the hare. A ring of borzois

+surrounded him. A moment later everyone had drawn up round the crowd

+of dogs. Only the delighted “Uncle” dismounted, and cut off a pad,

+shaking the hare for the blood to drip off, and anxiously glancing round

+with restless eyes while his arms and legs twitched. He spoke without

+himself knowing whom to or what about. “That’s it, come on! That’s

+a dog!... There, it has beaten them all, the thousand-ruble as well as

+the one-ruble borzois. That’s it, come on!” said he, panting and

+looking wrathfully around as if he were abusing someone, as if they

+were all his enemies and had insulted him, and only now had he at

+last succeeded in justifying himself. “There are your thousand-ruble

+ones.... That’s it, come on!...”

+

+“Rugáy, here’s a pad for you!” he said, throwing down the

+hare’s muddy pad. “You’ve deserved it, that’s it, come on!”

+

+“She’d tired herself out, she’d run it down three times by

+herself,” said Nicholas, also not listening to anyone and regardless

+of whether he were heard or not.

+

+“But what is there in running across it like that?” said Ilágin’s

+groom.

+

+“Once she had missed it and turned it away, any mongrel could take

+it,” Ilágin was saying at the same time, breathless from his gallop

+and his excitement. At the same moment Natásha, without drawing

+breath, screamed joyously, ecstatically, and so piercingly that it set

+everyone’s ear tingling. By that shriek she expressed what the others

+expressed by all talking at once, and it was so strange that she must

+herself have been ashamed of so wild a cry and everyone else would have

+been amazed at it at any other time. “Uncle” himself twisted up the

+hare, threw it neatly and smartly across his horse’s back as if by

+that gesture he meant to rebuke everybody, and, with an air of not

+wishing to speak to anyone, mounted his bay and rode off. The others all

+followed, dispirited and shamefaced, and only much later were they able

+to regain their former affectation of indifference. For a long time they

+continued to look at red Rugáy who, his arched back spattered with

+mud and clanking the ring of his leash, walked along just behind

+“Uncle’s” horse with the serene air of a conqueror.

+

+“Well, I am like any other dog as long as it’s not a question of

+coursing. But when it is, then look out!” his appearance seemed to

+Nicholas to be saying.

+

+When, much later, “Uncle” rode up to Nicholas and began talking

+to him, he felt flattered that, after what had happened, “Uncle”

+deigned to speak to him.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER VII

+

+Toward evening Ilágin took leave of Nicholas, who found that they were

+so far from home that he accepted “Uncle’s” offer that the hunting

+party should spend the night in his little village of Mikháylovna.

+

+“And if you put up at my house that will be better still. That’s it,

+come on!” said “Uncle.” “You see it’s damp weather, and you

+could rest, and the little countess could be driven home in a trap.”

+

+“Uncle’s” offer was accepted. A huntsman was sent to Otrádnoe for

+a trap, while Nicholas rode with Natásha and Pétya to “Uncle’s”

+house.

+

+Some five male domestic serfs, big and little, rushed out to the front

+porch to meet their master. A score of women serfs, old and young, as

+well as children, popped out from the back entrance to have a look at

+the hunters who were arriving. The presence of Natásha—a woman, a

+lady, and on horseback—raised the curiosity of the serfs to such a

+degree that many of them came up to her, stared her in the face, and

+unabashed by her presence made remarks about her as though she were some

+prodigy on show and not a human being able to hear or understand what

+was said about her.

+

+“Arínka! Look, she sits sideways! There she sits and her skirt

+dangles.... See, she’s got a little hunting horn!”

+

+“Goodness gracious! See her knife?...”

+

+“Isn’t she a Tartar!”

+

+“How is it you didn’t go head over heels?” asked the boldest of

+all, addressing Natásha directly.

+

+“Uncle” dismounted at the porch of his little wooden house which

+stood in the midst of an overgrown garden and, after a glance at his

+retainers, shouted authoritatively that the superfluous ones should take

+themselves off and that all necessary preparations should be made to

+receive the guests and the visitors.

+

+The serfs all dispersed. “Uncle” lifted Natásha off her horse and

+taking her hand led her up the rickety wooden steps of the porch. The

+house, with its bare, unplastered log walls, was not overclean—it

+did not seem that those living in it aimed at keeping it spotless—but

+neither was it noticeably neglected. In the entry there was a smell of

+fresh apples, and wolf and fox skins hung about.

+

+“Uncle” led the visitors through the anteroom into a small hall with

+a folding table and red chairs, then into the drawing room with a round

+birchwood table and a sofa, and finally into his private room where

+there was a tattered sofa, a worn carpet, and portraits of Suvórov, of

+the host’s father and mother, and of himself in military uniform. The

+study smelt strongly of tobacco and dogs. “Uncle” asked his visitors

+to sit down and make themselves at home, and then went out of the room.

+Rugáy, his back still muddy, came into the room and lay down on the

+sofa, cleaning himself with his tongue and teeth. Leading from the study

+was a passage in which a partition with ragged curtains could be

+seen. From behind this came women’s laughter and whispers. Natásha,

+Nicholas, and Pétya took off their wraps and sat down on the sofa.

+Pétya, leaning on his elbow, fell asleep at once. Natásha and Nicholas

+were silent. Their faces glowed, they were hungry and very cheerful.

+They looked at one another (now that the hunt was over and they were in

+the house, Nicholas no longer considered it necessary to show his manly

+superiority over his sister), Natásha gave him a wink, and neither

+refrained long from bursting into a peal of ringing laughter even before

+they had a pretext ready to account for it.

+

+After a while “Uncle” came in, in a Cossack coat, blue trousers, and

+small top boots. And Natásha felt that this costume, the very one she

+had regarded with surprise and amusement at Otrádnoe, was just the

+right thing and not at all worse than a swallow-tail or frock coat.

+“Uncle” too was in high spirits and far from being offended by the

+brother’s and sister’s laughter (it could never enter his head that

+they might be laughing at his way of life) he himself joined in the

+merriment.

+

+“That’s right, young countess, that’s it, come on! I never saw

+anyone like her!” said he, offering Nicholas a pipe with a long stem

+and, with a practiced motion of three fingers, taking down another that

+had been cut short. “She’s ridden all day like a man, and is as

+fresh as ever!”

+

+Soon after “Uncle’s” reappearance the door was opened, evidently

+from the sound by a barefooted girl, and a stout, rosy, good-looking

+woman of about forty, with a double chin and full red lips, entered

+carrying a large loaded tray. With hospitable dignity and cordiality in

+her glance and in every motion, she looked at the visitors and, with

+a pleasant smile, bowed respectfully. In spite of her exceptional

+stoutness, which caused her to protrude her chest and stomach and throw

+back her head, this woman (who was “Uncle’s” housekeeper) trod

+very lightly. She went to the table, set down the tray, and with her

+plump white hands deftly took from it the bottles and various hors

+d’oeuvres and dishes and arranged them on the table. When she had

+finished, she stepped aside and stopped at the door with a smile on her

+face. “Here I am. I am she! Now do you understand ‘Uncle’?” her

+expression said to Rostóv. How could one help understanding? Not only

+Nicholas, but even Natásha understood the meaning of his puckered brow

+and the happy complacent smile that slightly puckered his lips when

+Anísya Fëdorovna entered. On the tray was a bottle of herb wine,

+different kinds of vodka, pickled mushrooms, rye cakes made with

+buttermilk, honey in the comb, still mead and sparkling mead, apples,

+nuts (raw and roasted), and nut-and-honey sweets. Afterwards she brought

+a freshly roasted chicken, ham, preserves made with honey, and preserves

+made with sugar.

+

+All this was the fruit of Anísya Fëdorovna’s housekeeping, gathered

+and prepared by her. The smell and taste of it all had a smack

+of Anísya Fëdorovna herself: a savor of juiciness, cleanliness,

+whiteness, and pleasant smiles.

+

+“Take this, little Lady-Countess!” she kept saying, as she offered

+Natásha first one thing and then another.

+

+Natásha ate of everything and thought she had never seen or eaten such

+buttermilk cakes, such aromatic jam, such honey-and-nut sweets, or such

+a chicken anywhere. Anísya Fëdorovna left the room.

+

+After supper, over their cherry brandy, Rostóv and “Uncle” talked

+of past and future hunts, of Rugáy and Ilágin’s dogs, while Natásha

+sat upright on the sofa and listened with sparkling eyes. She tried

+several times to wake Pétya that he might eat something, but he

+only muttered incoherent words without waking up. Natásha felt so

+lighthearted and happy in these novel surroundings that she only feared

+the trap would come for her too soon. After a casual pause, such as

+often occurs when receiving friends for the first time in one’s own

+house, “Uncle,” answering a thought that was in his visitors’

+minds, said:

+

+“This, you see, is how I am finishing my days... Death will come.

+That’s it, come on! Nothing will remain. Then why harm anyone?”

+

+“Uncle’s” face was very significant and even handsome as he said

+this. Involuntarily Rostóv recalled all the good he had heard about

+him from his father and the neighbors. Throughout the whole province

+“Uncle” had the reputation of being the most honorable and

+disinterested of cranks. They called him in to decide family disputes,

+chose him as executor, confided secrets to him, elected him to be a

+justice and to other posts; but he always persistently refused public

+appointments, passing the autumn and spring in the fields on his bay

+gelding, sitting at home in winter, and lying in his overgrown garden in

+summer.

+

+“Why don’t you enter the service, Uncle?”

+

+“I did once, but gave it up. I am not fit for it. That’s it, come

+on! I can’t make head or tail of it. That’s for you—I haven’t

+brains enough. Now, hunting is another matter—that’s it, come on!

+Open the door, there!” he shouted. “Why have you shut it?”

+

+The door at the end of the passage led to the huntsmen’s room, as they

+called the room for the hunt servants.

+

+There was a rapid patter of bare feet, and an unseen hand opened the

+door into the huntsmen’s room, from which came the clear sounds of a

+balaláyka on which someone, who was evidently a master of the art, was

+playing. Natásha had been listening to those strains for some time and

+now went out into the passage to hear better.

+

+“That’s Mítka, my coachman.... I have got him a good balaláyka.

+I’m fond of it,” said “Uncle.”

+

+It was the custom for Mítka to play the balaláyka in the huntsmen’s

+room when “Uncle” returned from the chase. “Uncle” was fond of

+such music.

+

+“How good! Really very good!” said Nicholas with some unintentional

+superciliousness, as if ashamed to confess that the sounds pleased him

+very much.

+

+“Very good?” said Natásha reproachfully, noticing her brother’s

+tone. “Not ‘very good’ it’s simply delicious!”

+

+Just as “Uncle’s” pickled mushrooms, honey, and cherry brandy had

+seemed to her the best in the world, so also that song, at that moment,

+seemed to her the acme of musical delight.

+

+“More, please, more!” cried Natásha at the door as soon as the

+balaláyka ceased. Mítka tuned up afresh, and recommenced thrumming

+the balaláyka to the air of My Lady, with trills and variations.

+“Uncle” sat listening, slightly smiling, with his head on one side.

+The air was repeated a hundred times. The balaláyka was retuned several

+times and the same notes were thrummed again, but the listeners did

+not grow weary of it and wished to hear it again and again. Anísya

+Fëdorovna came in and leaned her portly person against the doorpost.

+

+“You like listening?” she said to Natásha, with a smile extremely

+like “Uncle’s.” “That’s a good player of ours,” she added.

+

+“He doesn’t play that part right!” said “Uncle” suddenly, with

+an energetic gesture. “Here he ought to burst out—that’s it, come

+on!—ought to burst out.”

+

+“Do you play then?” asked Natásha.

+

+“Uncle” did not answer, but smiled.

+

+“Anísya, go and see if the strings of my guitar are all right. I

+haven’t touched it for a long time. That’s it—come on! I’ve

+given it up.”

+

+Anísya Fëdorovna, with her light step, willingly went to fulfill her

+errand and brought back the guitar.

+

+Without looking at anyone, “Uncle” blew the dust off it and, tapping

+the case with his bony fingers, tuned the guitar and settled himself in

+his armchair. He took the guitar a little above the fingerboard, arching

+his left elbow with a somewhat theatrical gesture, and, with a wink at

+Anísya Fëdorovna, struck a single chord, pure and sonorous, and then

+quietly, smoothly, and confidently began playing in very slow time, not

+My Lady, but the well-known song: Came a maiden down the street. The

+tune, played with precision and in exact time, began to thrill in the

+hearts of Nicholas and Natásha, arousing in them the same kind of

+sober mirth as radiated from Anísya Fëdorovna’s whole being. Anísya

+Fëdorovna flushed, and drawing her kerchief over her face went laughing

+out of the room. “Uncle” continued to play correctly, carefully,

+with energetic firmness, looking with a changed and inspired expression

+at the spot where Anísya Fëdorovna had just stood. Something seemed to

+be laughing a little on one side of his face under his gray mustaches,

+especially as the song grew brisker and the time quicker and when, here

+and there, as he ran his fingers over the strings, something seemed to

+snap.

+

+“Lovely, lovely! Go on, Uncle, go on!” shouted Natásha as soon as

+he had finished. She jumped up and hugged and kissed him. “Nicholas,

+Nicholas!” she said, turning to her brother, as if asking him: “What

+is it moves me so?”

+

+Nicholas too was greatly pleased by “Uncle’s” playing, and

+“Uncle” played the piece over again. Anísya Fëdorovna’s smiling

+face reappeared in the doorway and behind hers other faces...

+

+    Fetching water clear and sweet,

+    Stop, dear maiden, I entreat—

+

+played “Uncle” once more, running his fingers skillfully over the

+strings, and then he stopped short and jerked his shoulders.

+

+“Go on, Uncle dear,” Natásha wailed in an imploring tone as if her

+life depended on it.

+

+“Uncle” rose, and it was as if there were two men in him: one of

+them smiled seriously at the merry fellow, while the merry fellow struck

+a naïve and precise attitude preparatory to a folk dance.

+

+“Now then, niece!” he exclaimed, waving to Natásha the hand that

+had just struck a chord.

+

+Natásha threw off the shawl from her shoulders, ran forward to face

+“Uncle,” and setting her arms akimbo also made a motion with her

+shoulders and struck an attitude.

+

+Where, how, and when had this young countess, educated by an émigrée

+French governess, imbibed from the Russian air she breathed that spirit

+and obtained that manner which the pas de châle * would, one would have

+supposed, long ago have effaced? But the spirit and the movements were

+those inimitable and unteachable Russian ones that “Uncle” had

+expected of her. As soon as she had struck her pose, and smiled

+triumphantly, proudly, and with sly merriment, the fear that had at

+first seized Nicholas and the others that she might not do the right

+thing was at an end, and they were already admiring her.

+

+    * The French shawl dance.

+

+She did the right thing with such precision, such complete precision,

+that Anísya Fëdorovna, who had at once handed her the handkerchief she

+needed for the dance, had tears in her eyes, though she laughed as she

+watched this slim, graceful countess, reared in silks and velvets and so

+different from herself, who yet was able to understand all that was

+in Anísya and in Anísya’s father and mother and aunt, and in every

+Russian man and woman.

+

+“Well, little countess; that’s it—come on!” cried “Uncle,”

+with a joyous laugh, having finished the dance. “Well done, niece! Now

+a fine young fellow must be found as husband for you. That’s it—come

+on!”

+

+“He’s chosen already,” said Nicholas smiling.

+

+“Oh?” said “Uncle” in surprise, looking inquiringly at Natásha,

+who nodded her head with a happy smile.

+

+“And such a one!” she said. But as soon as she had said it a new

+train of thoughts and feelings arose in her. “What did Nicholas’

+smile mean when he said ‘chosen already’? Is he glad of it or not?

+It is as if he thought my Bolkónski would not approve of or understand

+our gaiety. But he would understand it all. Where is he now?” she

+thought, and her face suddenly became serious. But this lasted only a

+second. “Don’t dare to think about it,” she said to herself,

+and sat down again smilingly beside “Uncle,” begging him to play

+something more.

+

+“Uncle” played another song and a valse; then after a pause he

+cleared his throat and sang his favorite hunting song:

+

+    As ‘twas growing dark last night

+    Fell the snow so soft and light...

+

+“Uncle” sang as peasants sing, with full and naïve conviction that

+the whole meaning of a song lies in the words and that the tune comes

+of itself, and that apart from the words there is no tune, which exists

+only to give measure to the words. As a result of this the unconsidered

+tune, like the song of a bird, was extraordinarily good. Natásha was in

+ecstasies over “Uncle’s” singing. She resolved to give up learning

+the harp and to play only the guitar. She asked “Uncle” for his

+guitar and at once found the chords of the song.

+

+After nine o’clock two traps and three mounted men, who had been sent

+to look for them, arrived to fetch Natásha and Pétya. The count and

+countess did not know where they were and were very anxious, said one of

+the men.

+

+Pétya was carried out like a log and laid in the larger of the two

+traps. Natásha and Nicholas got into the other. “Uncle” wrapped

+Natásha up warmly and took leave of her with quite a new tenderness. He

+accompanied them on foot as far as the bridge that could not be crossed,

+so that they had to go round by the ford, and he sent huntsmen to ride

+in front with lanterns.

+

+“Good-by, dear niece,” his voice called out of the darkness—not

+the voice Natásha had known previously, but the one that had sung As

+‘twas growing dark last night.

+

+In the village through which they passed there were red lights and a

+cheerful smell of smoke.

+

+“What a darling Uncle is!” said Natásha, when they had come out

+onto the highroad.

+

+“Yes,” returned Nicholas. “You’re not cold?”

+

+“No. I’m quite, quite all right. I feel so comfortable!” answered

+Natásha, almost perplexed by her feelings. They remained silent a long

+while. The night was dark and damp. They could not see the horses, but

+only heard them splashing through the unseen mud.

+

+What was passing in that receptive childlike soul that so eagerly caught

+and assimilated all the diverse impressions of life? How did they all

+find place in her? But she was very happy. As they were nearing home she

+suddenly struck up the air of As ‘twas growing dark last night—the

+tune of which she had all the way been trying to get and had at last

+caught.

+

+“Got it?” said Nicholas.

+

+“What were you thinking about just now, Nicholas?” inquired

+Natásha.

+

+They were fond of asking one another that question.

+

+“I?” said Nicholas, trying to remember. “Well, you see, first I

+thought that Rugáy, the red hound, was like Uncle, and that if he were

+a man he would always keep Uncle near him, if not for his riding, then

+for his manner. What a good fellow Uncle is! Don’t you think so?...

+Well, and you?”

+

+“I? Wait a bit, wait.... Yes, first I thought that we are driving

+along and imagining that we are going home, but that heaven knows

+where we are really going in the darkness, and that we shall arrive and

+suddenly find that we are not in Otrádnoe, but in Fairyland. And then I

+thought... No, nothing else.”

+

+“I know, I expect you thought of him,” said Nicholas, smiling as

+Natásha knew by the sound of his voice.

+

+“No,” said Natásha, though she had in reality been thinking about

+Prince Andrew at the same time as of the rest, and of how he would

+have liked “Uncle.” “And then I was saying to myself all the way,

+‘How well Anísya carried herself, how well!’” And Nicholas heard

+her spontaneous, happy, ringing laughter. “And do you know,” she

+suddenly said, “I know that I shall never again be as happy and

+tranquil as I am now.”

+

+“Rubbish, nonsense, humbug!” exclaimed Nicholas, and he thought:

+“How charming this Natásha of mine is! I have no other friend like

+her and never shall have. Why should she marry? We might always drive

+about together!”

+

+“What a darling this Nicholas of mine is!” thought Natásha.

+

+“Ah, there are still lights in the drawing room!” she said, pointing

+to the windows of the house that gleamed invitingly in the moist velvety

+darkness of the night.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER VIII

+

+Count Ilyá Rostóv had resigned the position of Marshal of the Nobility

+because it involved him in too much expense, but still his affairs

+did not improve. Natásha and Nicholas often noticed their parents

+conferring together anxiously and privately and heard suggestions of

+selling the fine ancestral Rostóv house and estate near Moscow. It was

+not necessary to entertain so freely as when the count had been Marshal,

+and life at Otrádnoe was quieter than in former years, but still the

+enormous house and its lodges were full of people and more than twenty

+sat down to table every day. These were all their own people who had

+settled down in the house almost as members of the family, or persons

+who were, it seemed, obliged to live in the count’s house. Such were

+Dimmler the musician and his wife, Vogel the dancing master and his

+family, Belóva, an old maiden lady, an inmate of the house, and many

+others such as Pétya’s tutors, the girls’ former governess, and

+other people who simply found it preferable and more advantageous to

+live in the count’s house than at home. They had not as many visitors

+as before, but the old habits of life without which the count and

+countess could not conceive of existence remained unchanged. There was

+still the hunting establishment which Nicholas had even enlarged, the

+same fifty horses and fifteen grooms in the stables, the same expensive

+presents and dinner parties to the whole district on name days; there

+were still the count’s games of whist and boston, at which—spreading

+out his cards so that everybody could see them—he let himself be

+plundered of hundreds of rubles every day by his neighbors, who looked

+upon an opportunity to play a rubber with Count Rostóv as a most

+profitable source of income.

+

+The count moved in his affairs as in a huge net, trying not to believe

+that he was entangled but becoming more and more so at every step, and

+feeling too feeble to break the meshes or to set to work carefully and

+patiently to disentangle them. The countess, with her loving heart, felt

+that her children were being ruined, that it was not the count’s fault

+for he could not help being what he was—that (though he tried to

+hide it) he himself suffered from the consciousness of his own and

+his children’s ruin, and she tried to find means of remedying the

+position. From her feminine point of view she could see only one

+solution, namely, for Nicholas to marry a rich heiress. She felt this to

+be their last hope and that if Nicholas refused the match she had found

+for him, she would have to abandon the hope of ever getting matters

+right. This match was with Julie Karágina, the daughter of excellent

+and virtuous parents, a girl the Rostóvs had known from childhood, and

+who had now become a wealthy heiress through the death of the last of

+her brothers.

+

+The countess had written direct to Julie’s mother in Moscow suggesting

+a marriage between their children and had received a favorable answer

+from her. Karágina had replied that for her part she was agreeable, and

+everything depend on her daughter’s inclination. She invited Nicholas

+to come to Moscow.

+

+Several times the countess, with tears in her eyes, told her son that

+now both her daughters were settled, her only wish was to see him

+married. She said she could lie down in her grave peacefully if that

+were accomplished. Then she told him that she knew of a splendid girl

+and tried to discover what he thought about marriage.

+

+At other times she praised Julie to him and advised him to go to

+Moscow during the holidays to amuse himself. Nicholas guessed what his

+mother’s remarks were leading to and during one of these conversations

+induced her to speak quite frankly. She told him that her only hope

+of getting their affairs disentangled now lay in his marrying Julie

+Karágina.

+

+“But, Mamma, suppose I loved a girl who has no fortune, would

+you expect me to sacrifice my feelings and my honor for the sake of

+money?” he asked his mother, not realizing the cruelty of his question

+and only wishing to show his noble-mindedness.

+

+“No, you have not understood me,” said his mother, not knowing how

+to justify herself. “You have not understood me, Nikólenka. It is

+your happiness I wish for,” she added, feeling that she was telling an

+untruth and was becoming entangled. She began to cry.

+

+“Mamma, don’t cry! Only tell me that you wish it, and you know I

+will give my life, anything, to put you at ease,” said Nicholas. “I

+would sacrifice anything for you—even my feelings.”

+

+But the countess did not want the question put like that: she did not

+want a sacrifice from her son, she herself wished to make a sacrifice

+for him.

+

+“No, you have not understood me, don’t let us talk about it,” she

+replied, wiping away her tears.

+

+“Maybe I do love a poor girl,” said Nicholas to himself. “Am I to

+sacrifice my feelings and my honor for money? I wonder how Mamma could

+speak so to me. Because Sónya is poor I must not love her,” he

+thought, “must not respond to her faithful, devoted love? Yet I should

+certainly be happier with her than with some doll-like Julie. I can

+always sacrifice my feelings for my family’s welfare,” he said to

+himself, “but I can’t coerce my feelings. If I love Sónya, that

+feeling is for me stronger and higher than all else.”

+

+Nicholas did not go to Moscow, and the countess did not renew the

+conversation with him about marriage. She saw with sorrow, and sometimes

+with exasperation, symptoms of a growing attachment between her son and

+the portionless Sónya. Though she blamed herself for it, she could

+not refrain from grumbling at and worrying Sónya, often pulling her up

+without reason, addressing her stiffly as “my dear,” and using the

+formal “you” instead of the intimate “thou” in speaking to her.

+The kindhearted countess was the more vexed with Sónya because that

+poor, dark-eyed niece of hers was so meek, so kind, so devotedly

+grateful to her benefactors, and so faithfully, unchangingly, and

+unselfishly in love with Nicholas, that there were no grounds for

+finding fault with her.

+

+Nicholas was spending the last of his leave at home. A fourth letter had

+come from Prince Andrew, from Rome, in which he wrote that he would have

+been on his way back to Russia long ago had not his wound unexpectedly

+reopened in the warm climate, which obliged him to defer his return till

+the beginning of the new year. Natásha was still as much in love with

+her betrothed, found the same comfort in that love, and was still as

+ready to throw herself into all the pleasures of life as before; but at

+the end of the fourth month of their separation she began to have fits

+of depression which she could not master. She felt sorry for herself:

+sorry that she was being wasted all this time and of no use to

+anyone—while she felt herself so capable of loving and being loved.

+

+Things were not cheerful in the Rostóvs’ home.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER IX

+

+Christmas came and except for the ceremonial Mass, the solemn and

+wearisome Christmas congratulations from neighbors and servants, and the

+new dresses everyone put on, there were no special festivities, though

+the calm frost of twenty degrees Réaumur, the dazzling sunshine by day,

+and the starlight of the winter nights seemed to call for some special

+celebration of the season.

+

+On the third day of Christmas week, after the midday dinner, all the

+inmates of the house dispersed to various rooms. It was the dullest time

+of the day. Nicholas, who had been visiting some neighbors that morning,

+was asleep on the sitting-room sofa. The old count was resting in his

+study. Sónya sat in the drawing room at the round table, copying a

+design for embroidery. The countess was playing patience. Nastásya

+Ivánovna the buffoon sat with a sad face at the window with two old

+ladies. Natásha came into the room, went up to Sónya, glanced at

+what she was doing, and then went up to her mother and stood without

+speaking.

+

+“Why are you wandering about like an outcast?” asked her mother.

+“What do you want?”

+

+“Him... I want him... now, this minute! I want him!” said Natásha,

+with glittering eyes and no sign of a smile.

+

+The countess lifted her head and looked attentively at her daughter.

+

+“Don’t look at me, Mamma! Don’t look; I shall cry directly.”

+

+“Sit down with me a little,” said the countess.

+

+“Mamma, I want him. Why should I be wasted like this, Mamma?”

+

+Her voice broke, tears gushed from her eyes, and she turned quickly to

+hide them and left the room.

+

+She passed into the sitting room, stood there thinking awhile, and then

+went into the maids’ room. There an old maidservant was grumbling at

+a young girl who stood panting, having just run in through the cold from

+the serfs’ quarters.

+

+“Stop playing—there’s a time for everything,” said the old

+woman.

+

+“Let her alone, Kondrátevna,” said Natásha. “Go, Mavrúshka,

+go.”

+

+Having released Mavrúshka, Natásha crossed the dancing hall and went

+to the vestibule. There an old footman and two young ones were playing

+cards. They broke off and rose as she entered.

+

+“What can I do with them?” thought Natásha.

+

+“Oh, Nikíta, please go... where can I send him?... Yes, go to the

+yard and fetch a fowl, please, a cock, and you, Misha, bring me some

+oats.”

+

+“Just a few oats?” said Misha, cheerfully and readily.

+

+“Go, go quickly,” the old man urged him.

+

+“And you, Theodore, get me a piece of chalk.”

+

+On her way past the butler’s pantry she told them to set a samovar,

+though it was not at all the time for tea.

+

+Fóka, the butler, was the most ill-tempered person in the house.

+Natásha liked to test her power over him. He distrusted the order and

+asked whether the samovar was really wanted.

+

+“Oh dear, what a young lady!” said Fóka, pretending to frown at

+Natásha.

+

+No one in the house sent people about or gave them as much trouble as

+Natásha did. She could not see people unconcernedly, but had to send

+them on some errand. She seemed to be trying whether any of them would

+get angry or sulky with her; but the serfs fulfilled no one’s orders

+so readily as they did hers. “What can I do, where can I go?”

+thought she, as she went slowly along the passage.

+

+“Nastásya Ivánovna, what sort of children shall I have?” she asked

+the buffoon, who was coming toward her in a woman’s jacket.

+

+“Why, fleas, crickets, grasshoppers,” answered the buffoon.

+

+“O Lord, O Lord, it’s always the same! Oh, where am I to go? What

+am I to do with myself?” And tapping with her heels, she ran quickly

+upstairs to see Vogel and his wife who lived on the upper story.

+

+Two governesses were sitting with the Vogels at a table, on which were

+plates of raisins, walnuts, and almonds. The governesses were discussing

+whether it was cheaper to live in Moscow or Odessa. Natásha sat down,

+listened to their talk with a serious and thoughtful air, and then got

+up again.

+

+“The island of Madagascar,” she said, “Ma-da-gas-car,” she

+repeated, articulating each syllable distinctly, and, not replying to

+Madame Schoss who asked her what she was saying, she went out of the

+room.

+

+Her brother Pétya was upstairs too; with the man in attendance on him

+he was preparing fireworks to let off that night.

+

+“Pétya! Pétya!” she called to him. “Carry me downstairs.”

+

+Pétya ran up and offered her his back. She jumped on it, putting her

+arms round his neck, and he pranced along with her.

+

+“No, don’t... the island of Madagascar!” she said, and jumping off

+his back she went downstairs.

+

+Having as it were reviewed her kingdom, tested her power, and made

+sure that everyone was submissive, but that all the same it was dull,

+Natásha betook herself to the ballroom, picked up her guitar, sat down

+in a dark corner behind a bookcase, and began to run her fingers over

+the strings in the bass, picking out a passage she recalled from an

+opera she had heard in Petersburg with Prince Andrew. What she drew from

+the guitar would have had no meaning for other listeners, but in her

+imagination a whole series of reminiscences arose from those sounds.

+She sat behind the bookcase with her eyes fixed on a streak of light

+escaping from the pantry door and listened to herself and pondered. She

+was in a mood for brooding on the past.

+

+Sónya passed to the pantry with a glass in her hand. Natásha glanced

+at her and at the crack in the pantry door, and it seemed to her that

+she remembered the light falling through that crack once before and

+Sónya passing with a glass in her hand. “Yes it was exactly the

+same,” thought Natásha.

+

+“Sónya, what is this?” she cried, twanging a thick string.

+

+“Oh, you are there!” said Sónya with a start, and came near and

+listened. “I don’t know. A storm?” she ventured timidly, afraid of

+being wrong.

+

+“There! That’s just how she started and just how she came up smiling

+timidly when all this happened before,” thought Natásha, “and in

+just the same way I thought there was something lacking in her.”

+

+“No, it’s the chorus from The Water-Carrier, listen!” and Natásha

+sang the air of the chorus so that Sónya should catch it. “Where were

+you going?” she asked.

+

+“To change the water in this glass. I am just finishing the design.”

+

+“You always find something to do, but I can’t,” said Natásha.

+“And where’s Nicholas?”

+

+“Asleep, I think.”

+

+“Sónya, go and wake him,” said Natásha. “Tell him I want him to

+come and sing.”

+

+She sat awhile, wondering what the meaning of it all having happened

+before could be, and without solving this problem, or at all regretting

+not having done so, she again passed in fancy to the time when she was

+with him and he was looking at her with a lover’s eyes.

+

+“Oh, if only he would come quicker! I am so afraid it will never be!

+And, worst of all, I am growing old—that’s the thing! There won’t

+then be in me what there is now. But perhaps he’ll come today, will

+come immediately. Perhaps he has come and is sitting in the drawing

+room. Perhaps he came yesterday and I have forgotten it.” She rose,

+put down the guitar, and went to the drawing room.

+

+All the domestic circle, tutors, governesses, and guests, were already

+at the tea table. The servants stood round the table—but Prince Andrew

+was not there and life was going on as before.

+

+“Ah, here she is!” said the old count, when he saw Natásha enter.

+“Well, sit down by me.” But Natásha stayed by her mother and

+glanced round as if looking for something.

+

+“Mamma!” she muttered, “give him to me, give him, Mamma, quickly,

+quickly!” and she again had difficulty in repressing her sobs.

+

+She sat down at the table and listened to the conversation between the

+elders and Nicholas, who had also come to the table. “My God, my God!

+The same faces, the same talk, Papa holding his cup and blowing in the

+same way!” thought Natásha, feeling with horror a sense of repulsion

+rising up in her for the whole household, because they were always the

+same.

+

+After tea, Nicholas, Sónya, and Natásha went to the sitting room, to

+their favorite corner where their most intimate talks always began.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER X

+

+“Does it ever happen to you,” said Natásha to her brother, when

+they settled down in the sitting room, “does it ever happen to you to

+feel as if there were nothing more to come—nothing; that everything

+good is past? And to feel not exactly dull, but sad?”

+

+“I should think so!” he replied. “I have felt like that when

+everything was all right and everyone was cheerful. The thought has come

+into my mind that I was already tired of it all, and that we must all

+die. Once in the regiment I had not gone to some merrymaking where there

+was music... and suddenly I felt so depressed...”

+

+“Oh yes, I know, I know, I know!” Natásha interrupted him. “When

+I was quite little that used to be so with me. Do you remember when

+I was punished once about some plums? You were all dancing, and I sat

+sobbing in the schoolroom? I shall never forget it: I felt sad and sorry

+for everyone, for myself, and for everyone. And I was innocent—that

+was the chief thing,” said Natásha. “Do you remember?”

+

+“I remember,” answered Nicholas. “I remember that I came to you

+afterwards and wanted to comfort you, but do you know, I felt ashamed

+to. We were terribly absurd. I had a funny doll then and wanted to give

+it to you. Do you remember?”

+

+“And do you remember,” Natásha asked with a pensive smile, “how

+once, long, long ago, when we were quite little, Uncle called us into

+the study—that was in the old house—and it was dark—we went in and

+suddenly there stood...”

+

+“A Negro,” chimed in Nicholas with a smile of delight. “Of course

+I remember. Even now I don’t know whether there really was a Negro, or

+if we only dreamed it or were told about him.”

+

+“He was gray, you remember, and had white teeth, and stood and looked

+at us....”

+

+“Sónya, do you remember?” asked Nicholas.

+

+“Yes, yes, I do remember something too,” Sónya answered timidly.

+

+“You know I have asked Papa and Mamma about that Negro,” said

+Natásha, “and they say there was no Negro at all. But you see, you

+remember!”

+

+“Of course I do, I remember his teeth as if I had just seen them.”

+

+“How strange it is! It’s as if it were a dream! I like that.”

+

+“And do you remember how we rolled hard-boiled eggs in the ballroom,

+and suddenly two old women began spinning round on the carpet? Was that

+real or not? Do you remember what fun it was?”

+

+“Yes, and you remember how Papa in his blue overcoat fired a gun in

+the porch?”

+

+So they went through their memories, smiling with pleasure: not the sad

+memories of old age, but poetic, youthful ones—those impressions of

+one’s most distant past in which dreams and realities blend—and they

+laughed with quiet enjoyment.

+

+Sónya, as always, did not quite keep pace with them, though they shared

+the same reminiscences.

+

+Much that they remembered had slipped from her mind, and what she

+recalled did not arouse the same poetic feeling as they experienced. She

+simply enjoyed their pleasure and tried to fit in with it.

+

+She only really took part when they recalled Sónya’s first arrival.

+She told them how afraid she had been of Nicholas because he had on a

+corded jacket and her nurse had told her that she, too, would be sewn up

+with cords.

+

+“And I remember their telling me that you had been born under a

+cabbage,” said Natásha, “and I remember that I dared not disbelieve

+it then, but knew that it was not true, and I felt so uncomfortable.”

+

+While they were talking a maid thrust her head in at the other door of

+the sitting room.

+

+“They have brought the cock, Miss,” she said in a whisper.

+

+“It isn’t wanted, Pólya. Tell them to take it away,” replied

+Natásha.

+

+In the middle of their talk in the sitting room, Dimmler came in and

+went up to the harp that stood there in a corner. He took off its cloth

+covering, and the harp gave out a jarring sound.

+

+“Mr. Dimmler, please play my favorite nocturne by Field,” came the

+old countess’ voice from the drawing room.

+

+Dimmler struck a chord and, turning to Natásha, Nicholas, and Sónya,

+remarked: “How quiet you young people are!”

+

+“Yes, we’re philosophizing,” said Natásha, glancing round for a

+moment and then continuing the conversation. They were now discussing

+dreams.

+

+Dimmler began to play; Natásha went on tiptoe noiselessly to the table,

+took up a candle, carried it out, and returned, seating herself quietly

+in her former place. It was dark in the room especially where they were

+sitting on the sofa, but through the big windows the silvery light of

+the full moon fell on the floor. Dimmler had finished the piece but

+still sat softly running his fingers over the strings, evidently

+uncertain whether to stop or to play something else.

+

+“Do you know,” said Natásha in a whisper, moving closer to Nicholas

+and Sónya, “that when one goes on and on recalling memories, one at

+last begins to remember what happened before one was in the world....”

+

+“That is metempsychosis,” said Sónya, who had always learned well,

+and remembered everything. “The Egyptians believed that our souls have

+lived in animals, and will go back into animals again.”

+

+“No, I don’t believe we ever were in animals,” said Natásha,

+still in a whisper though the music had ceased. “But I am certain that

+we were angels somewhere there, and have been here, and that is why we

+remember....”

+

+“May I join you?” said Dimmler who had come up quietly, and he sat

+down by them.

+

+“If we have been angels, why have we fallen lower?” said Nicholas.

+“No, that can’t be!”

+

+“Not lower, who said we were lower?... How do I know what I

+was before?” Natásha rejoined with conviction. “The soul is

+immortal—well then, if I shall always live I must have lived before,

+lived for a whole eternity.”

+

+“Yes, but it is hard for us to imagine eternity,” remarked Dimmler,

+who had joined the young folk with a mildly condescending smile but now

+spoke as quietly and seriously as they.

+

+“Why is it hard to imagine eternity?” said Natásha. “It is now

+today, and it will be tomorrow, and always; and there was yesterday, and

+the day before....”

+

+“Natásha! Now it’s your turn. Sing me something,” they heard the

+countess say. “Why are you sitting there like conspirators?”

+

+“Mamma, I don’t at all want to,” replied Natásha, but all the

+same she rose.

+

+None of them, not even the middle-aged Dimmler, wanted to break off

+their conversation and quit that corner in the sitting room, but

+Natásha got up and Nicholas sat down at the clavichord. Standing

+as usual in the middle of the hall and choosing the place where the

+resonance was best, Natásha began to sing her mother’s favorite song.

+

+She had said she did not want to sing, but it was long since she had

+sung, and long before she again sang, as she did that evening. The

+count, from his study where he was talking to Mítenka, heard her and,

+like a schoolboy in a hurry to run out to play, blundered in his talk

+while giving orders to the steward, and at last stopped, while Mítenka

+stood in front of him also listening and smiling. Nicholas did not take

+his eyes off his sister and drew breath in time with her. Sónya, as she

+listened, thought of the immense difference there was between herself

+and her friend, and how impossible it was for her to be anything like as

+bewitching as her cousin. The old countess sat with a blissful yet sad

+smile and with tears in her eyes, occasionally shaking her head. She

+thought of Natásha and of her own youth, and of how there was something

+unnatural and dreadful in this impending marriage of Natásha and Prince

+Andrew.

+

+Dimmler, who had seated himself beside the countess, listened with

+closed eyes.

+

+“Ah, Countess,” he said at last, “that’s a European talent, she

+has nothing to learn—what softness, tenderness, and strength....”

+

+“Ah, how afraid I am for her, how afraid I am!” said the countess,

+not realizing to whom she was speaking. Her maternal instinct told her

+that Natásha had too much of something, and that because of this

+she would not be happy. Before Natásha had finished singing,

+fourteen-year-old Pétya rushed in delightedly, to say that some mummers

+had arrived.

+

+Natásha stopped abruptly.

+

+“Idiot!” she screamed at her brother and, running to a chair, threw

+herself on it, sobbing so violently that she could not stop for a long

+time.

+

+“It’s nothing, Mamma, really it’s nothing; only Pétya startled

+me,” she said, trying to smile, but her tears still flowed and sobs

+still choked her.

+

+The mummers (some of the house serfs) dressed up as bears, Turks,

+innkeepers, and ladies—frightening and funny—bringing in with

+them the cold from outside and a feeling of gaiety, crowded, at first

+timidly, into the anteroom, then hiding behind one another they pushed

+into the ballroom where, shyly at first and then more and more merrily

+and heartily, they started singing, dancing, and playing Christmas

+games. The countess, when she had identified them and laughed at their

+costumes, went into the drawing room. The count sat in the ballroom,

+smiling radiantly and applauding the players. The young people had

+disappeared.

+

+Half an hour later there appeared among the other mummers in the

+ballroom an old lady in a hooped skirt—this was Nicholas. A Turkish

+girl was Pétya. A clown was Dimmler. An hussar was Natásha, and a

+Circassian was Sónya with burnt-cork mustache and eyebrows.

+

+After the condescending surprise, nonrecognition, and praise, from those

+who were not themselves dressed up, the young people decided that their

+costumes were so good that they ought to be shown elsewhere.

+

+Nicholas, who, as the roads were in splendid condition, wanted to take

+them all for a drive in his troyka, proposed to take with them about a

+dozen of the serf mummers and drive to “Uncle’s.”

+

+“No, why disturb the old fellow?” said the countess. “Besides,

+you wouldn’t have room to turn round there. If you must go, go to the

+Melyukóvs’.”

+

+Melyukóva was a widow, who, with her family and their tutors and

+governesses, lived three miles from the Rostóvs.

+

+“That’s right, my dear,” chimed in the old count, thoroughly

+aroused. “I’ll dress up at once and go with them. I’ll make

+Pashette open her eyes.”

+

+But the countess would not agree to his going; he had had a bad leg all

+these last days. It was decided that the count must not go, but that if

+Louisa Ivánovna (Madame Schoss) would go with them, the young ladies

+might go to the Melyukóvs’, Sónya, generally so timid and shy, more

+urgently than anyone begging Louisa Ivánovna not to refuse.

+

+Sónya’s costume was the best of all. Her mustache and eyebrows were

+extraordinarily becoming. Everyone told her she looked very handsome,

+and she was in a spirited and energetic mood unusual with her. Some

+inner voice told her that now or never her fate would be decided, and

+in her male attire she seemed quite a different person. Louisa Ivánovna

+consented to go, and in half an hour four troyka sleighs with large and

+small bells, their runners squeaking and whistling over the frozen snow,

+drove up to the porch.

+

+Natásha was foremost in setting a merry holiday tone, which, passing

+from one to another, grew stronger and reached its climax when they all

+came out into the frost and got into the sleighs, talking, calling to

+one another, laughing, and shouting.

+

+Two of the troykas were the usual household sleighs, the third was the

+old count’s with a trotter from the Orlóv stud as shaft horse,

+the fourth was Nicholas’ own with a short shaggy black shaft horse.

+Nicholas, in his old lady’s dress over which he had belted his hussar

+overcoat, stood in the middle of the sleigh, reins in hand.

+

+It was so light that he could see the moonlight reflected from the metal

+harness disks and from the eyes of the horses, who looked round in alarm

+at the noisy party under the shadow of the porch roof.

+

+Natásha, Sónya, Madame Schoss, and two maids got into Nicholas’

+sleigh; Dimmler, his wife, and Pétya, into the old count’s, and the

+rest of the mummers seated themselves in the other two sleighs.

+

+“You go ahead, Zakhár!” shouted Nicholas to his father’s

+coachman, wishing for a chance to race past him.

+

+The old count’s troyka, with Dimmler and his party, started forward,

+squeaking on its runners as though freezing to the snow, its deep-toned

+bell clanging. The side horses, pressing against the shafts of the

+middle horse, sank in the snow, which was dry and glittered like sugar,

+and threw it up.

+

+Nicholas set off, following the first sleigh; behind him the others

+moved noisily, their runners squeaking. At first they drove at a steady

+trot along the narrow road. While they drove past the garden the shadows

+of the bare trees often fell across the road and hid the brilliant

+moonlight, but as soon as they were past the fence, the snowy plain

+bathed in moonlight and motionless spread out before them glittering

+like diamonds and dappled with bluish shadows. Bang, bang! went the

+first sleigh over a cradle hole in the snow of the road, and each of

+the other sleighs jolted in the same way, and rudely breaking the

+frost-bound stillness, the troykas began to speed along the road, one

+after the other.

+

+“A hare’s track, a lot of tracks!” rang out Natásha’s voice

+through the frost-bound air.

+

+“How light it is, Nicholas!” came Sónya’s voice.

+

+Nicholas glanced round at Sónya, and bent down to see her face closer.

+Quite a new, sweet face with black eyebrows and mustaches peeped up

+at him from her sable furs—so close and yet so distant—in the

+moonlight.

+

+“That used to be Sónya,” thought he, and looked at her closer and

+smiled.

+

+“What is it, Nicholas?”

+

+“Nothing,” said he and turned again to the horses.

+

+When they came out onto the beaten highroad—polished by sleigh runners

+and cut up by rough-shod hoofs, the marks of which were visible in the

+moonlight—the horses began to tug at the reins of their own accord and

+increased their pace. The near side horse, arching his head and breaking

+into a short canter, tugged at his traces. The shaft horse swayed from

+side to side, moving his ears as if asking: “Isn’t it time to begin

+now?” In front, already far ahead the deep bell of the sleigh ringing

+farther and farther off, the black horses driven by Zakhár could be

+clearly seen against the white snow. From that sleigh one could hear the

+shouts, laughter, and voices of the mummers.

+

+“Gee up, my darlings!” shouted Nicholas, pulling the reins to one

+side and flourishing the whip.

+

+It was only by the keener wind that met them and the jerks given by the

+side horses who pulled harder—ever increasing their gallop—that

+one noticed how fast the troyka was flying. Nicholas looked back. With

+screams squeals, and waving of whips that caused even the shaft horses

+to gallop—the other sleighs followed. The shaft horse swung steadily

+beneath the bow over its head, with no thought of slackening pace and

+ready to put on speed when required.

+

+Nicholas overtook the first sleigh. They were driving downhill and

+coming out upon a broad trodden track across a meadow, near a river.

+

+“Where are we?” thought he. “It’s the Kosóy meadow, I suppose.

+But no—this is something new I’ve never seen before. This isn’t

+the Kosóy meadow nor the Dëmkin hill, and heaven only knows what it

+is! It is something new and enchanted. Well, whatever it may be...”

+And shouting to his horses, he began to pass the first sleigh.

+

+Zakhár held back his horses and turned his face, which was already

+covered with hoarfrost to his eyebrows.

+

+Nicholas gave the horses the rein, and Zakhár, stretching out his arms,

+clucked his tongue and let his horses go.

+

+“Now, look out, master!” he cried.

+

+Faster still the two troykas flew side by side, and faster moved

+the feet of the galloping side horses. Nicholas began to draw ahead.

+Zakhár, while still keeping his arms extended, raised one hand with the

+reins.

+

+“No you won’t, master!” he shouted.

+

+Nicholas put all his horses to a gallop and passed Zakhár. The horses

+showered the fine dry snow on the faces of those in the sleigh—beside

+them sounded quick ringing bells and they caught confused glimpses of

+swiftly moving legs and the shadows of the troyka they were passing.

+The whistling sound of the runners on the snow and the voices of girls

+shrieking were heard from different sides.

+

+Again checking his horses, Nicholas looked around him. They were still

+surrounded by the magic plain bathed in moonlight and spangled with

+stars.

+

+“Zakhár is shouting that I should turn to the left, but why to the

+left?” thought Nicholas. “Are we getting to the Melyukóvs’? Is

+this Melyukóvka? Heaven only knows where we are going, and heaven knows

+what is happening to us—but it is very strange and pleasant whatever

+it is.” And he looked round in the sleigh.

+

+“Look, his mustache and eyelashes are all white!” said one of the

+strange, pretty, unfamiliar people—the one with fine eyebrows and

+mustache.

+

+“I think this used to be Natásha,” thought Nicholas, “and that

+was Madame Schoss, but perhaps it’s not, and this Circassian with the

+mustache I don’t know, but I love her.”

+

+“Aren’t you cold?” he asked.

+

+They did not answer but began to laugh. Dimmler from the sleigh behind

+shouted something—probably something funny—but they could not make

+out what he said.

+

+“Yes, yes!” some voices answered, laughing.

+

+“But here was a fairy forest with black moving shadows, and a glitter

+of diamonds and a flight of marble steps and the silver roofs of fairy

+buildings and the shrill yells of some animals. And if this is really

+Melyukóvka, it is still stranger that we drove heaven knows where and

+have come to Melyukóvka,” thought Nicholas.

+

+It really was Melyukóvka, and maids and footmen with merry faces came

+running, out to the porch carrying candles.

+

+“Who is it?” asked someone in the porch.

+

+“The mummers from the count’s. I know by the horses,” replied some

+voices.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XI

+

+Pelagéya Danílovna Melyukóva, a broadly built, energetic woman

+wearing spectacles, sat in the drawing room in a loose dress, surrounded

+by her daughters whom she was trying to keep from feeling dull. They

+were quietly dropping melted wax into snow and looking at the shadows

+the wax figures would throw on the wall, when they heard the steps and

+voices of new arrivals in the vestibule.

+

+Hussars, ladies, witches, clowns, and bears, after clearing their

+throats and wiping the hoarfrost from their faces in the vestibule,

+came into the ballroom where candles were hurriedly lighted. The

+clown—Dimmler—and the lady—Nicholas—started a dance. Surrounded

+by the screaming children the mummers, covering their faces and

+disguising their voices, bowed to their hostess and arranged themselves

+about the room.

+

+“Dear me! there’s no recognizing them! And Natásha! See whom

+she looks like! She really reminds me of somebody. But Herr

+Dimmler—isn’t he good! I didn’t know him! And how he dances. Dear

+me, there’s a Circassian. Really, how becoming it is to dear Sónya.

+And who is that? Well, you have cheered us up! Nikíta and Vanya—clear

+away the tables! And we were sitting so quietly. Ha, ha, ha!... The

+hussar, the hussar! Just like a boy! And the legs!... I can’t look at

+him...” different voices were saying.

+

+Natásha, the young Melyukóvs’ favorite, disappeared with them into

+the back rooms where a cork and various dressing gowns and male garments

+were called for and received from the footman by bare girlish arms from

+behind the door. Ten minutes later, all the young Melyukóvs joined the

+mummers.

+

+Pelagéya Danílovna, having given orders to clear the rooms for the

+visitors and arranged about refreshments for the gentry and the serfs,

+went about among the mummers without removing her spectacles, peering

+into their faces with a suppressed smile and failing to recognize any

+of them. It was not merely Dimmler and the Rostóvs she failed to

+recognize, she did not even recognize her own daughters, or her late

+husband’s, dressing gowns and uniforms, which they had put on.

+

+“And who is this?” she asked her governess, peering into the face of

+her own daughter dressed up as a Kazán-Tartar. “I suppose it is one

+of the Rostóvs! Well, Mr. Hussar, and what regiment do you serve in?”

+she asked Natásha. “Here, hand some fruit jelly to the Turk!”

+she ordered the butler who was handing things round. “That’s not

+forbidden by his law.”

+

+Sometimes, as she looked at the strange but amusing capers cut by the

+dancers, who—having decided once for all that being disguised, no one

+would recognize them—were not at all shy, Pelagéya Danílovna hid

+her face in her handkerchief, and her whole stout body shook with

+irrepressible, kindly, elderly laughter.

+

+“My little Sásha! Look at Sásha!” she said.

+

+After Russian country dances and chorus dances, Pelagéya Danílovna

+made the serfs and gentry join in one large circle: a ring, a string,

+and a silver ruble were fetched and they all played games together.

+

+In an hour, all the costumes were crumpled and disordered. The corked

+eyebrows and mustaches were smeared over the perspiring, flushed,

+and merry faces. Pelagéya Danílovna began to recognize the mummers,

+admired their cleverly contrived costumes, and particularly how they

+suited the young ladies, and she thanked them all for having entertained

+her so well. The visitors were invited to supper in the drawing room,

+and the serfs had something served to them in the ballroom.

+

+“Now to tell one’s fortune in the empty bathhouse is frightening!”

+said an old maid who lived with the Melyukóvs, during supper.

+

+“Why?” said the eldest Melyukóv girl.

+

+“You wouldn’t go, it takes courage....”

+

+“I’ll go,” said Sónya.

+

+“Tell what happened to the young lady!” said the second Melyukóv

+girl.

+

+“Well,” began the old maid, “a young lady once went out, took a

+cock, laid the table for two, all properly, and sat down. After sitting

+a while, she suddenly hears someone coming... a sleigh drives up with

+harness bells; she hears him coming! He comes in, just in the shape of a

+man, like an officer—comes in and sits down to table with her.”

+

+“Ah! ah!” screamed Natásha, rolling her eyes with horror.

+

+“Yes? And how... did he speak?”

+

+“Yes, like a man. Everything quite all right, and he began persuading

+her; and she should have kept him talking till cockcrow, but she got

+frightened, just got frightened and hid her face in her hands. Then he

+caught her up. It was lucky the maids ran in just then....”

+

+“Now, why frighten them?” said Pelagéya Danílovna.

+

+“Mamma, you used to try your fate yourself...” said her daughter.

+

+“And how does one do it in a barn?” inquired Sónya.

+

+“Well, say you went to the barn now, and listened. It depends on what

+you hear; hammering and knocking—that’s bad; but a sound of shifting

+grain is good and one sometimes hears that, too.”

+

+“Mamma, tell us what happened to you in the barn.”

+

+Pelagéya Danílovna smiled.

+

+“Oh, I’ve forgotten...” she replied. “But none of you would

+go?”

+

+“Yes, I will; Pelagéya Danílovna, let me! I’ll go,” said Sónya.

+

+“Well, why not, if you’re not afraid?”

+

+“Louisa Ivánovna, may I?” asked Sónya.

+

+Whether they were playing the ring and string game or the ruble game or

+talking as now, Nicholas did not leave Sónya’s side, and gazed at her

+with quite new eyes. It seemed to him that it was only today, thanks

+to that burnt-cork mustache, that he had fully learned to know her. And

+really, that evening, Sónya was brighter, more animated, and prettier

+than Nicholas had ever seen her before.

+

+“So that’s what she is like; what a fool I have been!” he thought

+gazing at her sparkling eyes, and under the mustache a happy rapturous

+smile dimpled her cheeks, a smile he had never seen before.

+

+“I’m not afraid of anything,” said Sónya. “May I go at once?”

+She got up.

+

+They told her where the barn was and how she should stand and listen,

+and they handed her a fur cloak. She threw this over her head and

+shoulders and glanced at Nicholas.

+

+“What a darling that girl is!” thought he. “And what have I been

+thinking of till now?”

+

+Sónya went out into the passage to go to the barn. Nicholas went

+hastily to the front porch, saying he felt too hot. The crowd of people

+really had made the house stuffy.

+

+Outside, there was the same cold stillness and the same moon, but even

+brighter than before. The light was so strong and the snow sparkled with

+so many stars that one did not wish to look up at the sky and the real

+stars were unnoticed. The sky was black and dreary, while the earth was

+gay.

+

+“I am a fool, a fool! what have I been waiting for?” thought

+Nicholas, and running out from the porch he went round the corner of

+the house and along the path that led to the back porch. He knew Sónya

+would pass that way. Halfway lay some snow-covered piles of firewood and

+across and along them a network of shadows from the bare old lime trees

+fell on the snow and on the path. This path led to the barn. The log

+walls of the barn and its snow-covered roof, that looked as if hewn out

+of some precious stone, sparkled in the moonlight. A tree in the garden

+snapped with the frost, and then all was again perfectly silent. His

+bosom seemed to inhale not air but the strength of eternal youth and

+gladness.

+

+From the back porch came the sound of feet descending the steps, the

+bottom step upon which snow had fallen gave a ringing creak and he heard

+the voice of an old maidservant saying, “Straight, straight, along the

+path, Miss. Only, don’t look back.”

+

+“I am not afraid,” answered Sónya’s voice, and along the path

+toward Nicholas came the crunching, whistling sound of Sónya’s feet

+in her thin shoes.

+

+Sónya came along, wrapped in her cloak. She was only a couple of paces

+away when she saw him, and to her too he was not the Nicholas she had

+known and always slightly feared. He was in a woman’s dress, with

+tousled hair and a happy smile new to Sónya. She ran rapidly toward

+him.

+

+“Quite different and yet the same,” thought Nicholas, looking at her

+face all lit up by the moonlight. He slipped his arms under the cloak

+that covered her head, embraced her, pressed her to him, and kissed her

+on the lips that wore a mustache and had a smell of burnt cork. Sónya

+kissed him full on the lips, and disengaging her little hands pressed

+them to his cheeks.

+

+“Sónya!... Nicholas!”... was all they said. They ran to the barn

+and then back again, re-entering, he by the front and she by the back

+porch.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XII

+

+When they all drove back from Pelagéya Danílovna’s, Natásha, who

+always saw and noticed everything, arranged that she and Madame Schoss

+should go back in the sleigh with Dimmler, and Sónya with Nicholas and

+the maids.

+

+On the way back Nicholas drove at a steady pace instead of racing and

+kept peering by that fantastic all-transforming light into Sónya’s

+face and searching beneath the eyebrows and mustache for his former and

+his present Sónya from whom he had resolved never to be parted again.

+He looked and recognizing in her both the old and the new Sónya, and

+being reminded by the smell of burnt cork of the sensation of her kiss,

+inhaled the frosty air with a full breast and, looking at the ground

+flying beneath him and at the sparkling sky, felt himself again in

+fairyland.

+

+“Sónya, is it well with thee?” he asked from time to time.

+

+“Yes!” she replied. “And with thee?”

+

+When halfway home Nicholas handed the reins to the coachman and ran for

+a moment to Natásha’s sleigh and stood on its wing.

+

+“Natásha!” he whispered in French, “do you know I have made up my

+mind about Sónya?”

+

+“Have you told her?” asked Natásha, suddenly beaming all over with

+joy.

+

+“Oh, how strange you are with that mustache and those eyebrows!...

+Natásha—are you glad?”

+

+“I am so glad, so glad! I was beginning to be vexed with you. I did

+not tell you, but you have been treating her badly. What a heart she

+has, Nicholas! I am horrid sometimes, but I was ashamed to be happy

+while Sónya was not,” continued Natásha. “Now I am so glad! Well,

+run back to her.”

+

+“No, wait a bit.... Oh, how funny you look!” cried Nicholas, peering

+into her face and finding in his sister too something new, unusual, and

+bewitchingly tender that he had not seen in her before. “Natásha,

+it’s magical, isn’t it?”

+

+“Yes,” she replied. “You have done splendidly.”

+

+“Had I seen her before as she is now,” thought Nicholas, “I should

+long ago have asked her what to do and have done whatever she told me,

+and all would have been well.”

+

+“So you are glad and I have done right?”

+

+“Oh, quite right! I had a quarrel with Mamma some time ago about it.

+Mamma said she was angling for you. How could she say such a thing! I

+nearly stormed at Mamma. I will never let anyone say anything bad of

+Sónya, for there is nothing but good in her.”

+

+“Then it’s all right?” said Nicholas, again scrutinizing the

+expression of his sister’s face to see if she was in earnest. Then he

+jumped down and, his boots scrunching the snow, ran back to his sleigh.

+The same happy, smiling Circassian, with mustache and beaming eyes

+looking up from under a sable hood, was still sitting there, and that

+Circassian was Sónya, and that Sónya was certainly his future happy

+and loving wife.

+

+When they reached home and had told their mother how they had spent the

+evening at the Melyukóvs’, the girls went to their bedroom. When they

+had undressed, but without washing off the cork mustaches, they sat a

+long time talking of their happiness. They talked of how they would live

+when they were married, how their husbands would be friends, and how

+happy they would be. On Natásha’s table stood two looking glasses

+which Dunyásha had prepared beforehand.

+

+“Only when will all that be? I am afraid never.... It would be too

+good!” said Natásha, rising and going to the looking glasses.

+

+“Sit down, Natásha; perhaps you’ll see him,” said Sónya.

+

+Natásha lit the candles, one on each side of one of the looking

+glasses, and sat down.

+

+“I see someone with a mustache,” said Natásha, seeing her own face.

+

+“You mustn’t laugh, Miss,” said Dunyásha.

+

+With Sónya’s help and the maid’s, Natásha got the glass she held

+into the right position opposite the other; her face assumed a serious

+expression and she sat silent. She sat a long time looking at the

+receding line of candles reflected in the glasses and expecting (from

+tales she had heard) to see a coffin, or him, Prince Andrew, in that

+last dim, indistinctly outlined square. But ready as she was to take the

+smallest speck for the image of a man or of a coffin, she saw nothing.

+She began blinking rapidly and moved away from the looking glasses.

+

+“Why is it others see things and I don’t?” she said. “You sit

+down now, Sónya. You absolutely must, tonight! Do it for me.... Today I

+feel so frightened!”

+

+Sónya sat down before the glasses, got the right position, and began

+looking.

+

+“Now, Miss Sónya is sure to see something,” whispered Dunyásha;

+“while you do nothing but laugh.”

+

+Sónya heard this and Natásha’s whisper:

+

+“I know she will. She saw something last year.”

+

+For about three minutes all were silent.

+

+“Of course she will!” whispered Natásha, but did not finish...

+suddenly Sónya pushed away the glass she was holding and covered her

+eyes with her hand.

+

+“Oh, Natásha!” she cried.

+

+“Did you see? Did you? What was it?” exclaimed Natásha, holding up

+the looking glass.

+

+Sónya had not seen anything, she was just wanting to blink and to get

+up when she heard Natásha say, “Of course she will!” She did not

+wish to disappoint either Dunyásha or Natásha, but it was hard to sit

+still. She did not herself know how or why the exclamation escaped her

+when she covered her eyes.

+

+“You saw him?” urged Natásha, seizing her hand.

+

+“Yes. Wait a bit... I... saw him,” Sónya could not help saying, not

+yet knowing whom Natásha meant by him, Nicholas or Prince Andrew.

+

+“But why shouldn’t I say I saw something? Others do see! Besides who

+can tell whether I saw anything or not?” flashed through Sónya’s

+mind.

+

+“Yes, I saw him,” she said.

+

+“How? Standing or lying?”

+

+“No, I saw... At first there was nothing, then I saw him lying

+down.”

+

+“Andrew lying? Is he ill?” asked Natásha, her frightened eyes fixed

+on her friend.

+

+“No, on the contrary, on the contrary! His face was cheerful, and he

+turned to me.” And when saying this she herself fancied she had really

+seen what she described.

+

+“Well, and then, Sónya?...”

+

+“After that, I could not make out what there was; something blue and

+red....”

+

+“Sónya! When will he come back? When shall I see him! O, God, how

+afraid I am for him and for myself and about everything!...” Natásha

+began, and without replying to Sónya’s words of comfort she got into

+bed, and long after her candle was out lay open-eyed and motionless,

+gazing at the moonlight through the frosty windowpanes.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XIII

+

+Soon after the Christmas holidays Nicholas told his mother of his love

+for Sónya and of his firm resolve to marry her. The countess, who

+had long noticed what was going on between them and was expecting this

+declaration, listened to him in silence and then told her son that he

+might marry whom he pleased, but that neither she nor his father would

+give their blessing to such a marriage. Nicholas, for the first time,

+felt that his mother was displeased with him and that, despite her love

+for him, she would not give way. Coldly, without looking at her son,

+she sent for her husband and, when he came, tried briefly and coldly to

+inform him of the facts, in her son’s presence, but unable to restrain

+herself she burst into tears of vexation and left the room. The old

+count began irresolutely to admonish Nicholas and beg him to abandon his

+purpose. Nicholas replied that he could not go back on his word, and his

+father, sighing and evidently disconcerted, very soon became silent and

+went in to the countess. In all his encounters with his son, the count

+was always conscious of his own guilt toward him for having wasted the

+family fortune, and so he could not be angry with him for refusing to

+marry an heiress and choosing the dowerless Sónya. On this occasion, he

+was only more vividly conscious of the fact that if his affairs had not

+been in disorder, no better wife for Nicholas than Sónya could have

+been wished for, and that no one but himself with his Mítenka and

+his uncomfortable habits was to blame for the condition of the family

+finances.

+

+The father and mother did not speak of the matter to their son again,

+but a few days later the countess sent for Sónya and, with a cruelty

+neither of them expected, reproached her niece for trying to catch

+Nicholas and for ingratitude. Sónya listened silently with downcast

+eyes to the countess’ cruel words, without understanding what

+was required of her. She was ready to sacrifice everything for her

+benefactors. Self-sacrifice was her most cherished idea but in this case

+she could not see what she ought to sacrifice, or for whom. She could

+not help loving the countess and the whole Rostóv family, but neither

+could she help loving Nicholas and knowing that his happiness depended

+on that love. She was silent and sad and did not reply. Nicholas felt

+the situation to be intolerable and went to have an explanation with his

+mother. He first implored her to forgive him and Sónya and consent to

+their marriage, then he threatened that if she molested Sónya he would

+at once marry her secretly.

+

+The countess, with a coldness her son had never seen in her before,

+replied that he was of age, that Prince Andrew was marrying without his

+father’s consent, and he could do the same, but that she would never

+receive that intriguer as her daughter.

+

+Exploding at the word intriguer, Nicholas, raising his voice, told

+his mother he had never expected her to try to force him to sell his

+feelings, but if that were so, he would say for the last time.... But he

+had no time to utter the decisive word which the expression of his face

+caused his mother to await with terror, and which would perhaps have

+forever remained a cruel memory to them both. He had not time to say it,

+for Natásha, with a pale and set face, entered the room from the door

+at which she had been listening.

+

+“Nicholas, you are talking nonsense! Be quiet, be quiet, be quiet, I

+tell you!...” she almost screamed, so as to drown his voice.

+

+“Mamma darling, it’s not at all so... my poor, sweet darling,” she

+said to her mother, who conscious that they had been on the brink of

+a rupture gazed at her son with terror, but in the obstinacy and

+excitement of the conflict could not and would not give way.

+

+“Nicholas, I’ll explain to you. Go away! Listen, Mamma darling,”

+said Natásha.

+

+Her words were incoherent, but they attained the purpose at which she

+was aiming.

+

+The countess, sobbing heavily, hid her face on her daughter’s breast,

+while Nicholas rose, clutching his head, and left the room.

+

+Natásha set to work to effect a reconciliation, and so far succeeded

+that Nicholas received a promise from his mother that Sónya should not

+be troubled, while he on his side promised not to undertake anything

+without his parents’ knowledge.

+

+Firmly resolved, after putting his affairs in order in the regiment,

+to retire from the army and return and marry Sónya, Nicholas, serious,

+sorrowful, and at variance with his parents, but, as it seemed to him,

+passionately in love, left at the beginning of January to rejoin his

+regiment.

+

+After Nicholas had gone things in the Rostóv household were more

+depressing than ever, and the countess fell ill from mental agitation.

+

+Sónya was unhappy at the separation from Nicholas and still more so on

+account of the hostile tone the countess could not help adopting toward

+her. The count was more perturbed than ever by the condition of his

+affairs, which called for some decisive action. Their town house and

+estate near Moscow had inevitably to be sold, and for this they had to

+go to Moscow. But the countess’ health obliged them to delay their

+departure from day to day.

+

+Natásha, who had borne the first period of separation from her

+betrothed lightly and even cheerfully, now grew more agitated and

+impatient every day. The thought that her best days, which she would

+have employed in loving him, were being vainly wasted, with no advantage

+to anyone, tormented her incessantly. His letters for the most part

+irritated her. It hurt her to think that while she lived only in the

+thought of him, he was living a real life, seeing new places and new

+people that interested him. The more interesting his letters were

+the more vexed she felt. Her letters to him, far from giving her any

+comfort, seemed to her a wearisome and artificial obligation. She could

+not write, because she could not conceive the possibility of expressing

+sincerely in a letter even a thousandth part of what she expressed by

+voice, smile, and glance. She wrote to him formal, monotonous, and dry

+letters, to which she attached no importance herself, and in the rough

+copies of which the countess corrected her mistakes in spelling.

+

+There was still no improvement in the countess’ health, but it was

+impossible to defer the journey to Moscow any longer. Natásha’s

+trousseau had to be ordered and the house sold. Moreover, Prince Andrew

+was expected in Moscow, where old Prince Bolkónski was spending the

+winter, and Natásha felt sure he had already arrived.

+

+So the countess remained in the country, and the count, taking Sónya

+and Natásha with him, went to Moscow at the end of January.

+

+

+

+

+

+BOOK EIGHT: 1811 - 12

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER I

+

+After Prince Andrew’s engagement to Natásha, Pierre without any

+apparent cause suddenly felt it impossible to go on living as before.

+Firmly convinced as he was of the truths revealed to him by his

+benefactor, and happy as he had been in perfecting his inner man, to

+which he had devoted himself with such ardor—all the zest of such a

+life vanished after the engagement of Andrew and Natásha and the death

+of Joseph Alexéevich, the news of which reached him almost at the same

+time. Only the skeleton of life remained: his house, a brilliant wife

+who now enjoyed the favors of a very important personage, acquaintance

+with all Petersburg, and his court service with its dull formalities.

+And this life suddenly seemed to Pierre unexpectedly loathsome. He

+ceased keeping a diary, avoided the company of the Brothers, began going

+to the club again, drank a great deal, and came once more in touch

+with the bachelor sets, leading such a life that the Countess Hélène

+thought it necessary to speak severely to him about it. Pierre felt that

+she was right, and to avoid compromising her went away to Moscow.

+

+In Moscow as soon as he entered his huge house in which the faded and

+fading princesses still lived, with its enormous retinue; as soon as,

+driving through the town, he saw the Iberian shrine with innumerable

+tapers burning before the golden covers of the icons, the Krémlin

+Square with its snow undisturbed by vehicles, the sleigh drivers and

+hovels of the Sívtsev Vrazhók, those old Moscovites who desired

+nothing, hurried nowhere, and were ending their days leisurely; when he

+saw those old Moscow ladies, the Moscow balls, and the English Club, he

+felt himself at home in a quiet haven. In Moscow he felt at peace, at

+home, warm and dirty as in an old dressing gown.

+

+Moscow society, from the old women down to the children, received Pierre

+like a long-expected guest whose place was always ready awaiting him.

+For Moscow society Pierre was the nicest, kindest, most intellectual,

+merriest, and most magnanimous of cranks, a heedless, genial nobleman of

+the old Russian type. His purse was always empty because it was open to

+everyone.

+

+Benefit performances, poor pictures, statues, benevolent societies,

+gypsy choirs, schools, subscription dinners, sprees, Freemasons,

+churches, and books—no one and nothing met with a refusal from him,

+and had it not been for two friends who had borrowed large sums from

+him and taken him under their protection, he would have given everything

+away. There was never a dinner or soiree at the club without him. As

+soon as he sank into his place on the sofa after two bottles of Margaux

+he was surrounded, and talking, disputing, and joking began. When there

+were quarrels, his kindly smile and well-timed jests reconciled the

+antagonists. The Masonic dinners were dull and dreary when he was not

+there.

+

+When after a bachelor supper he rose with his amiable and kindly smile,

+yielding to the entreaties of the festive company to drive off somewhere

+with them, shouts of delight and triumph arose among the young men.

+At balls he danced if a partner was needed. Young ladies, married and

+unmarried, liked him because without making love to any of them, he was

+equally amiable to all, especially after supper. “Il est charmant; il

+n’a pas de sexe,” * they said of him.

+

+    * “He is charming; he has no sex.”

+

+

+Pierre was one of those retired gentlemen-in-waiting of whom there were

+hundreds good-humoredly ending their days in Moscow.

+

+How horrified he would have been seven years before, when he first

+arrived from abroad, had he been told that there was no need for him

+to seek or plan anything, that his rut had long been shaped, eternally

+predetermined, and that wriggle as he might, he would be what all in

+his position were. He could not have believed it! Had he not at one

+time longed with all his heart to establish a republic in Russia;

+then himself to be a Napoleon; then to be a philosopher; and then

+a strategist and the conqueror of Napoleon? Had he not seen the

+possibility of, and passionately desired, the regeneration of the sinful

+human race, and his own progress to the highest degree of perfection?

+Had he not established schools and hospitals and liberated his serfs?

+

+But instead of all that—here he was, the wealthy husband of an

+unfaithful wife, a retired gentleman-in-waiting, fond of eating and

+drinking and, as he unbuttoned his waistcoat, of abusing the government

+a bit, a member of the Moscow English Club, and a universal favorite in

+Moscow society. For a long time he could not reconcile himself to the

+idea that he was one of those same retired Moscow gentlemen-in-waiting

+he had so despised seven years before.

+

+Sometimes he consoled himself with the thought that he was only living

+this life temporarily; but then he was shocked by the thought of how

+many, like himself, had entered that life and that club temporarily,

+with all their teeth and hair, and had only left it when not a single

+tooth or hair remained.

+

+In moments of pride, when he thought of his position it seemed to

+him that he was quite different and distinct from those other retired

+gentlemen-in-waiting he had formerly despised: they were empty, stupid,

+contented fellows, satisfied with their position, “while I am still

+discontented and want to do something for mankind. But perhaps all these

+comrades of mine struggled just like me and sought something new, a

+path in life of their own, and like me were brought by force of

+circumstances, society, and race—by that elemental force against which

+man is powerless—to the condition I am in,” said he to himself in

+moments of humility; and after living some time in Moscow he no longer

+despised, but began to grow fond of, to respect, and to pity his

+comrades in destiny, as he pitied himself.

+

+Pierre no longer suffered moments of despair, hypochondria, and disgust

+with life, but the malady that had formerly found expression in such

+acute attacks was driven inwards and never left him for a moment.

+“What for? Why? What is going on in the world?” he would ask himself

+in perplexity several times a day, involuntarily beginning to reflect

+anew on the meaning of the phenomena of life; but knowing by experience

+that there were no answers to these questions he made haste to turn away

+from them, and took up a book, or hurried off to the club or to Apollón

+Nikoláevich’s, to exchange the gossip of the town.

+

+“Hélène, who has never cared for anything but her own body and

+is one of the stupidest women in the world,” thought Pierre, “is

+regarded by people as the acme of intelligence and refinement, and they

+pay homage to her. Napoleon Bonaparte was despised by all as long as he

+was great, but now that he has become a wretched comedian the Emperor

+Francis wants to offer him his daughter in an illegal marriage. The

+Spaniards, through the Catholic clergy, offer praise to God for their

+victory over the French on the fourteenth of June, and the French,

+also through the Catholic clergy, offer praise because on that same

+fourteenth of June they defeated the Spaniards. My brother Masons swear

+by the blood that they are ready to sacrifice everything for their

+neighbor, but they do not give a ruble each to the collections for the

+poor, and they intrigue, the Astraea Lodge against the Manna Seekers,

+and fuss about an authentic Scotch carpet and a charter that nobody

+needs, and the meaning of which the very man who wrote it does not

+understand. We all profess the Christian law of forgiveness of injuries

+and love of our neighbors, the law in honor of which we have built in

+Moscow forty times forty churches—but yesterday a deserter was knouted

+to death and a minister of that same law of love and forgiveness, a

+priest, gave the soldier a cross to kiss before his execution.” So

+thought Pierre, and the whole of this general deception which everyone

+accepts, accustomed as he was to it, astonished him each time as if it

+were something new. “I understand the deception and confusion,” he

+thought, “but how am I to tell them all that I see? I have tried, and

+have always found that they too in the depths of their souls understand

+it as I do, and only try not to see it. So it appears that it must

+be so! But I—what is to become of me?” thought he. He had the

+unfortunate capacity many men, especially Russians, have of seeing and

+believing in the possibility of goodness and truth, but of seeing the

+evil and falsehood of life too clearly to be able to take a serious part

+in it. Every sphere of work was connected, in his eyes, with evil and

+deception. Whatever he tried to be, whatever he engaged in, the evil and

+falsehood of it repulsed him and blocked every path of activity. Yet he

+had to live and to find occupation. It was too dreadful to be under

+the burden of these insoluble problems, so he abandoned himself to

+any distraction in order to forget them. He frequented every kind of

+society, drank much, bought pictures, engaged in building, and above

+all—read.

+

+He read, and read everything that came to hand. On coming home, while

+his valets were still taking off his things, he picked up a book and

+began to read. From reading he passed to sleeping, from sleeping to

+gossip in drawing rooms of the club, from gossip to carousals and women;

+from carousals back to gossip, reading, and wine. Drinking became more

+and more a physical and also a moral necessity. Though the doctors

+warned him that with his corpulence wine was dangerous for him, he

+drank a great deal. He was only quite at ease when having poured several

+glasses of wine mechanically into his large mouth he felt a pleasant

+warmth in his body, an amiability toward all his fellows, and a

+readiness to respond superficially to every idea without probing it

+deeply. Only after emptying a bottle or two did he feel dimly that the

+terribly tangled skein of life which previously had terrified him was

+not as dreadful as he had thought. He was always conscious of some

+aspect of that skein, as with a buzzing in his head after dinner or

+supper he chatted or listened to conversation or read. But under the

+influence of wine he said to himself: “It doesn’t matter. I’ll

+get it unraveled. I have a solution ready, but have no time now—I’ll

+think it all out later on!” But the later on never came.

+

+In the morning, on an empty stomach, all the old questions appeared as

+insoluble and terrible as ever, and Pierre hastily picked up a book, and

+if anyone came to see him he was glad.

+

+Sometimes he remembered how he had heard that soldiers in war when

+entrenched under the enemy’s fire, if they have nothing to do, try

+hard to find some occupation the more easily to bear the danger. To

+Pierre all men seemed like those soldiers, seeking refuge from life:

+some in ambition, some in cards, some in framing laws, some in women,

+some in toys, some in horses, some in politics, some in sport, some

+in wine, and some in governmental affairs. “Nothing is trivial, and

+nothing is important, it’s all the same—only to save oneself from it

+as best one can,” thought Pierre. “Only not to see it, that dreadful

+it!”

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER II

+

+At the beginning of winter Prince Nicholas Bolkónski and his daughter

+moved to Moscow. At that time enthusiasm for the Emperor Alexander’s

+regime had weakened and a patriotic and anti-French tendency prevailed

+there, and this, together with his past and his intellect and his

+originality, at once made Prince Nicholas Bolkónski an object of

+particular respect to the Moscovites and the center of the Moscow

+opposition to the government.

+

+The prince had aged very much that year. He showed marked signs of

+senility by a tendency to fall asleep, forgetfulness of quite recent

+events, remembrance of remote ones, and the childish vanity with which

+he accepted the role of head of the Moscow opposition. In spite of this

+the old man inspired in all his visitors alike a feeling of respectful

+veneration—especially of an evening when he came in to tea in his

+old-fashioned coat and powdered wig and, aroused by anyone, told his

+abrupt stories of the past, or uttered yet more abrupt and scathing

+criticisms of the present. For them all, that old-fashioned house with

+its gigantic mirrors, pre-Revolution furniture, powdered footmen, and

+the stern shrewd old man (himself a relic of the past century) with his

+gentle daughter and the pretty Frenchwoman who were reverently devoted

+to him presented a majestic and agreeable spectacle. But the visitors

+did not reflect that besides the couple of hours during which they saw

+their host, there were also twenty-two hours in the day during which the

+private and intimate life of the house continued.

+

+Latterly that private life had become very trying for Princess Mary.

+There in Moscow she was deprived of her greatest pleasures—talks with

+the pilgrims and the solitude which refreshed her at Bald Hills—and

+she had none of the advantages and pleasures of city life. She did not

+go out into society; everyone knew that her father would not let her

+go anywhere without him, and his failing health prevented his going out

+himself, so that she was not invited to dinners and evening parties. She

+had quite abandoned the hope of getting married. She saw the coldness

+and malevolence with which the old prince received and dismissed the

+young men, possible suitors, who sometimes appeared at their house. She

+had no friends: during this visit to Moscow she had been disappointed in

+the two who had been nearest to her. Mademoiselle Bourienne, with whom

+she had never been able to be quite frank, had now become unpleasant to

+her, and for various reasons Princess Mary avoided her. Julie, with whom

+she had corresponded for the last five years, was in Moscow, but proved

+to be quite alien to her when they met. Just then Julie, who by the

+death of her brothers had become one of the richest heiresses in Moscow,

+was in the full whirl of society pleasures. She was surrounded by young

+men who, she fancied, had suddenly learned to appreciate her worth.

+Julie was at that stage in the life of a society woman when she feels

+that her last chance of marrying has come and that her fate must be

+decided now or never. On Thursdays Princess Mary remembered with a

+mournful smile that she now had no one to write to, since Julie—whose

+presence gave her no pleasure was here and they met every week. Like the

+old émigré who declined to marry the lady with whom he had spent his

+evenings for years, she regretted Julie’s presence and having no one

+to write to. In Moscow Princess Mary had no one to talk to, no one to

+whom to confide her sorrow, and much sorrow fell to her lot just then.

+The time for Prince Andrew’s return and marriage was approaching, but

+his request to her to prepare his father for it had not been carried

+out; in fact, it seemed as if matters were quite hopeless, for at every

+mention of the young Countess Rostóva the old prince (who apart from

+that was usually in a bad temper) lost control of himself. Another

+lately added sorrow arose from the lessons she gave her six year-old

+nephew. To her consternation she detected in herself in relation to

+little Nicholas some symptoms of her father’s irritability. However

+often she told herself that she must not get irritable when teaching her

+nephew, almost every time that, pointer in hand, she sat down to show

+him the French alphabet, she so longed to pour her own knowledge quickly

+and easily into the child—who was already afraid that Auntie might at

+any moment get angry—that at his slightest inattention she trembled,

+became flustered and heated, raised her voice, and sometimes pulled him

+by the arm and put him in the corner. Having put him in the corner

+she would herself begin to cry over her cruel, evil nature, and little

+Nicholas, following her example, would sob, and without permission would

+leave his corner, come to her, pull her wet hands from her face, and

+comfort her. But what distressed the princess most of all was her

+father’s irritability, which was always directed against her and had

+of late amounted to cruelty. Had he forced her to prostrate herself to

+the ground all night, had he beaten her or made her fetch wood or water,

+it would never have entered her mind to think her position hard; but

+this loving despot—the more cruel because he loved her and for that

+reason tormented himself and her—knew how not merely to hurt and

+humiliate her deliberately, but to show her that she was always to blame

+for everything. Of late he had exhibited a new trait that tormented

+Princess Mary more than anything else; this was his ever-increasing

+intimacy with Mademoiselle Bourienne. The idea that at the first moment

+of receiving the news of his son’s intentions had occurred to him in

+jest—that if Andrew got married he himself would marry Bourienne—had

+evidently pleased him, and latterly he had persistently, and as it

+seemed to Princess Mary merely to offend her, shown special endearments

+to the companion and expressed his dissatisfaction with his daughter by

+demonstrations of love of Bourienne.

+

+One day in Moscow in Princess Mary’s presence (she thought her father

+did it purposely when she was there) the old prince kissed Mademoiselle

+Bourienne’s hand and, drawing her to him, embraced her affectionately.

+Princess Mary flushed and ran out of the room. A few minutes later

+Mademoiselle Bourienne came into Princess Mary’s room smiling and

+making cheerful remarks in her agreeable voice. Princess Mary hastily

+wiped away her tears, went resolutely up to Mademoiselle Bourienne,

+and evidently unconscious of what she was doing began shouting in angry

+haste at the Frenchwoman, her voice breaking: “It’s horrible, vile,

+inhuman, to take advantage of the weakness...” She did not finish.

+“Leave my room,” she exclaimed, and burst into sobs.

+

+Next day the prince did not say a word to his daughter, but she noticed

+that at dinner he gave orders that Mademoiselle Bourienne should be

+served first. After dinner, when the footman handed coffee and from

+habit began with the princess, the prince suddenly grew furious,

+threw his stick at Philip, and instantly gave instructions to have him

+conscripted for the army.

+

+“He doesn’t obey... I said it twice... and he doesn’t obey! She

+is the first person in this house; she’s my best friend,” cried

+the prince. “And if you allow yourself,” he screamed in a fury,

+addressing Princess Mary for the first time, “to forget yourself again

+before her as you dared to do yesterday, I will show you who is master

+in this house. Go! Don’t let me set eyes on you; beg her pardon!”

+

+Princess Mary asked Mademoiselle Bourienne’s pardon, and also her

+father’s pardon for herself and for Philip the footman, who had begged

+for her intervention.

+

+At such moments something like a pride of sacrifice gathered in her

+soul. And suddenly that father whom she had judged would look for his

+spectacles in her presence, fumbling near them and not seeing them, or

+would forget something that had just occurred, or take a false step with

+his failing legs and turn to see if anyone had noticed his feebleness,

+or, worst of all, at dinner when there were no visitors to excite him

+would suddenly fall asleep, letting his napkin drop and his shaking

+head sink over his plate. “He is old and feeble, and I dare to condemn

+him!” she thought at such moments, with a feeling of revulsion against

+herself.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER III

+

+In 1811 there was living in Moscow a French doctor—Métivier—who had

+rapidly become the fashion. He was enormously tall, handsome, amiable

+as Frenchmen are, and was, as all Moscow said, an extraordinarily clever

+doctor. He was received in the best houses not merely as a doctor, but

+as an equal.

+

+Prince Nicholas had always ridiculed medicine, but latterly on

+Mademoiselle Bourienne’s advice had allowed this doctor to visit him

+and had grown accustomed to him. Métivier came to see the prince about

+twice a week.

+

+On December 6—St. Nicholas’ Day and the prince’s name day—all

+Moscow came to the prince’s front door but he gave orders to admit no

+one and to invite to dinner only a small number, a list of whom he gave

+to Princess Mary.

+

+Métivier, who came in the morning with his felicitations, considered

+it proper in his quality of doctor de forcer la consigne, * as he told

+Princess Mary, and went in to see the prince. It happened that on that

+morning of his name day the prince was in one of his worst moods. He had

+been going about the house all the morning finding fault with everyone

+and pretending not to understand what was said to him and not to be

+understood himself. Princess Mary well knew this mood of quiet absorbed

+querulousness, which generally culminated in a burst of rage, and she

+went about all that morning as though facing a cocked and loaded gun

+and awaited the inevitable explosion. Until the doctor’s arrival the

+morning had passed off safely. After admitting the doctor, Princess Mary

+sat down with a book in the drawing room near the door through which she

+could hear all that passed in the study.

+

+    * To force the guard.

+

+At first she heard only Métivier’s voice, then her father’s, then

+both voices began speaking at the same time, the door was flung open,

+and on the threshold appeared the handsome figure of the terrified

+Métivier with his shock of black hair, and the prince in his dressing

+gown and fez, his face distorted with fury and the pupils of his eyes

+rolled downwards.

+

+“You don’t understand?” shouted the prince, “but I do! French

+spy, slave of Buonaparte, spy, get out of my house! Be off, I tell

+you...” and he slammed the door.

+

+Métivier, shrugging his shoulders, went up to Mademoiselle Bourienne

+who at the sound of shouting had run in from an adjoining room.

+

+“The prince is not very well: bile and rush of blood to the head. Keep

+calm, I will call again tomorrow,” said Métivier; and putting his

+fingers to his lips he hastened away.

+

+Through the study door came the sound of slippered feet and the cry:

+“Spies, traitors, traitors everywhere! Not a moment’s peace in my

+own house!”

+

+After Métivier’s departure the old prince called his daughter in, and

+the whole weight of his wrath fell on her. She was to blame that a spy

+had been admitted. Had he not told her, yes, told her to make a list,

+and not to admit anyone who was not on that list? Then why was that

+scoundrel admitted? She was the cause of it all. With her, he said, he

+could not have a moment’s peace and could not die quietly.

+

+“No, ma’am! We must part, we must part! Understand that, understand

+it! I cannot endure any more,” he said, and left the room. Then, as if

+afraid she might find some means of consolation, he returned and trying

+to appear calm added: “And don’t imagine I have said this in a

+moment of anger. I am calm. I have thought it over, and it will be

+carried out—we must part; so find some place for yourself....” But

+he could not restrain himself and with the virulence of which only one

+who loves is capable, evidently suffering himself, he shook his fists at

+her and screamed:

+

+“If only some fool would marry her!” Then he slammed the door, sent

+for Mademoiselle Bourienne, and subsided into his study.

+

+At two o’clock the six chosen guests assembled for dinner.

+

+These guests—the famous Count Rostopchín, Prince Lopukhín with his

+nephew, General Chatróv an old war comrade of the prince’s, and

+of the younger generation Pierre and Borís Drubetskóy—awaited the

+prince in the drawing room.

+

+Borís, who had come to Moscow on leave a few days before, had been

+anxious to be presented to Prince Nicholas Bolkónski, and had contrived

+to ingratiate himself so well that the old prince in his case made an

+exception to the rule of not receiving bachelors in his house.

+

+The prince’s house did not belong to what is known as fashionable

+society, but his little circle—though not much talked about in

+town—was one it was more flattering to be received in than any other.

+Borís had realized this the week before when the commander in chief in

+his presence invited Rostopchín to dinner on St. Nicholas’ Day, and

+Rostopchín had replied that he could not come:

+

+“On that day I always go to pay my devotions to the relics of Prince

+Nicholas Bolkónski.”

+

+“Oh, yes, yes!” replied the commander in chief. “How is he?...”

+

+The small group that assembled before dinner in the lofty old-fashioned

+drawing room with its old furniture resembled the solemn gathering of

+a court of justice. All were silent or talked in low tones. Prince

+Nicholas came in serious and taciturn. Princess Mary seemed even quieter

+and more diffident than usual. The guests were reluctant to address

+her, feeling that she was in no mood for their conversation. Count

+Rostopchín alone kept the conversation going, now relating the latest

+town news, and now the latest political gossip.

+

+Lopukhín and the old general occasionally took part in the

+conversation. Prince Bolkónski listened as a presiding judge receives a

+report, only now and then, silently or by a brief word, showing that

+he took heed of what was being reported to him. The tone of the

+conversation was such as indicated that no one approved of what was

+being done in the political world. Incidents were related evidently

+confirming the opinion that everything was going from bad to worse, but

+whether telling a story or giving an opinion the speaker always stopped,

+or was stopped, at the point beyond which his criticism might touch the

+sovereign himself.

+

+At dinner the talk turned on the latest political news: Napoleon’s

+seizure of the Duke of Oldenburg’s territory, and the Russian Note,

+hostile to Napoleon, which had been sent to all the European courts.

+

+“Bonaparte treats Europe as a pirate does a captured vessel,” said

+Count Rostopchín, repeating a phrase he had uttered several times

+before. “One only wonders at the long-suffering or blindness of the

+crowned heads. Now the Pope’s turn has come and Bonaparte doesn’t

+scruple to depose the head of the Catholic Church—yet all keep silent!

+Our sovereign alone has protested against the seizure of the Duke

+of Oldenburg’s territory, and even...” Count Rostopchín paused,

+feeling that he had reached the limit beyond which censure was

+impossible.

+

+“Other territories have been offered in exchange for the Duchy of

+Oldenburg,” said Prince Bolkónski. “He shifts the Dukes about as

+I might move my serfs from Bald Hills to Boguchárovo or my Ryazán

+estates.”

+

+“The Duke of Oldenburg bears his misfortunes with admirable

+strength of character and resignation,” remarked Borís, joining in

+respectfully.

+

+He said this because on his journey from Petersburg he had had the honor

+of being presented to the Duke. Prince Bolkónski glanced at the

+young man as if about to say something in reply, but changed his mind,

+evidently considering him too young.

+

+“I have read our protests about the Oldenburg affair and was surprised

+how badly the Note was worded,” remarked Count Rostopchín in the

+casual tone of a man dealing with a subject quite familiar to him.

+

+Pierre looked at Rostopchín with naïve astonishment, not understanding

+why he should be disturbed by the bad composition of the Note.

+

+“Does it matter, Count, how the Note is worded,” he asked, “so

+long as its substance is forcible?”

+

+“My dear fellow, with our five hundred thousand troops it should be

+easy to have a good style,” returned Count Rostopchín.

+

+Pierre now understood the count’s dissatisfaction with the wording of

+the Note.

+

+“One would have thought quill drivers enough had sprung up,”

+remarked the old prince. “There in Petersburg they are always

+writing—not notes only but even new laws. My Andrew there has written

+a whole volume of laws for Russia. Nowadays they are always writing!”

+and he laughed unnaturally.

+

+There was a momentary pause in the conversation; the old general cleared

+his throat to draw attention.

+

+“Did you hear of the last event at the review in Petersburg? The

+figure cut by the new French ambassador.”

+

+“Eh? Yes, I heard something: he said something awkward in His

+Majesty’s presence.”

+

+“His Majesty drew attention to the Grenadier division and to the march

+past,” continued the general, “and it seems the ambassador took

+no notice and allowed himself to reply that: ‘We in France pay no

+attention to such trifles!’ The Emperor did not condescend to reply.

+At the next review, they say, the Emperor did not once deign to address

+him.”

+

+All were silent. On this fact relating to the Emperor personally, it was

+impossible to pass any judgment.

+

+“Impudent fellows!” said the prince. “You know Métivier? I turned

+him out of my house this morning. He was here; they admitted him in

+spite of my request that they should let no one in,” he went on,

+glancing angrily at his daughter.

+

+And he narrated his whole conversation with the French doctor and

+the reasons that convinced him that Métivier was a spy. Though these

+reasons were very insufficient and obscure, no one made any rejoinder.

+

+After the roast, champagne was served. The guests rose to congratulate

+the old prince. Princess Mary, too, went round to him.

+

+He gave her a cold, angry look and offered her his wrinkled,

+clean-shaven cheek to kiss. The whole expression of his face told

+her that he had not forgotten the morning’s talk, that his decision

+remained in force, and only the presence of visitors hindered his

+speaking of it to her now.

+

+When they went into the drawing room where coffee was served, the old

+men sat together.

+

+Prince Nicholas grew more animated and expressed his views on the

+impending war.

+

+He said that our wars with Bonaparte would be disastrous so long as we

+sought alliances with the Germans and thrust ourselves into European

+affairs, into which we had been drawn by the Peace of Tilsit. “We

+ought not to fight either for or against Austria. Our political

+interests are all in the East, and in regard to Bonaparte the only thing

+is to have an armed frontier and a firm policy, and he will never dare

+to cross the Russian frontier, as was the case in 1807!”

+

+“How can we fight the French, Prince?” said Count Rostopchín.

+“Can we arm ourselves against our teachers and divinities? Look at

+our youths, look at our ladies! The French are our Gods: Paris is our

+Kingdom of Heaven.”

+

+He began speaking louder, evidently to be heard by everyone.

+

+“French dresses, French ideas, French feelings! There now, you turned

+Métivier out by the scruff of his neck because he is a Frenchman and

+a scoundrel, but our ladies crawl after him on their knees. I went to

+a party last night, and there out of five ladies three were Roman

+Catholics and had the Pope’s indulgence for doing woolwork on Sundays.

+And they themselves sit there nearly naked, like the signboards at our

+Public Baths if I may say so. Ah, when one looks at our young people,

+Prince, one would like to take Peter the Great’s old cudgel out of the

+museum and belabor them in the Russian way till all the nonsense jumps

+out of them.”

+

+All were silent. The old prince looked at Rostopchín with a smile and

+wagged his head approvingly.

+

+“Well, good-by, your excellency, keep well!” said Rostopchín,

+getting up with characteristic briskness and holding out his hand to the

+prince.

+

+“Good-by, my dear fellow.... His words are music, I never tire of

+hearing him!” said the old prince, keeping hold of the hand and

+offering his cheek to be kissed.

+

+Following Rostopchín’s example the others also rose.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER IV

+

+Princess Mary as she sat listening to the old men’s talk and

+faultfinding, understood nothing of what she heard; she only wondered

+whether the guests had all observed her father’s hostile attitude

+toward her. She did not even notice the special attentions and

+amiabilities shown her during dinner by Borís Drubetskóy, who was

+visiting them for the third time already.

+

+Princess Mary turned with absent-minded questioning look to Pierre, who

+hat in hand and with a smile on his face was the last of the guests to

+approach her after the old prince had gone out and they were left alone

+in the drawing room.

+

+“May I stay a little longer?” he said, letting his stout body sink

+into an armchair beside her.

+

+“Oh yes,” she answered. “You noticed nothing?” her look asked.

+

+Pierre was in an agreeable after-dinner mood. He looked straight before

+him and smiled quietly.

+

+“Have you known that young man long, Princess?” he asked.

+

+“Who?”

+

+“Drubetskóy.”

+

+“No, not long....”

+

+“Do you like him?”

+

+“Yes, he is an agreeable young man.... Why do you ask me that?” said

+Princess Mary, still thinking of that morning’s conversation with her

+father.

+

+“Because I have noticed that when a young man comes on leave from

+Petersburg to Moscow it is usually with the object of marrying an

+heiress.”

+

+“You have observed that?” said Princess Mary.

+

+“Yes,” returned Pierre with a smile, “and this young man now

+manages matters so that where there is a wealthy heiress there he is

+too. I can read him like a book. At present he is hesitating whom to lay

+siege to—you or Mademoiselle Julie Karágina. He is very attentive to

+her.”

+

+“He visits them?”

+

+“Yes, very often. And do you know the new way of courting?” said

+Pierre with an amused smile, evidently in that cheerful mood of good

+humored raillery for which he so often reproached himself in his diary.

+

+“No,” replied Princess Mary.

+

+“To please Moscow girls nowadays one has to be melancholy. He is very

+melancholy with Mademoiselle Karágina,” said Pierre.

+

+“Really?” asked Princess Mary, looking into Pierre’s kindly

+face and still thinking of her own sorrow. “It would be a relief,”

+thought she, “if I ventured to confide what I am feeling to someone.

+I should like to tell everything to Pierre. He is kind and generous. It

+would be a relief. He would give me advice.”

+

+“Would you marry him?”

+

+“Oh, my God, Count, there are moments when I would marry anybody!”

+she cried suddenly to her own surprise and with tears in her voice.

+“Ah, how bitter it is to love someone near to you and to feel

+that...” she went on in a trembling voice, “that you can do nothing

+for him but grieve him, and to know that you cannot alter this. Then

+there is only one thing left—to go away, but where could I go?”

+

+“What is wrong? What is it, Princess?”

+

+But without finishing what she was saying, Princess Mary burst into

+tears.

+

+“I don’t know what is the matter with me today. Don’t take any

+notice—forget what I have said!”

+

+Pierre’s gaiety vanished completely. He anxiously questioned the

+princess, asked her to speak out fully and confide her grief to him; but

+she only repeated that she begged him to forget what she had said, that

+she did not remember what she had said, and that she had no trouble

+except the one he knew of—that Prince Andrew’s marriage threatened

+to cause a rupture between father and son.

+

+“Have you any news of the Rostóvs?” she asked, to change the

+subject. “I was told they are coming soon. I am also expecting Andrew

+any day. I should like them to meet here.”

+

+“And how does he now regard the matter?” asked Pierre, referring to

+the old prince.

+

+Princess Mary shook her head.

+

+“What is to be done? In a few months the year will be up. The thing

+is impossible. I only wish I could spare my brother the first moments.

+I wish they would come sooner. I hope to be friends with her. You have

+known them a long time,” said Princess Mary. “Tell me honestly

+the whole truth: what sort of girl is she, and what do you think of

+her?—The real truth, because you know Andrew is risking so much doing

+this against his father’s will that I should like to know....”

+

+An undefined instinct told Pierre that these explanations, and

+repeated requests to be told the whole truth, expressed ill-will on

+the princess’ part toward her future sister-in-law and a wish that

+he should disapprove of Andrew’s choice; but in reply he said what he

+felt rather than what he thought.

+

+“I don’t know how to answer your question,” he said, blushing

+without knowing why. “I really don’t know what sort of girl she is;

+I can’t analyze her at all. She is enchanting, but what makes her so I

+don’t know. That is all one can say about her.”

+

+Princess Mary sighed, and the expression on her face said: “Yes,

+that’s what I expected and feared.”

+

+“Is she clever?” she asked.

+

+Pierre considered.

+

+“I think not,” he said, “and yet—yes. She does not deign to be

+clever.... Oh no, she is simply enchanting, and that is all.”

+

+Princess Mary again shook her head disapprovingly.

+

+“Ah, I so long to like her! Tell her so if you see her before I do.”

+

+“I hear they are expected very soon,” said Pierre.

+

+Princess Mary told Pierre of her plan to become intimate with her future

+sister-in-law as soon as the Rostóvs arrived and to try to accustom the

+old prince to her.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER V

+

+Borís had not succeeded in making a wealthy match in Petersburg, so

+with the same object in view he came to Moscow. There he wavered between

+the two richest heiresses, Julie and Princess Mary. Though Princess

+Mary despite her plainness seemed to him more attractive than Julie, he,

+without knowing why, felt awkward about paying court to her. When they

+had last met on the old prince’s name day, she had answered at random

+all his attempts to talk sentimentally, evidently not listening to what

+he was saying.

+

+Julie on the contrary accepted his attentions readily, though in a

+manner peculiar to herself.

+

+She was twenty-seven. After the death of her brothers she had become

+very wealthy. She was by now decidedly plain, but thought herself not

+merely as good-looking as before but even far more attractive. She

+was confirmed in this delusion by the fact that she had become a very

+wealthy heiress and also by the fact that the older she grew the less

+dangerous she became to men, and the more freely they could associate

+with her and avail themselves of her suppers, soirees, and the animated

+company that assembled at her house, without incurring any obligation.

+A man who would have been afraid ten years before of going every day

+to the house when there was a girl of seventeen there, for fear of

+compromising her and committing himself, would now go boldly every day

+and treat her not as a marriageable girl but as a sexless acquaintance.

+

+That winter the Karágins’ house was the most agreeable and hospitable

+in Moscow. In addition to the formal evening and dinner parties, a large

+company, chiefly of men, gathered there every day, supping at midnight

+and staying till three in the morning. Julie never missed a ball, a

+promenade, or a play. Her dresses were always of the latest fashion.

+But in spite of that she seemed to be disillusioned about everything and

+told everyone that she did not believe either in friendship or in love,

+or any of the joys of life, and expected peace only “yonder.” She

+adopted the tone of one who has suffered a great disappointment, like a

+girl who has either lost the man she loved or been cruelly deceived by

+him. Though nothing of the kind had happened to her she was regarded in

+that light, and had even herself come to believe that she had suffered

+much in life. This melancholy, which did not prevent her amusing

+herself, did not hinder the young people who came to her house from

+passing the time pleasantly. Every visitor who came to the house paid

+his tribute to the melancholy mood of the hostess, and then amused

+himself with society gossip, dancing, intellectual games, and bouts

+rimés, which were in vogue at the Karágins’. Only a few of these

+young men, among them Borís, entered more deeply into Julie’s

+melancholy, and with these she had prolonged conversations in private

+on the vanity of all worldly things, and to them she showed her albums

+filled with mournful sketches, maxims, and verses.

+

+To Borís, Julie was particularly gracious: she regretted his early

+disillusionment with life, offered him such consolation of friendship

+as she who had herself suffered so much could render, and showed him

+her album. Borís sketched two trees in the album and wrote: “Rustic

+trees, your dark branches shed gloom and melancholy upon me.”

+

+On another page he drew a tomb, and wrote:

+

+    La mort est secourable et la mort est tranquille.

+    Ah! contre les douleurs il n’y a pas d’autre asile. *

+

+    * Death gives relief and death is peaceful.

+

+Ah! from suffering there is no other refuge.

+

+Julie said this was charming

+

+“There is something so enchanting in the smile of melancholy,” she

+said to Borís, repeating word for word a passage she had copied from a

+book. “It is a ray of light in the darkness, a shade between sadness

+and despair, showing the possibility of consolation.”

+

+In reply Borís wrote these lines:

+

+    Aliment de poison d’une âme trop sensible,

+    Toi, sans qui le bonheur me serait impossible,

+    Tendre mélancholie, ah, viens me consoler,

+    Viens calmer les tourments de ma sombre retraite,

+    Et mêle une douceur secrète

+    A ces pleurs que je sens couler. *

+

+      *Poisonous nourishment of a too sensitive soul,

+     Thou, without whom happiness would for me be impossible,

+     Tender melancholy, ah, come to console me,

+     Come to calm the torments of my gloomy retreat,

+     And mingle a secret sweetness

+     With these tears that I feel to be flowing.

+

+For Borís, Julie played most doleful nocturnes on her harp. Borís

+read Poor Liza aloud to her, and more than once interrupted the reading

+because of the emotions that choked him. Meeting at large gatherings

+Julie and Borís looked on one another as the only souls who understood

+one another in a world of indifferent people.

+

+Anna Mikháylovna, who often visited the Karágins, while playing cards

+with the mother made careful inquiries as to Julie’s dowry (she was

+to have two estates in Pénza and the Nizhegórod forests). Anna

+Mikháylovna regarded the refined sadness that united her son to the

+wealthy Julie with emotion, and resignation to the Divine will.

+

+“You are always charming and melancholy, my dear Julie,” she said to

+the daughter. “Borís says his soul finds repose at your house. He has

+suffered so many disappointments and is so sensitive,” said she to

+the mother. “Ah, my dear, I can’t tell you how fond I have grown

+of Julie latterly,” she said to her son. “But who could help loving

+her? She is an angelic being! Ah, Borís, Borís!”—she paused.

+“And how I pity her mother,” she went on; “today she showed me her

+accounts and letters from Pénza (they have enormous estates there), and

+she, poor thing, has no one to help her, and they do cheat her so!”

+

+Borís smiled almost imperceptibly while listening to his mother. He

+laughed blandly at her naïve diplomacy but listened to what she had

+to say, and sometimes questioned her carefully about the Pénza and

+Nizhegórod estates.

+

+Julie had long been expecting a proposal from her melancholy adorer and

+was ready to accept it; but some secret feeling of repulsion for her,

+for her passionate desire to get married, for her artificiality, and

+a feeling of horror at renouncing the possibility of real love still

+restrained Borís. His leave was expiring. He spent every day and whole

+days at the Karágins’, and every day on thinking the matter over

+told himself that he would propose tomorrow. But in Julie’s presence,

+looking at her red face and chin (nearly always powdered), her moist

+eyes, and her expression of continual readiness to pass at once from

+melancholy to an unnatural rapture of married bliss, Borís could not

+utter the decisive words, though in imagination he had long regarded

+himself as the possessor of those Pénza and Nizhegórod estates and

+had apportioned the use of the income from them. Julie saw Borís’

+indecision, and sometimes the thought occurred to her that she was

+repulsive to him, but her feminine self-deception immediately supplied

+her with consolation, and she told herself that he was only shy from

+love. Her melancholy, however, began to turn to irritability, and not

+long before Borís’ departure she formed a definite plan of action.

+Just as Borís’ leave of absence was expiring, Anatole Kurágin made

+his appearance in Moscow, and of course in the Karágins’ drawing

+room, and Julie, suddenly abandoning her melancholy, became cheerful and

+very attentive to Kurágin.

+

+“My dear,” said Anna Mikháylovna to her son, “I know from a

+reliable source that Prince Vasíli has sent his son to Moscow to get

+him married to Julie. I am so fond of Julie that I should be sorry for

+her. What do you think of it, my dear?”

+

+The idea of being made a fool of and of having thrown away that whole

+month of arduous melancholy service to Julie, and of seeing all

+the revenue from the Pénza estates which he had already mentally

+apportioned and put to proper use fall into the hands of another, and

+especially into the hands of that idiot Anatole, pained Borís. He drove

+to the Karágins’ with the firm intention of proposing. Julie met

+him in a gay, careless manner, spoke casually of how she had enjoyed

+yesterday’s ball, and asked when he was leaving. Though Borís had

+come intentionally to speak of his love and therefore meant to be

+tender, he began speaking irritably of feminine inconstancy, of how

+easily women can turn from sadness to joy, and how their moods depend

+solely on who happens to be paying court to them. Julie was offended and

+replied that it was true that a woman needs variety, and the same thing

+over and over again would weary anyone.

+

+“Then I should advise you...” Borís began, wishing to sting her;

+but at that instant the galling thought occurred to him that he might

+have to leave Moscow without having accomplished his aim, and have

+vainly wasted his efforts—which was a thing he never allowed to

+happen.

+

+He checked himself in the middle of the sentence, lowered his eyes to

+avoid seeing her unpleasantly irritated and irresolute face, and said:

+

+“I did not come here at all to quarrel with you. On the contrary...”

+

+He glanced at her to make sure that he might go on. Her irritability had

+suddenly quite vanished, and her anxious, imploring eyes were fixed on

+him with greedy expectation. “I can always arrange so as not to see

+her often,” thought Borís. “The affair has been begun and must be

+finished!” He blushed hotly, raised his eyes to hers, and said:

+

+“You know my feelings for you!”

+

+There was no need to say more: Julie’s face shone with triumph and

+self-satisfaction; but she forced Borís to say all that is said on such

+occasions—that he loved her and had never loved any other woman more

+than her. She knew that for the Pénza estates and Nizhegórod forests

+she could demand this, and she received what she demanded.

+

+The affianced couple, no longer alluding to trees that shed gloom and

+melancholy upon them, planned the arrangements of a splendid house in

+Petersburg, paid calls, and prepared everything for a brilliant wedding.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER VI

+

+At the end of January old Count Rostóv went to Moscow with Natásha and

+Sónya. The countess was still unwell and unable to travel but it was

+impossible to wait for her recovery. Prince Andrew was expected in

+Moscow any day, the trousseau had to be ordered and the estate near

+Moscow had to be sold, besides which the opportunity of presenting his

+future daughter-in-law to old Prince Bolkónski while he was in Moscow

+could not be missed. The Rostóvs’ Moscow house had not been heated

+that winter and, as they had come only for a short time and the countess

+was not with them, the count decided to stay with Márya Dmítrievna

+Akhrosímova, who had long been pressing her hospitality on them.

+

+Late one evening the Rostóvs’ four sleighs drove into Márya

+Dmítrievna’s courtyard in the old Konyúsheny street. Márya

+Dmítrievna lived alone. She had already married off her daughter, and

+her sons were all in the service.

+

+She held herself as erect, told everyone her opinion as candidly,

+loudly, and bluntly as ever, and her whole bearing seemed a reproach

+to others for any weakness, passion, or temptation—the possibility of

+which she did not admit. From early in the morning, wearing a dressing

+jacket, she attended to her household affairs, and then she drove out:

+on holy days to church and after the service to jails and prisons on

+affairs of which she never spoke to anyone. On ordinary days, after

+dressing, she received petitioners of various classes, of whom there

+were always some. Then she had dinner, a substantial and appetizing meal

+at which there were always three or four guests; after dinner she played

+a game of boston, and at night she had the newspapers or a new book read

+to her while she knitted. She rarely made an exception and went out to

+pay visits, and then only to the most important persons in the town.

+

+She had not yet gone to bed when the Rostóvs arrived and the pulley of

+the hall door squeaked from the cold as it let in the Rostóvs and their

+servants. Márya Dmítrievna, with her spectacles hanging down on her

+nose and her head flung back, stood in the hall doorway looking with

+a stern, grim face at the new arrivals. One might have thought she was

+angry with the travelers and would immediately turn them out, had she

+not at the same time been giving careful instructions to the servants

+for the accommodation of the visitors and their belongings.

+

+“The count’s things? Bring them here,” she said, pointing to the

+portmanteaus and not greeting anyone. “The young ladies’? There

+to the left. Now what are you dawdling for?” she cried to the maids.

+“Get the samovar ready!... You’ve grown plumper and prettier,” she

+remarked, drawing Natásha (whose cheeks were glowing from the cold)

+to her by the hood. “Foo! You are cold! Now take off your things,

+quick!” she shouted to the count who was going to kiss her hand.

+“You’re half frozen, I’m sure! Bring some rum for tea!... Bonjour,

+Sónya dear!” she added, turning to Sónya and indicating by this

+French greeting her slightly contemptuous though affectionate attitude

+toward her.

+

+When they came in to tea, having taken off their outdoor things and

+tidied themselves up after their journey, Márya Dmítrievna kissed them

+all in due order.

+

+“I’m heartily glad you have come and are staying with me. It was

+high time,” she said, giving Natásha a significant look. “The old

+man is here and his son’s expected any day. You’ll have to make his

+acquaintance. But we’ll speak of that later on,” she added, glancing

+at Sónya with a look that showed she did not want to speak of it in her

+presence. “Now listen,” she said to the count. “What do you want

+tomorrow? Whom will you send for? Shinshín?” she crooked one of her

+fingers. “The sniveling Anna Mikháylovna? That’s two. She’s here

+with her son. The son is getting married! Then Bezúkhov, eh? He is here

+too, with his wife. He ran away from her and she came galloping after

+him. He dined with me on Wednesday. As for them”—and she pointed to

+the girls—“tomorrow I’ll take them first to the Iberian shrine

+of the Mother of God, and then we’ll drive to the Super-Rogue’s.

+I suppose you’ll have everything new. Don’t judge by me: sleeves

+nowadays are this size! The other day young Princess Irína Vasílevna

+came to see me; she was an awful sight—looked as if she had put two

+barrels on her arms. You know not a day passes now without some new

+fashion.... And what have you to do yourself?” she asked the count

+sternly.

+

+“One thing has come on top of another: her rags to buy, and now a

+purchaser has turned up for the Moscow estate and for the house. If you

+will be so kind, I’ll fix a time and go down to the estate just for a

+day, and leave my lassies with you.”

+

+“All right. All right. They’ll be safe with me, as safe as in

+Chancery! I’ll take them where they must go, scold them a bit, and

+pet them a bit,” said Márya Dmítrievna, touching her goddaughter and

+favorite, Natásha, on the cheek with her large hand.

+

+Next morning Márya Dmítrievna took the young ladies to the Iberian

+shrine of the Mother of God and to Madame Suppert-Roguet, who was so

+afraid of Márya Dmítrievna that she always let her have costumes at

+a loss merely to get rid of her. Márya Dmítrievna ordered almost the

+whole trousseau. When they got home she turned everybody out of the room

+except Natásha, and then called her pet to her armchair.

+

+“Well, now we’ll talk. I congratulate you on your betrothed.

+You’ve hooked a fine fellow! I am glad for your sake and I’ve known

+him since he was so high.” She held her hand a couple of feet from the

+ground. Natásha blushed happily. “I like him and all his family.

+Now listen! You know that old Prince Nicholas much dislikes his son’s

+marrying. The old fellow’s crotchety! Of course Prince Andrew is not

+a child and can shift without him, but it’s not nice to enter a family

+against a father’s will. One wants to do it peacefully and lovingly.

+You’re a clever girl and you’ll know how to manage. Be kind, and use

+your wits. Then all will be well.”

+

+Natásha remained silent, from shyness Márya Dmítrievna supposed, but

+really because she disliked anyone interfering in what touched her love

+of Prince Andrew, which seemed to her so apart from all human affairs

+that no one could understand it. She loved and knew Prince Andrew, he

+loved her only, and was to come one of these days and take her. She

+wanted nothing more.

+

+“You see I have known him a long time and am also fond of Mary, your

+future sister-in-law. ‘Husbands’ sisters bring up blisters,’

+but this one wouldn’t hurt a fly. She has asked me to bring you two

+together. Tomorrow you’ll go with your father to see her. Be very

+nice and affectionate to her: you’re younger than she. When he comes,

+he’ll find you already know his sister and father and are liked by

+them. Am I right or not? Won’t that be best?”

+

+“Yes, it will,” Natásha answered reluctantly.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER VII

+

+Next day, by Márya Dmítrievna’s advice, Count Rostóv took Natásha

+to call on Prince Nicholas Bolkónski. The count did not set out

+cheerfully on this visit, at heart he felt afraid. He well remembered

+the last interview he had had with the old prince at the time of the

+enrollment, when in reply to an invitation to dinner he had had to

+listen to an angry reprimand for not having provided his full quota of

+men. Natásha, on the other hand, having put on her best gown, was in

+the highest spirits. “They can’t help liking me,” she thought.

+“Everybody always has liked me, and I am so willing to do anything

+they wish, so ready to be fond of him—for being his father—and of

+her—for being his sister—that there is no reason for them not to

+like me....”

+

+They drove up to the gloomy old house on the Vozdvízhenka and entered

+the vestibule.

+

+“Well, the Lord have mercy on us!” said the count, half in jest,

+half in earnest; but Natásha noticed that her father was flurried on

+entering the anteroom and inquired timidly and softly whether the prince

+and princess were at home.

+

+When they had been announced a perturbation was noticeable among the

+servants. The footman who had gone to announce them was stopped by

+another in the large hall and they whispered to one another. Then a

+maidservant ran into the hall and hurriedly said something, mentioning

+the princess. At last an old, cross looking footman came and announced

+to the Rostóvs that the prince was not receiving, but that the princess

+begged them to walk up. The first person who came to meet the visitors

+was Mademoiselle Bourienne. She greeted the father and daughter

+with special politeness and showed them to the princess’ room. The

+princess, looking excited and nervous, her face flushed in patches, ran

+in to meet the visitors, treading heavily, and vainly trying to appear

+cordial and at ease. From the first glance Princess Mary did not like

+Natásha. She thought her too fashionably dressed, frivolously gay and

+vain. She did not at all realize that before having seen her future

+sister-in-law she was prejudiced against her by involuntary envy of her

+beauty, youth, and happiness, as well as by jealousy of her brother’s

+love for her. Apart from this insuperable antipathy to her, Princess

+Mary was agitated just then because on the Rostóvs’ being announced,

+the old prince had shouted that he did not wish to see them, that

+Princess Mary might do so if she chose, but they were not to be admitted

+to him. She had decided to receive them, but feared lest the prince

+might at any moment indulge in some freak, as he seemed much upset by

+the Rostóvs’ visit.

+

+“There, my dear princess, I’ve brought you my songstress,” said

+the count, bowing and looking round uneasily as if afraid the old prince

+might appear. “I am so glad you should get to know one another... very

+sorry the prince is still ailing,” and after a few more commonplace

+remarks he rose. “If you’ll allow me to leave my Natásha in your

+hands for a quarter of an hour, Princess, I’ll drive round to see Anna

+Semënovna, it’s quite near in the Dogs’ Square, and then I’ll

+come back for her.”

+

+The count had devised this diplomatic ruse (as he afterwards told his

+daughter) to give the future sisters-in-law an opportunity to talk

+to one another freely, but another motive was to avoid the danger of

+encountering the old prince, of whom he was afraid. He did not mention

+this to his daughter, but Natásha noticed her father’s nervousness

+and anxiety and felt mortified by it. She blushed for him, grew still

+angrier at having blushed, and looked at the princess with a bold and

+defiant expression which said that she was not afraid of anybody. The

+princess told the count that she would be delighted, and only begged him

+to stay longer at Anna Semënovna’s, and he departed.

+

+Despite the uneasy glances thrown at her by Princess Mary—who wished

+to have a tête-à-tête with Natásha—Mademoiselle Bourienne

+remained in the room and persistently talked about Moscow amusements and

+theaters. Natásha felt offended by the hesitation she had noticed in

+the anteroom, by her father’s nervousness, and by the unnatural manner

+of the princess who—she thought—was making a favor of receiving her,

+and so everything displeased her. She did not like Princess Mary, whom

+she thought very plain, affected, and dry. Natásha suddenly shrank

+into herself and involuntarily assumed an offhand air which alienated

+Princess Mary still more. After five minutes of irksome, constrained

+conversation, they heard the sound of slippered feet rapidly

+approaching. Princess Mary looked frightened.

+

+The door opened and the old prince, in a dressing gown and a white

+nightcap, came in.

+

+“Ah, madam!” he began. “Madam, Countess... Countess Rostóva, if

+I am not mistaken... I beg you to excuse me, to excuse me... I did not

+know, madam. God is my witness, I did not know you had honored us with

+a visit, and I came in such a costume only to see my daughter. I beg you

+to excuse me... God is my witness, I didn’t know—” he repeated,

+stressing the word “God” so unnaturally and so unpleasantly that

+Princess Mary stood with downcast eyes not daring to look either at her

+father or at Natásha.

+

+Nor did the latter, having risen and curtsied, know what to do.

+Mademoiselle Bourienne alone smiled agreeably.

+

+“I beg you to excuse me, excuse me! God is my witness, I did not

+know,” muttered the old man, and after looking Natásha over from head

+to foot he went out.

+

+Mademoiselle Bourienne was the first to recover herself after this

+apparition and began speaking about the prince’s indisposition.

+Natásha and Princess Mary looked at one another in silence, and the

+longer they did so without saying what they wanted to say, the greater

+grew their antipathy to one another.

+

+When the count returned, Natásha was impolitely pleased and hastened

+to get away: at that moment she hated the stiff, elderly princess, who

+could place her in such an embarrassing position and had spent half an

+hour with her without once mentioning Prince Andrew. “I couldn’t

+begin talking about him in the presence of that Frenchwoman,” thought

+Natásha. The same thought was meanwhile tormenting Princess Mary. She

+knew what she ought to have said to Natásha, but she had been unable

+to say it because Mademoiselle Bourienne was in the way, and because,

+without knowing why, she felt it very difficult to speak of the

+marriage. When the count was already leaving the room, Princess Mary

+went up hurriedly to Natásha, took her by the hand, and said with a

+deep sigh:

+

+“Wait, I must...”

+

+Natásha glanced at her ironically without knowing why.

+

+“Dear Natalie,” said Princess Mary, “I want you to know that I am

+glad my brother has found happiness....”

+

+She paused, feeling that she was not telling the truth. Natásha noticed

+this and guessed its reason.

+

+“I think, Princess, it is not convenient to speak of that now,”

+she said with external dignity and coldness, though she felt the tears

+choking her.

+

+“What have I said and what have I done?” thought she, as soon as she

+was out of the room.

+

+They waited a long time for Natásha to come to dinner that day. She sat

+in her room crying like a child, blowing her nose and sobbing. Sónya

+stood beside her, kissing her hair.

+

+“Natásha, what is it about?” she asked. “What do they matter to

+you? It will all pass, Natásha.”

+

+“But if you only knew how offensive it was... as if I...”

+

+“Don’t talk about it, Natásha. It wasn’t your fault so why should

+you mind? Kiss me,” said Sónya.

+

+Natásha raised her head and, kissing her friend on the lips, pressed

+her wet face against her.

+

+“I can’t tell you, I don’t know. No one’s to blame,” said

+Natásha—“It’s my fault. But it all hurts terribly. Oh, why

+doesn’t he come?...”

+

+She came in to dinner with red eyes. Márya Dmítrievna, who knew how

+the prince had received the Rostóvs, pretended not to notice how upset

+Natásha was and jested resolutely and loudly at table with the count

+and the other guests.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER VIII

+

+That evening the Rostóvs went to the Opera, for which Márya

+Dmítrievna had taken a box.

+

+Natásha did not want to go, but could not refuse Márya Dmítrievna’s

+kind offer which was intended expressly for her. When she came ready

+dressed into the ballroom to await her father, and looking in the large

+mirror there saw that she was pretty, very pretty, she felt even more

+sad, but it was a sweet, tender sadness.

+

+“O God, if he were here now I would not behave as I did then, but

+differently. I would not be silly and afraid of things, I would simply

+embrace him, cling to him, and make him look at me with those searching

+inquiring eyes with which he has so often looked at me, and then I

+would make him laugh as he used to laugh. And his eyes—how I see those

+eyes!” thought Natásha. “And what do his father and sister matter

+to me? I love him alone, him, him, with that face and those eyes, with

+his smile, manly and yet childlike.... No, I had better not think of

+him; not think of him but forget him, quite forget him for the present.

+I can’t bear this waiting and I shall cry in a minute!” and she

+turned away from the glass, making an effort not to cry. “And how

+can Sónya love Nicholas so calmly and quietly and wait so long and so

+patiently?” thought she, looking at Sónya, who also came in quite

+ready, with a fan in her hand. “No, she’s altogether different. I

+can’t!”

+

+Natásha at that moment felt so softened and tender that it was not

+enough for her to love and know she was beloved, she wanted now, at

+once, to embrace the man she loved, to speak and hear from him words of

+love such as filled her heart. While she sat in the carriage beside her

+father, pensively watching the lights of the street lamps flickering on

+the frozen window, she felt still sadder and more in love, and forgot

+where she was going and with whom. Having fallen into the line of

+carriages, the Rostóvs’ carriage drove up to the theater, its wheels

+squeaking over the snow. Natásha and Sónya, holding up their dresses,

+jumped out quickly. The count got out helped by the footmen, and,

+passing among men and women who were entering and the program sellers,

+they all three went along the corridor to the first row of boxes.

+Through the closed doors the music was already audible.

+

+“Natásha, your hair!...” whispered Sónya.

+

+An attendant deferentially and quickly slipped before the ladies and

+opened the door of their box. The music sounded louder and through the

+door rows of brightly lit boxes in which ladies sat with bare arms and

+shoulders, and noisy stalls brilliant with uniforms, glittered before

+their eyes. A lady entering the next box shot a glance of feminine envy

+at Natásha. The curtain had not yet risen and the overture was being

+played. Natásha, smoothing her gown, went in with Sónya and sat down,

+scanning the brilliant tiers of boxes opposite. A sensation she had not

+experienced for a long time—that of hundreds of eyes looking at

+her bare arms and neck—suddenly affected her both agreeably and

+disagreeably and called up a whole crowd of memories, desires and

+emotions associated with that feeling.

+

+The two remarkably pretty girls, Natásha and Sónya, with Count Rostóv

+who had not been seen in Moscow for a long time, attracted general

+attention. Moreover, everybody knew vaguely of Natásha’s engagement

+to Prince Andrew, and knew that the Rostóvs had lived in the country

+ever since, and all looked with curiosity at a fiancée who was making

+one of the best matches in Russia.

+

+Natásha’s looks, as everyone told her, had improved in the country,

+and that evening thanks to her agitation she was particularly pretty.

+She struck those who saw her by her fullness of life and beauty,

+combined with her indifference to everything about her. Her black eyes

+looked at the crowd without seeking anyone, and her delicate arm, bare

+to above the elbow, lay on the velvet edge of the box, while, evidently

+unconsciously, she opened and closed her hand in time to the music,

+crumpling her program. “Look, there’s Alénina,” said Sónya,

+“with her mother, isn’t it?”

+

+“Dear me, Michael Kirílovich has grown still stouter!” remarked the

+count.

+

+“Look at our Anna Mikháylovna—what a headdress she has on!”

+

+“The Karágins, Julie—and Borís with them. One can see at once that

+they’re engaged....”

+

+“Drubetskóy has proposed?”

+

+“Oh yes, I heard it today,” said Shinshín, coming into the

+Rostóvs’ box.

+

+Natásha looked in the direction in which her father’s eyes were

+turned and saw Julie sitting beside her mother with a happy look on her

+face and a string of pearls round her thick red neck—which Natásha

+knew was covered with powder. Behind them, wearing a smile and leaning

+over with an ear to Julie’s mouth, was Borís’ handsome smoothly

+brushed head. He looked at the Rostóvs from under his brows and said

+something, smiling, to his betrothed.

+

+“They are talking about us, about me and him!” thought Natásha.

+“And he no doubt is calming her jealousy of me. They needn’t trouble

+themselves! If only they knew how little I am concerned about any of

+them.”

+

+Behind them sat Anna Mikháylovna wearing a green headdress and with a

+happy look of resignation to the will of God on her face. Their box was

+pervaded by that atmosphere of an affianced couple which Natásha knew

+so well and liked so much. She turned away and suddenly remembered all

+that had been so humiliating in her morning’s visit.

+

+“What right has he not to wish to receive me into his family? Oh,

+better not think of it—not till he comes back!” she told herself,

+and began looking at the faces, some strange and some familiar, in

+the stalls. In the front, in the very center, leaning back against

+the orchestra rail, stood Dólokhov in a Persian dress, his curly hair

+brushed up into a huge shock. He stood in full view of the audience,

+well aware that he was attracting everyone’s attention, yet as much at

+ease as though he were in his own room. Around him thronged Moscow’s

+most brilliant young men, whom he evidently dominated.

+

+The count, laughing, nudged the blushing Sónya and pointed to her

+former adorer.

+

+“Do you recognize him?” said he. “And where has he sprung from?”

+he asked, turning to Shinshín. “Didn’t he vanish somewhere?”

+

+“He did,” replied Shinshín. “He was in the Caucasus and ran

+away from there. They say he has been acting as minister to some ruling

+prince in Persia, where he killed the Shah’s brother. Now all the

+Moscow ladies are mad about him! It’s ‘Dólokhov the Persian’ that

+does it! We never hear a word but Dólokhov is mentioned. They swear

+by him, they offer him to you as they would a dish of choice sterlet.

+Dólokhov and Anatole Kurágin have turned all our ladies’ heads.”

+

+A tall, beautiful woman with a mass of plaited hair and much exposed

+plump white shoulders and neck, round which she wore a double string of

+large pearls, entered the adjoining box rustling her heavy silk dress

+and took a long time settling into her place.

+

+Natásha involuntarily gazed at that neck, those shoulders, and pearls

+and coiffure, and admired the beauty of the shoulders and the pearls.

+While Natásha was fixing her gaze on her for the second time the lady

+looked round and, meeting the count’s eyes, nodded to him and smiled.

+She was the Countess Bezúkhova, Pierre’s wife, and the count, who

+knew everyone in society, leaned over and spoke to her.

+

+“Have you been here long, Countess?” he inquired. “I’ll call,

+I’ll call to kiss your hand. I’m here on business and have brought

+my girls with me. They say Semënova acts marvelously. Count Pierre

+never used to forget us. Is he here?”

+

+“Yes, he meant to look in,” answered Hélène, and glanced

+attentively at Natásha.

+

+Count Rostóv resumed his seat.

+

+“Handsome, isn’t she?” he whispered to Natásha.

+

+“Wonderful!” answered Natásha. “She’s a woman one could easily

+fall in love with.”

+

+Just then the last chords of the overture were heard and the conductor

+tapped with his stick. Some latecomers took their seats in the stalls,

+and the curtain rose.

+

+As soon as it rose everyone in the boxes and stalls became silent, and

+all the men, old and young, in uniform and evening dress, and all the

+women with gems on their bare flesh, turned their whole attention with

+eager curiosity to the stage. Natásha too began to look at it.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER IX

+

+The floor of the stage consisted of smooth boards, at the sides was

+some painted cardboard representing trees, and at the back was a cloth

+stretched over boards. In the center of the stage sat some girls in red

+bodices and white skirts. One very fat girl in a white silk dress sat

+apart on a low bench, to the back of which a piece of green cardboard

+was glued. They all sang something. When they had finished their song

+the girl in white went up to the prompter’s box and a man with tight

+silk trousers over his stout legs, and holding a plume and a dagger,

+went up to her and began singing, waving his arms about.

+

+First the man in the tight trousers sang alone, then she sang, then they

+both paused while the orchestra played and the man fingered the hand

+of the girl in white, obviously awaiting the beat to start singing with

+her. They sang together and everyone in the theater began clapping

+and shouting, while the man and woman on the stage—who represented

+lovers—began smiling, spreading out their arms, and bowing.

+

+After her life in the country, and in her present serious mood, all this

+seemed grotesque and amazing to Natásha. She could not follow the opera

+nor even listen to the music; she saw only the painted cardboard and the

+queerly dressed men and women who moved, spoke, and sang so strangely in

+that brilliant light. She knew what it was all meant to represent, but

+it was so pretentiously false and unnatural that she first felt ashamed

+for the actors and then amused at them. She looked at the faces of the

+audience, seeking in them the same sense of ridicule and perplexity she

+herself experienced, but they all seemed attentive to what was happening

+on the stage, and expressed delight which to Natásha seemed feigned.

+“I suppose it has to be like this!” she thought. She kept looking

+round in turn at the rows of pomaded heads in the stalls and then at

+the seminude women in the boxes, especially at Hélène in the next box,

+who—apparently quite unclothed—sat with a quiet tranquil smile, not

+taking her eyes off the stage. And feeling the bright light that flooded

+the whole place and the warm air heated by the crowd, Natásha little

+by little began to pass into a state of intoxication she had not

+experienced for a long while. She did not realize who and where she

+was, nor what was going on before her. As she looked and thought, the

+strangest fancies unexpectedly and disconnectedly passed through her

+mind: the idea occurred to her of jumping onto the edge of the box and

+singing the air the actress was singing, then she wished to touch with

+her fan an old gentleman sitting not far from her, then to lean over to

+Hélène and tickle her.

+

+At a moment when all was quiet before the commencement of a song, a door

+leading to the stalls on the side nearest the Rostóvs’ box creaked,

+and the steps of a belated arrival were heard. “There’s Kurágin!”

+whispered Shinshín. Countess Bezúkhova turned smiling to the newcomer,

+and Natásha, following the direction of that look, saw an exceptionally

+handsome adjutant approaching their box with a self-assured yet

+courteous bearing. This was Anatole Kurágin whom she had seen

+and noticed long ago at the ball in Petersburg. He was now in an

+adjutant’s uniform with one epaulet and a shoulder knot. He moved with

+a restrained swagger which would have been ridiculous had he not been

+so good-looking and had his handsome face not worn such an expression

+of good-humored complacency and gaiety. Though the performance was

+proceeding, he walked deliberately down the carpeted gangway, his sword

+and spurs slightly jingling and his handsome perfumed head held high.

+Having looked at Natásha he approached his sister, laid his well gloved

+hand on the edge of her box, nodded to her, and leaning forward asked a

+question, with a motion toward Natásha.

+

+“Mais charmante!” said he, evidently referring to Natásha, who did

+not exactly hear his words but understood them from the movement of his

+lips. Then he took his place in the first row of the stalls and sat down

+beside Dólokhov, nudging with his elbow in a friendly and offhand way

+that Dólokhov whom others treated so fawningly. He winked at him gaily,

+smiled, and rested his foot against the orchestra screen.

+

+“How like the brother is to the sister,” remarked the count. “And

+how handsome they both are!”

+

+Shinshín, lowering his voice, began to tell the count of some intrigue

+of Kurágin’s in Moscow, and Natásha tried to overhear it just

+because he had said she was “charmante.”

+

+The first act was over. In the stalls everyone began moving about, going

+out and coming in.

+

+Borís came to the Rostóvs’ box, received their congratulations very

+simply, and raising his eyebrows with an absent-minded smile conveyed to

+Natásha and Sónya his fiancée’s invitation to her wedding, and

+went away. Natásha with a gay, coquettish smile talked to him, and

+congratulated on his approaching wedding that same Borís with whom

+she had formerly been in love. In the state of intoxication she was in,

+everything seemed simple and natural.

+

+The scantily clad Hélène smiled at everyone in the same way, and

+Natásha gave Borís a similar smile.

+

+Hélène’s box was filled and surrounded from the stalls by the most

+distinguished and intellectual men, who seemed to vie with one another

+in their wish to let everyone see that they knew her.

+

+During the whole of that entr’acte Kurágin stood with Dólokhov

+in front of the orchestra partition, looking at the Rostóvs’ box.

+Natásha knew he was talking about her and this afforded her pleasure.

+She even turned so that he should see her profile in what she thought

+was its most becoming aspect. Before the beginning of the second act

+Pierre appeared in the stalls. The Rostóvs had not seen him since

+their arrival. His face looked sad, and he had grown still stouter since

+Natásha last saw him. He passed up to the front rows, not noticing

+anyone. Anatole went up to him and began speaking to him, looking at and

+indicating the Rostóvs’ box. On seeing Natásha Pierre grew animated

+and, hastily passing between the rows, came toward their box. When he

+got there he leaned on his elbows and, smiling, talked to her for a long

+time. While conversing with Pierre, Natásha heard a man’s voice in

+Countess Bezúkhova’s box and something told her it was Kurágin. She

+turned and their eyes met. Almost smiling, he gazed straight into her

+eyes with such an enraptured caressing look that it seemed strange to be

+so near him, to look at him like that, to be so sure he admired her, and

+not to be acquainted with him.

+

+In the second act there was scenery representing tombstones, there was a

+round hole in the canvas to represent the moon, shades were raised over

+the footlights, and from horns and contrabass came deep notes while many

+people appeared from right and left wearing black cloaks and holding

+things like daggers in their hands. They began waving their arms. Then

+some other people ran in and began dragging away the maiden who had been

+in white and was now in light blue. They did not drag her away at once,

+but sang with her for a long time and then at last dragged her off, and

+behind the scenes something metallic was struck three times and

+everyone knelt down and sang a prayer. All these things were repeatedly

+interrupted by the enthusiastic shouts of the audience.

+

+During this act every time Natásha looked toward the stalls she saw

+Anatole Kurágin with an arm thrown across the back of his chair,

+staring at her. She was pleased to see that he was captivated by her and

+it did not occur to her that there was anything wrong in it.

+

+When the second act was over Countess Bezúkhova rose, turned to the

+Rostóvs’ box—her whole bosom completely exposed—beckoned the old

+count with a gloved finger, and paying no attention to those who had

+entered her box began talking to him with an amiable smile.

+

+“Do make me acquainted with your charming daughters,” said she.

+“The whole town is singing their praises and I don’t even know

+them!”

+

+Natásha rose and curtsied to the splendid countess. She was so pleased

+by praise from this brilliant beauty that she blushed with pleasure.

+

+“I want to become a Moscovite too, now,” said Hélène. “How is it

+you’re not ashamed to bury such pearls in the country?”

+

+Countess Bezúkhova quite deserved her reputation of being a fascinating

+woman. She could say what she did not think—especially what was

+flattering—quite simply and naturally.

+

+“Dear count, you must let me look after your daughters! Though I am

+not staying here long this time—nor are you—I will try to amuse

+them. I have already heard much of you in Petersburg and wanted to get

+to know you,” said she to Natásha with her stereotyped and lovely

+smile. “I had heard about you from my page, Drubetskóy. Have you

+heard he is getting married? And also from my husband’s friend

+Bolkónski, Prince Andrew Bolkónski,” she went on with special

+emphasis, implying that she knew of his relation to Natásha. To get

+better acquainted she asked that one of the young ladies should come

+into her box for the rest of the performance, and Natásha moved over to

+it.

+

+The scene of the third act represented a palace in which many candles

+were burning and pictures of knights with short beards hung on the

+walls. In the middle stood what were probably a king and a queen. The

+king waved his right arm and, evidently nervous, sang something badly

+and sat down on a crimson throne. The maiden who had been first in white

+and then in light blue, now wore only a smock, and stood beside the

+throne with her hair down. She sang something mournfully, addressing the

+queen, but the king waved his arm severely, and men and women with bare

+legs came in from both sides and began dancing all together. Then the

+violins played very shrilly and merrily and one of the women with thick

+bare legs and thin arms, separating from the others, went behind the

+wings, adjusted her bodice, returned to the middle of the stage, and

+began jumping and striking one foot rapidly against the other. In the

+stalls everyone clapped and shouted “bravo!” Then one of the men

+went into a corner of the stage. The cymbals and horns in the orchestra

+struck up more loudly, and this man with bare legs jumped very high and

+waved his feet about very rapidly. (He was Duport, who received sixty

+thousand rubles a year for this art.) Everybody in the stalls, boxes,

+and galleries began clapping and shouting with all their might, and the

+man stopped and began smiling and bowing to all sides. Then other men

+and women danced with bare legs. Then the king again shouted to the

+sound of music, and they all began singing. But suddenly a storm

+came on, chromatic scales and diminished sevenths were heard in the

+orchestra, everyone ran off, again dragging one of their number away,

+and the curtain dropped. Once more there was a terrible noise and

+clatter among the audience, and with rapturous faces everyone began

+shouting: “Duport! Duport! Duport!” Natásha no longer thought this

+strange. She looked about with pleasure, smiling joyfully.

+

+“Isn’t Duport delightful?” Hélène asked her.

+

+“Oh, yes,” replied Natásha.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER X

+

+During the entr’acte a whiff of cold air came into Hélène’s box,

+the door opened, and Anatole entered, stooping and trying not to brush

+against anyone.

+

+“Let me introduce my brother to you,” said Hélène, her eyes

+shifting uneasily from Natásha to Anatole.

+

+Natásha turned her pretty little head toward the elegant young officer

+and smiled at him over her bare shoulder. Anatole, who was as handsome

+at close quarters as at a distance, sat down beside her and told her he

+had long wished to have this happiness—ever since the Narýshkins’

+ball in fact, at which he had had the well-remembered pleasure of seeing

+her. Kurágin was much more sensible and simple with women than among

+men. He talked boldly and naturally, and Natásha was strangely and

+agreeably struck by the fact that there was nothing formidable in this

+man about whom there was so much talk, but that on the contrary his

+smile was most naïve, cheerful, and good-natured.

+

+Kurágin asked her opinion of the performance and told her how at a

+previous performance Semënova had fallen down on the stage.

+

+“And do you know, Countess,” he said, suddenly addressing her as an

+old, familiar acquaintance, “we are getting up a costume tournament;

+you ought to take part in it! It will be great fun. We shall all meet at

+the Karágins’! Please come! No! Really, eh?” said he.

+

+While saying this he never removed his smiling eyes from her face,

+her neck, and her bare arms. Natásha knew for certain that he was

+enraptured by her. This pleased her, yet his presence made her feel

+constrained and oppressed. When she was not looking at him she felt that

+he was looking at her shoulders, and she involuntarily caught his eye

+so that he should look into hers rather than this. But looking into his

+eyes she was frightened, realizing that there was not that barrier of

+modesty she had always felt between herself and other men. She did not

+know how it was that within five minutes she had come to feel herself

+terribly near to this man. When she turned away she feared he might

+seize her from behind by her bare arm and kiss her on the neck. They

+spoke of most ordinary things, yet she felt that they were closer to

+one another than she had ever been to any man. Natásha kept turning to

+Hélène and to her father, as if asking what it all meant, but Hélène

+was engaged in conversation with a general and did not answer her

+look, and her father’s eyes said nothing but what they always said:

+“Having a good time? Well, I’m glad of it!”

+

+During one of these moments of awkward silence when Anatole’s

+prominent eyes were gazing calmly and fixedly at her, Natásha, to break

+the silence, asked him how he liked Moscow. She asked the question and

+blushed. She felt all the time that by talking to him she was doing

+something improper. Anatole smiled as though to encourage her.

+

+“At first I did not like it much, because what makes a town pleasant

+ce sont les jolies femmes, * isn’t that so? But now I like it very

+much indeed,” he said, looking at her significantly. “You’ll come

+to the costume tournament, Countess? Do come!” and putting out his

+hand to her bouquet and dropping his voice, he added, “You will be the

+prettiest there. Do come, dear countess, and give me this flower as a

+pledge!”

+

+    * Are the pretty women.

+

+Natásha did not understand what he was saying any more than he did

+himself, but she felt that his incomprehensible words had an improper

+intention. She did not know what to say and turned away as if she had

+not heard his remark. But as soon as she had turned away she felt that

+he was there, behind, so close behind her.

+

+“How is he now? Confused? Angry? Ought I to put it right?” she

+asked herself, and she could not refrain from turning round. She looked

+straight into his eyes, and his nearness, self-assurance, and the

+good-natured tenderness of his smile vanquished her. She smiled just

+as he was doing, gazing straight into his eyes. And again she felt with

+horror that no barrier lay between him and her.

+

+The curtain rose again. Anatole left the box, serene and gay. Natásha

+went back to her father in the other box, now quite submissive to the

+world she found herself in. All that was going on before her now seemed

+quite natural, but on the other hand all her previous thoughts of her

+betrothed, of Princess Mary, or of life in the country did not once

+recur to her mind and were as if belonging to a remote past.

+

+In the fourth act there was some sort of devil who sang waving his arm

+about, till the boards were withdrawn from under him and he disappeared

+down below. That was the only part of the fourth act that Natásha saw.

+She felt agitated and tormented, and the cause of this was Kurágin whom

+she could not help watching. As they were leaving the theater Anatole

+came up to them, called their carriage, and helped them in. As he was

+putting Natásha in he pressed her arm above the elbow. Agitated and

+flushed she turned round. He was looking at her with glittering eyes,

+smiling tenderly.

+

+

+Only after she had reached home was Natásha able clearly to think over

+what had happened to her, and suddenly remembering Prince Andrew she

+was horrified, and at tea to which all had sat down after the opera, she

+gave a loud exclamation, flushed, and ran out of the room.

+

+“O God! I am lost!” she said to herself. “How could I let him?”

+She sat for a long time hiding her flushed face in her hands trying to

+realize what had happened to her, but was unable either to understand

+what had happened or what she felt. Everything seemed dark, obscure,

+and terrible. There in that enormous, illuminated theater where the

+bare-legged Duport, in a tinsel-decorated jacket, jumped about to the

+music on wet boards, and young girls and old men, and the nearly

+naked Hélène with her proud, calm smile, rapturously cried

+“bravo!”—there in the presence of that Hélène it had all seemed

+clear and simple; but now, alone by herself, it was incomprehensible.

+“What is it? What was that terror I felt of him? What is this gnawing

+of conscience I am feeling now?” she thought.

+

+Only to the old countess at night in bed could Natásha have told all

+she was feeling. She knew that Sónya with her severe and simple views

+would either not understand it at all or would be horrified at such

+a confession. So Natásha tried to solve what was torturing her by

+herself.

+

+“Am I spoiled for Andrew’s love or not?” she asked herself, and

+with soothing irony replied: “What a fool I am to ask that! What did

+happen to me? Nothing! I have done nothing, I didn’t lead him on

+at all. Nobody will know and I shall never see him again,” she told

+herself. “So it is plain that nothing has happened and there is

+nothing to repent of, and Andrew can love me still. But why ‘still?’

+O God, why isn’t he here?” Natásha quieted herself for a moment,

+but again some instinct told her that though all this was true, and

+though nothing had happened, yet the former purity of her love for

+Prince Andrew had perished. And again in imagination she went over her

+whole conversation with Kurágin, and again saw the face, gestures, and

+tender smile of that bold handsome man when he pressed her arm.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XI

+

+Anatole Kurágin was staying in Moscow because his father had sent him

+away from Petersburg, where he had been spending twenty thousand rubles

+a year in cash, besides running up debts for as much more, which his

+creditors demanded from his father.

+

+His father announced to him that he would now pay half his debts for the

+last time, but only on condition that he went to Moscow as adjutant to

+the commander in chief—a post his father had procured for him—and

+would at last try to make a good match there. He indicated to him

+Princess Mary and Julie Karágina.

+

+Anatole consented and went to Moscow, where he put up at Pierre’s

+house. Pierre received him unwillingly at first, but got used to him

+after a while, sometimes even accompanied him on his carousals, and gave

+him money under the guise of loans.

+

+As Shinshín had remarked, from the time of his arrival Anatole had

+turned the heads of the Moscow ladies, especially by the fact that

+he slighted them and plainly preferred the gypsy girls and French

+actresses—with the chief of whom, Mademoiselle George, he was said to

+be on intimate relations. He had never missed a carousal at Danílov’s

+or other Moscow revelers’, drank whole nights through, outvying

+everyone else, and was at all the balls and parties of the best society.

+There was talk of his intrigues with some of the ladies, and he flirted

+with a few of them at the balls. But he did not run after the unmarried

+girls, especially the rich heiresses who were most of them plain.

+There was a special reason for this, as he had got married two years

+before—a fact known only to his most intimate friends. At that time

+while with his regiment in Poland, a Polish landowner of small means had

+forced him to marry his daughter. Anatole had very soon abandoned his

+wife and, for a payment which he agreed to send to his father-in-law,

+had arranged to be free to pass himself off as a bachelor.

+

+Anatole was always content with his position, with himself, and with

+others. He was instinctively and thoroughly convinced that it was

+impossible for him to live otherwise than as he did and that he had

+never in his life done anything base. He was incapable of considering

+how his actions might affect others or what the consequences of this or

+that action of his might be. He was convinced that, as a duck is so made

+that it must live in water, so God had made him such that he must spend

+thirty thousand rubles a year and always occupy a prominent position in

+society. He believed this so firmly that others, looking at him, were

+persuaded of it too and did not refuse him either a leading place

+in society or money, which he borrowed from anyone and everyone and

+evidently would not repay.

+

+He was not a gambler, at any rate he did not care about winning. He was

+not vain. He did not mind what people thought of him. Still less could

+he be accused of ambition. More than once he had vexed his father by

+spoiling his own career, and he laughed at distinctions of all kinds. He

+was not mean, and did not refuse anyone who asked of him. All he cared

+about was gaiety and women, and as according to his ideas there

+was nothing dishonorable in these tastes, and he was incapable of

+considering what the gratification of his tastes entailed for others,

+he honestly considered himself irreproachable, sincerely despised rogues

+and bad people, and with a tranquil conscience carried his head high.

+

+Rakes, those male Magdalenes, have a secret feeling of innocence

+similar to that which female Magdalenes have, based on the same hope of

+forgiveness. “All will be forgiven her, for she loved much; and all

+will be forgiven him, for he enjoyed much.”

+

+Dólokhov, who had reappeared that year in Moscow after his exile and

+his Persian adventures, and was leading a life of luxury, gambling, and

+dissipation, associated with his old Petersburg comrade Kurágin and

+made use of him for his own ends.

+

+Anatole was sincerely fond of Dólokhov for his cleverness and

+audacity. Dólokhov, who needed Anatole Kurágin’s name, position, and

+connections as a bait to draw rich young men into his gambling set, made

+use of him and amused himself at his expense without letting the other

+feel it. Apart from the advantage he derived from Anatole, the very

+process of dominating another’s will was in itself a pleasure, a

+habit, and a necessity to Dólokhov.

+

+Natásha had made a strong impression on Kurágin. At supper after

+the opera he described to Dólokhov with the air of a connoisseur the

+attractions of her arms, shoulders, feet, and hair and expressed his

+intention of making love to her. Anatole had no notion and was incapable

+of considering what might come of such love-making, as he never had any

+notion of the outcome of any of his actions.

+

+“She’s first-rate, my dear fellow, but not for us,” replied

+Dólokhov.

+

+“I will tell my sister to ask her to dinner,” said Anatole.

+“Eh?”

+

+“You’d better wait till she’s married....”

+

+“You know, I adore little girls, they lose their heads at once,”

+pursued Anatole.

+

+“You have been caught once already by a ‘little girl,’” said

+Dólokhov who knew of Kurágin’s marriage. “Take care!”

+

+“Well, that can’t happen twice! Eh?” said Anatole, with a

+good-humored laugh.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XII

+

+The day after the opera the Rostóvs went nowhere and nobody came to see

+them. Márya Dmítrievna talked to the count about something which they

+concealed from Natásha. Natásha guessed they were talking about the

+old prince and planning something, and this disquieted and offended her.

+She was expecting Prince Andrew any moment and twice that day sent a

+manservant to the Vozdvízhenka to ascertain whether he had come. He had

+not arrived. She suffered more now than during her first days in Moscow.

+To her impatience and pining for him were now added the unpleasant

+recollection of her interview with Princess Mary and the old prince,

+and a fear and anxiety of which she did not understand the cause. She

+continually fancied that either he would never come or that something

+would happen to her before he came. She could no longer think of him by

+herself calmly and continuously as she had done before. As soon as she

+began to think of him, the recollection of the old prince, of Princess

+Mary, of the theater, and of Kurágin mingled with her thoughts. The

+question again presented itself whether she was not guilty, whether she

+had not already broken faith with Prince Andrew, and again she found

+herself recalling to the minutest detail every word, every gesture, and

+every shade in the play of expression on the face of the man who had

+been able to arouse in her such an incomprehensible and terrifying

+feeling. To the family Natásha seemed livelier than usual, but she was

+far less tranquil and happy than before.

+

+On Sunday morning Márya Dmítrievna invited her visitors to Mass at her

+parish church—the Church of the Assumption built over the graves of

+victims of the plague.

+

+“I don’t like those fashionable churches,” she said, evidently

+priding herself on her independence of thought. “God is the same

+everywhere. We have an excellent priest, he conducts the service

+decently and with dignity, and the deacon is the same. What holiness is

+there in giving concerts in the choir? I don’t like it, it’s just

+self-indulgence!”

+

+Márya Dmítrievna liked Sundays and knew how to keep them. Her whole

+house was scrubbed and cleaned on Saturdays; neither she nor the

+servants worked, and they all wore holiday dress and went to church. At

+her table there were extra dishes at dinner, and the servants had vodka

+and roast goose or suckling pig. But in nothing in the house was the

+holiday so noticeable as in Márya Dmítrievna’s broad, stern face,

+which on that day wore an invariable look of solemn festivity.

+

+After Mass, when they had finished their coffee in the dining room

+where the loose covers had been removed from the furniture, a servant

+announced that the carriage was ready, and Márya Dmítrievna rose with

+a stern air. She wore her holiday shawl, in which she paid calls, and

+announced that she was going to see Prince Nicholas Bolkónski to have

+an explanation with him about Natásha.

+

+After she had gone, a dressmaker from Madame Suppert-Roguet waited on

+the Rostóvs, and Natásha, very glad of this diversion, having shut

+herself into a room adjoining the drawing room, occupied herself trying

+on the new dresses. Just as she had put on a bodice without sleeves and

+only tacked together, and was turning her head to see in the glass how

+the back fitted, she heard in the drawing room the animated sounds

+of her father’s voice and another’s—a woman’s—that made her

+flush. It was Hélène. Natásha had not time to take off the bodice

+before the door opened and Countess Bezúkhova, dressed in a purple

+velvet gown with a high collar, came into the room beaming with

+good-humored amiable smiles.

+

+“Oh, my enchantress!” she cried to the blushing Natásha.

+“Charming! No, this is really beyond anything, my dear count,” said

+she to Count Rostóv who had followed her in. “How can you live in

+Moscow and go nowhere? No, I won’t let you off! Mademoiselle George

+will recite at my house tonight and there’ll be some people, and if

+you don’t bring your lovely girls—who are prettier than Mademoiselle

+George—I won’t know you! My husband is away in Tver or I would send

+him to fetch you. You must come. You positively must! Between eight and

+nine.”

+

+She nodded to the dressmaker, whom she knew and who had curtsied

+respectfully to her, and seated herself in an armchair beside the

+looking glass, draping the folds of her velvet dress picturesquely. She

+did not cease chattering good-naturedly and gaily, continually praising

+Natásha’s beauty. She looked at Natásha’s dresses and praised

+them, as well as a new dress of her own made of “metallic gauze,”

+which she had received from Paris, and advised Natásha to have one like

+it.

+

+“But anything suits you, my charmer!” she remarked.

+

+A smile of pleasure never left Natásha’s face. She felt happy and as

+if she were blossoming under the praise of this dear Countess Bezúkhova

+who had formerly seemed to her so unapproachable and important and was

+now so kind to her. Natásha brightened up and felt almost in love with

+this woman, who was so beautiful and so kind. Hélène for her part was

+sincerely delighted with Natásha and wished to give her a good time.

+Anatole had asked her to bring him and Natásha together, and she was

+calling on the Rostóvs for that purpose. The idea of throwing her

+brother and Natásha together amused her.

+

+Though at one time, in Petersburg, she had been annoyed with Natásha

+for drawing Borís away, she did not think of that now, and in her own

+way heartily wished Natásha well. As she was leaving the Rostóvs she

+called her protégée aside.

+

+“My brother dined with me yesterday—we nearly died of laughter—he

+ate nothing and kept sighing for you, my charmer! He is madly, quite

+madly, in love with you, my dear.”

+

+Natásha blushed scarlet when she heard this.

+

+“How she blushes, how she blushes, my pretty!” said Hélène. “You

+must certainly come. If you love somebody, my charmer, that is not a

+reason to shut yourself up. Even if you are engaged, I am sure your

+fiancé would wish you to go into society rather than be bored to

+death.”

+

+“So she knows I am engaged, and she and her husband Pierre—that good

+Pierre—have talked and laughed about this. So it’s all right.” And

+again, under Hélène’s influence, what had seemed terrible now seemed

+simple and natural. “And she is such a grande dame, so kind, and

+evidently likes me so much. And why not enjoy myself?” thought

+Natásha, gazing at Hélène with wide-open, wondering eyes.

+

+Márya Dmítrievna came back to dinner taciturn and serious, having

+evidently suffered a defeat at the old prince’s. She was still too

+agitated by the encounter to be able to talk of the affair calmly. In

+answer to the count’s inquiries she replied that things were all

+right and that she would tell about it next day. On hearing of Countess

+Bezúkhova’s visit and the invitation for that evening, Márya

+Dmítrievna remarked:

+

+“I don’t care to have anything to do with Bezúkhova and don’t

+advise you to; however, if you’ve promised—go. It will divert your

+thoughts,” she added, addressing Natásha.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XIII

+

+Count Rostóv took the girls to Countess Bezúkhova’s. There were

+a good many people there, but nearly all strangers to Natásha. Count

+Rostóv was displeased to see that the company consisted almost entirely

+of men and women known for the freedom of their conduct. Mademoiselle

+George was standing in a corner of the drawing room surrounded by young

+men. There were several Frenchmen present, among them Métivier who from

+the time Hélène reached Moscow had been an intimate in her house. The

+count decided not to sit down to cards or let his girls out of his sight

+and to get away as soon as Mademoiselle George’s performance was over.

+

+Anatole was at the door, evidently on the lookout for the Rostóvs.

+Immediately after greeting the count he went up to Natásha and followed

+her. As soon as she saw him she was seized by the same feeling she had

+had at the opera—gratified vanity at his admiration of her and fear at

+the absence of a moral barrier between them.

+

+Hélène welcomed Natásha delightedly and was loud in admiration of her

+beauty and her dress. Soon after their arrival Mademoiselle George went

+out of the room to change her costume. In the drawing room people began

+arranging the chairs and taking their seats. Anatole moved a chair for

+Natásha and was about to sit down beside her, but the count, who never

+lost sight of her, took the seat himself. Anatole sat down behind her.

+

+Mademoiselle George, with her bare, fat, dimpled arms, and a red shawl

+draped over one shoulder, came into the space left vacant for her, and

+assumed an unnatural pose. Enthusiastic whispering was audible.

+

+Mademoiselle George looked sternly and gloomily at the audience and

+began reciting some French verses describing her guilty love for her

+son. In some places she raised her voice, in others she whispered,

+lifting her head triumphantly; sometimes she paused and uttered hoarse

+sounds, rolling her eyes.

+

+“Adorable! divine! delicious!” was heard from every side.

+

+Natásha looked at the fat actress, but neither saw nor heard nor

+understood anything of what went on before her. She only felt herself

+again completely borne away into this strange senseless world—so

+remote from her old world—a world in which it was impossible to know

+what was good or bad, reasonable or senseless. Behind her sat Anatole,

+and conscious of his proximity she experienced a frightened sense of

+expectancy.

+

+After the first monologue the whole company rose and surrounded

+Mademoiselle George, expressing their enthusiasm.

+

+“How beautiful she is!” Natásha remarked to her father who had also

+risen and was moving through the crowd toward the actress.

+

+“I don’t think so when I look at you!” said Anatole, following

+Natásha. He said this at a moment when she alone could hear him. “You

+are enchanting... from the moment I saw you I have never ceased...”

+

+“Come, come, Natásha!” said the count, as he turned back for his

+daughter. “How beautiful she is!” Natásha without saying anything

+stepped up to her father and looked at him with surprised inquiring

+eyes.

+

+After giving several recitations, Mademoiselle George left, and Countess

+Bezúkhova asked her visitors into the ballroom.

+

+The count wished to go home, but Hélène entreated him not to spoil her

+improvised ball, and the Rostóvs stayed on. Anatole asked Natásha for

+a valse and as they danced he pressed her waist and hand and told her

+she was bewitching and that he loved her. During the écossaise, which

+she also danced with him, Anatole said nothing when they happened to be

+by themselves, but merely gazed at her. Natásha lifted her frightened

+eyes to him, but there was such confident tenderness in his affectionate

+look and smile that she could not, whilst looking at him, say what she

+had to say. She lowered her eyes.

+

+“Don’t say such things to me. I am betrothed and love another,”

+she said rapidly.... She glanced at him.

+

+Anatole was not upset or pained by what she had said.

+

+“Don’t speak to me of that! What can I do?” said he. “I tell

+you I am madly, madly, in love with you! Is it my fault that you are

+enchanting?... It’s our turn to begin.”

+

+Natásha, animated and excited, looked about her with wide-open

+frightened eyes and seemed merrier than usual. She understood hardly

+anything that went on that evening. They danced the écossaise and the

+Grossvater. Her father asked her to come home, but she begged to remain.

+Wherever she went and whomever she was speaking to, she felt his eyes

+upon her. Later on she recalled how she had asked her father to let

+her go to the dressing room to rearrange her dress, that Hélène had

+followed her and spoken laughingly of her brother’s love, and that she

+again met Anatole in the little sitting room. Hélène had disappeared

+leaving them alone, and Anatole had taken her hand and said in a tender

+voice:

+

+“I cannot come to visit you but is it possible that I shall never see

+you? I love you madly. Can I never...?” and, blocking her path, he

+brought his face close to hers.

+

+His large, glittering, masculine eyes were so close to hers that she saw

+nothing but them.

+

+“Natalie?” he whispered inquiringly while she felt her hands being

+painfully pressed. “Natalie?”

+

+“I don’t understand. I have nothing to say,” her eyes replied.

+

+Burning lips were pressed to hers, and at the same instant she felt

+herself released, and Hélène’s footsteps and the rustle of her dress

+were heard in the room. Natásha looked round at her, and then, red

+and trembling, threw a frightened look of inquiry at Anatole and moved

+toward the door.

+

+“One word, just one, for God’s sake!” cried Anatole.

+

+She paused. She so wanted a word from him that would explain to her what

+had happened and to which she could find no answer.

+

+“Natalie, just a word, only one!” he kept repeating, evidently not

+knowing what to say and he repeated it till Hélène came up to them.

+

+Hélène returned with Natásha to the drawing room. The Rostóvs went

+away without staying for supper.

+

+After reaching home Natásha did not sleep all night. She was tormented

+by the insoluble question whether she loved Anatole or Prince Andrew.

+She loved Prince Andrew—she remembered distinctly how deeply she loved

+him. But she also loved Anatole, of that there was no doubt. “Else how

+could all this have happened?” thought she. “If, after that, I could

+return his smile when saying good-by, if I was able to let it come to

+that, it means that I loved him from the first. It means that he is

+kind, noble, and splendid, and I could not help loving him. What am I to

+do if I love him and the other one too?” she asked herself, unable to

+find an answer to these terrible questions.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XIV

+

+Morning came with its cares and bustle. Everyone got up and began

+to move about and talk, dressmakers came again. Márya Dmítrievna

+appeared, and they were called to breakfast. Natásha kept looking

+uneasily at everybody with wide-open eyes, as if wishing to intercept

+every glance directed toward her, and tried to appear the same as usual.

+

+After breakfast, which was her best time, Márya Dmítrievna sat down in

+her armchair and called Natásha and the count to her.

+

+“Well, friends, I have now thought the whole matter over and this is

+my advice,” she began. “Yesterday, as you know, I went to see Prince

+Bolkónski. Well, I had a talk with him.... He took it into his head to

+begin shouting, but I am not one to be shouted down. I said what I had

+to say!”

+

+“Well, and he?” asked the count.

+

+“He? He’s crazy... he did not want to listen. But what’s the use

+of talking? As it is we have worn the poor girl out,” said Márya

+Dmítrievna. “My advice to you is finish your business and go back

+home to Otrádnoe... and wait there.”

+

+“Oh, no!” exclaimed Natásha.

+

+“Yes, go back,” said Márya Dmítrievna, “and wait there. If your

+betrothed comes here now—there will be no avoiding a quarrel; but

+alone with the old man he will talk things over and then come on to

+you.”

+

+Count Rostóv approved of this suggestion, appreciating its

+reasonableness. If the old man came round it would be all the better to

+visit him in Moscow or at Bald Hills later on; and if not, the wedding,

+against his wishes, could only be arranged at Otrádnoe.

+

+“That is perfectly true. And I am sorry I went to see him and took

+her,” said the old count.

+

+“No, why be sorry? Being here, you had to pay your respects. But if he

+won’t—that’s his affair,” said Márya Dmítrievna, looking for

+something in her reticule. “Besides, the trousseau is ready, so there

+is nothing to wait for; and what is not ready I’ll send after you.

+Though I don’t like letting you go, it is the best way. So go, with

+God’s blessing!”

+

+Having found what she was looking for in the reticule she handed it to

+Natásha. It was a letter from Princess Mary.

+

+“She has written to you. How she torments herself, poor thing! She’s

+afraid you might think that she does not like you.”

+

+“But she doesn’t like me,” said Natásha.

+

+“Don’t talk nonsense!” cried Márya Dmítrievna.

+

+“I shan’t believe anyone, I know she doesn’t like me,” replied

+Natásha boldly as she took the letter, and her face expressed a cold

+and angry resolution that caused Márya Dmítrievna to look at her more

+intently and to frown.

+

+“Don’t answer like that, my good girl!” she said. “What I say is

+true! Write an answer!”

+

+Natásha did not reply and went to her own room to read Princess

+Mary’s letter.

+

+Princess Mary wrote that she was in despair at the misunderstanding that

+had occurred between them. Whatever her father’s feelings might be,

+she begged Natásha to believe that she could not help loving her as

+the one chosen by her brother, for whose happiness she was ready to

+sacrifice everything.

+

+“Do not think, however,” she wrote, “that my father is

+ill-disposed toward you. He is an invalid and an old man who must be

+forgiven; but he is good and magnanimous and will love her who makes his

+son happy.” Princess Mary went on to ask Natásha to fix a time when

+she could see her again.

+

+After reading the letter Natásha sat down at the writing table

+to answer it. “Dear Princess,” she wrote in French quickly and

+mechanically, and then paused. What more could she write after all that

+had happened the evening before? “Yes, yes! All that has happened, and

+now all is changed,” she thought as she sat with the letter she had

+begun before her. “Must I break off with him? Must I really? That’s

+awful...” and to escape from these dreadful thoughts she went to

+Sónya and began sorting patterns with her.

+

+After dinner Natásha went to her room and again took up Princess

+Mary’s letter. “Can it be that it is all over?” she thought.

+“Can it be that all this has happened so quickly and has destroyed all

+that went before?” She recalled her love for Prince Andrew in all its

+former strength, and at the same time felt that she loved Kurágin. She

+vividly pictured herself as Prince Andrew’s wife, and the scenes of

+happiness with him she had so often repeated in her imagination, and

+at the same time, aglow with excitement, recalled every detail of

+yesterday’s interview with Anatole.

+

+“Why could that not be as well?” she sometimes asked herself in

+complete bewilderment. “Only so could I be completely happy; but now I

+have to choose, and I can’t be happy without either of them. Only,”

+she thought, “to tell Prince Andrew what has happened or to hide

+it from him are both equally impossible. But with that one nothing is

+spoiled. But am I really to abandon forever the joy of Prince Andrew’s

+love, in which I have lived so long?”

+

+“Please, Miss!” whispered a maid entering the room with a mysterious

+air. “A man told me to give you this—” and she handed Natásha a

+letter.

+

+“Only, for Christ’s sake...” the girl went on, as Natásha,

+without thinking, mechanically broke the seal and read a love letter

+from Anatole, of which, without taking in a word, she understood only

+that it was a letter from him—from the man she loved. Yes, she loved

+him, or else how could that have happened which had happened? And how

+could she have a love letter from him in her hand?

+

+With trembling hands Natásha held that passionate love letter which

+Dólokhov had composed for Anatole, and as she read it she found in it

+an echo of all that she herself imagined she was feeling.

+

+“Since yesterday evening my fate has been sealed; to be loved by you

+or to die. There is no other way for me,” the letter began. Then he

+went on to say that he knew her parents would not give her to him—for

+this there were secret reasons he could reveal only to her—but that if

+she loved him she need only say the word yes, and no human power could

+hinder their bliss. Love would conquer all. He would steal her away and

+carry her off to the ends of the earth.

+

+“Yes, yes! I love him!” thought Natásha, reading the letter for the

+twentieth time and finding some peculiarly deep meaning in each word of

+it.

+

+That evening Márya Dmítrievna was going to the Akhárovs’ and

+proposed to take the girls with her. Natásha, pleading a headache,

+remained at home.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XV

+

+On returning late in the evening Sónya went to Natásha’s room, and

+to her surprise found her still dressed and asleep on the sofa. Open on

+the table, beside her lay Anatole’s letter. Sónya picked it up and

+read it.

+

+As she read she glanced at the sleeping Natásha, trying to find in her

+face an explanation of what she was reading, but did not find it. Her

+face was calm, gentle, and happy. Clutching her breast to keep herself

+from choking, Sónya, pale and trembling with fear and agitation, sat

+down in an armchair and burst into tears.

+

+“How was it I noticed nothing? How could it go so far? Can she have

+left off loving Prince Andrew? And how could she let Kurágin go to

+such lengths? He is a deceiver and a villain, that’s plain! What will

+Nicholas, dear noble Nicholas, do when he hears of it? So this is

+the meaning of her excited, resolute, unnatural look the day before

+yesterday, yesterday, and today,” thought Sónya. “But it can’t be

+that she loves him! She probably opened the letter without knowing who

+it was from. Probably she is offended by it. She could not do such a

+thing!”

+

+Sónya wiped away her tears and went up to Natásha, again scanning her

+face.

+

+“Natásha!” she said, just audibly.

+

+Natásha awoke and saw Sónya.

+

+“Ah, you’re back?”

+

+And with the decision and tenderness that often come at the moment of

+awakening, she embraced her friend, but noticing Sónya’s look of

+embarrassment, her own face expressed confusion and suspicion.

+

+“Sónya, you’ve read that letter?” she demanded.

+

+“Yes,” answered Sónya softly.

+

+Natásha smiled rapturously.

+

+“No, Sónya, I can’t any longer!” she said. “I can’t hide it

+from you any longer. You know, we love one another! Sónya, darling, he

+writes... Sónya...”

+

+Sónya stared open-eyed at Natásha, unable to believe her ears.

+

+“And Bolkónski?” she asked.

+

+“Ah, Sónya, if you only knew how happy I am!” cried Natásha.

+“You don’t know what love is....”

+

+“But, Natásha, can that be all over?”

+

+Natásha looked at Sónya with wide-open eyes as if she could not grasp

+the question.

+

+“Well, then, are you refusing Prince Andrew?” said Sónya.

+

+“Oh, you don’t understand anything! Don’t talk nonsense, just

+listen!” said Natásha, with momentary vexation.

+

+“But I can’t believe it,” insisted Sónya. “I don’t

+understand. How is it you have loved a man for a whole year and

+suddenly... Why, you have only seen him three times! Natásha, I don’t

+believe you, you’re joking! In three days to forget everything and

+so...”

+

+“Three days?” said Natásha. “It seems to me I’ve loved him a

+hundred years. It seems to me that I have never loved anyone before. You

+can’t understand it.... Sónya, wait a bit, sit here,” and Natásha

+embraced and kissed her.

+

+“I had heard that it happens like this, and you must have heard it

+too, but it’s only now that I feel such love. It’s not the same as

+before. As soon as I saw him I felt he was my master and I his slave,

+and that I could not help loving him. Yes, his slave! Whatever he orders

+I shall do. You don’t understand that. What can I do? What can I do,

+Sónya?” cried Natásha with a happy yet frightened expression.

+

+“But think what you are doing,” cried Sónya. “I can’t leave

+it like this. This secret correspondence... How could you let him go so

+far?” she went on, with a horror and disgust she could hardly conceal.

+

+“I told you that I have no will,” Natásha replied. “Why can’t

+you understand? I love him!”

+

+“Then I won’t let it come to that... I shall tell!” cried Sónya,

+bursting into tears.

+

+“What do you mean? For God’s sake... If you tell, you are my

+enemy!” declared Natásha. “You want me to be miserable, you want us

+to be separated....”

+

+When she saw Natásha’s fright, Sónya shed tears of shame and pity

+for her friend.

+

+“But what has happened between you?” she asked. “What has he said

+to you? Why doesn’t he come to the house?”

+

+Natásha did not answer her questions.

+

+“For God’s sake, Sónya, don’t tell anyone, don’t torture

+me,” Natásha entreated. “Remember no one ought to interfere in such

+matters! I have confided in you....”

+

+“But why this secrecy? Why doesn’t he come to the house?” asked

+Sónya. “Why doesn’t he openly ask for your hand? You know Prince

+Andrew gave you complete freedom—if it is really so; but I don’t

+believe it! Natásha, have you considered what these secret reasons can

+be?”

+

+Natásha looked at Sónya with astonishment. Evidently this question

+presented itself to her mind for the first time and she did not know how

+to answer it.

+

+“I don’t know what the reasons are. But there must be reasons!”

+

+Sónya sighed and shook her head incredulously.

+

+“If there were reasons...” she began.

+

+But Natásha, guessing her doubts, interrupted her in alarm.

+

+“Sónya, one can’t doubt him! One can’t, one can’t! Don’t you

+understand?” she cried.

+

+“Does he love you?”

+

+“Does he love me?” Natásha repeated with a smile of pity at her

+friend’s lack of comprehension. “Why, you have read his letter and

+you have seen him.”

+

+“But if he is dishonorable?”

+

+“He! dishonorable? If you only knew!” exclaimed Natásha.

+

+“If he is an honorable man he should either declare his intentions or

+cease seeing you; and if you won’t do this, I will. I will write to

+him, and I will tell Papa!” said Sónya resolutely.

+

+“But I can’t live without him!” cried Natásha.

+

+“Natásha, I don’t understand you. And what are you saying! Think of

+your father and of Nicholas.”

+

+“I don’t want anyone, I don’t love anyone but him. How dare you

+say he is dishonorable? Don’t you know that I love him?” screamed

+Natásha. “Go away, Sónya! I don’t want to quarrel with you, but

+go, for God’s sake go! You see how I am suffering!” Natásha cried

+angrily, in a voice of despair and repressed irritation. Sónya burst

+into sobs and ran from the room.

+

+Natásha went to the table and without a moment’s reflection wrote

+that answer to Princess Mary which she had been unable to write all

+the morning. In this letter she said briefly that all their

+misunderstandings were at an end; that availing herself of the

+magnanimity of Prince Andrew who when he went abroad had given her her

+freedom, she begged Princess Mary to forget everything and forgive her

+if she had been to blame toward her, but that she could not be his

+wife. At that moment this all seemed quite easy, simple, and clear to

+Natásha.

+

+

+On Friday the Rostóvs were to return to the country, but on Wednesday

+the count went with the prospective purchaser to his estate near Moscow.

+

+On the day the count left, Sónya and Natásha were invited to a big

+dinner party at the Karágins’, and Márya Dmítrievna took them

+there. At that party Natásha again met Anatole, and Sónya noticed

+that she spoke to him, trying not to be overheard, and that all through

+dinner she was more agitated than ever. When they got home Natásha was

+the first to begin the explanation Sónya expected.

+

+“There, Sónya, you were talking all sorts of nonsense about him,”

+Natásha began in a mild voice such as children use when they wish to be

+praised. “We have had an explanation today.”

+

+“Well, what happened? What did he say? Natásha, how glad I am

+you’re not angry with me! Tell me everything—the whole truth. What

+did he say?”

+

+Natásha became thoughtful.

+

+“Oh, Sónya, if you knew him as I do! He said... He asked me what I

+had promised Bolkónski. He was glad I was free to refuse him.”

+

+Sónya sighed sorrowfully.

+

+“But you haven’t refused Bolkónski?” said she.

+

+“Perhaps I have. Perhaps all is over between me and Bolkónski. Why do

+you think so badly of me?”

+

+“I don’t think anything, only I don’t understand this...”

+

+“Wait a bit, Sónya, you’ll understand everything. You’ll see what

+a man he is! Now don’t think badly of me or of him. I don’t think

+badly of anyone: I love and pity everybody. But what am I to do?”

+

+Sónya did not succumb to the tender tone Natásha used toward her.

+The more emotional and ingratiating the expression of Natásha’s face

+became, the more serious and stern grew Sónya’s.

+

+“Natásha,” said she, “you asked me not to speak to you, and I

+haven’t spoken, but now you yourself have begun. I don’t trust him,

+Natásha. Why this secrecy?”

+

+“Again, again!” interrupted Natásha.

+

+“Natásha, I am afraid for you!”

+

+“Afraid of what?”

+

+“I am afraid you’re going to your ruin,” said Sónya resolutely,

+and was herself horrified at what she had said.

+

+Anger again showed in Natásha’s face.

+

+“And I’ll go to my ruin, I will, as soon as possible! It’s not

+your business! It won’t be you, but I, who’ll suffer. Leave me

+alone, leave me alone! I hate you!”

+

+“Natásha!” moaned Sónya, aghast.

+

+“I hate you, I hate you! You’re my enemy forever!” And Natásha

+ran out of the room.

+

+Natásha did not speak to Sónya again and avoided her. With the same

+expression of agitated surprise and guilt she went about the house,

+taking up now one occupation, now another, and at once abandoning them.

+

+Hard as it was for Sónya, she watched her friend and did not let her

+out of her sight.

+

+The day before the count was to return, Sónya noticed that Natásha sat

+by the drawing room window all the morning as if expecting something and

+that she made a sign to an officer who drove past, whom Sónya took to

+be Anatole.

+

+Sónya began watching her friend still more attentively and noticed that

+at dinner and all that evening Natásha was in a strange and unnatural

+state. She answered questions at random, began sentences she did not

+finish, and laughed at everything.

+

+After tea Sónya noticed a housemaid at Natásha’s door timidly

+waiting to let her pass. She let the girl go in, and then listening at

+the door learned that another letter had been delivered.

+

+Then suddenly it became clear to Sónya that Natásha had some dreadful

+plan for that evening. Sónya knocked at her door. Natásha did not let

+her in.

+

+“She will run away with him!” thought Sónya. “She is capable of

+anything. There was something particularly pathetic and resolute in

+her face today. She cried as she said good-by to Uncle,” Sónya

+remembered. “Yes, that’s it, she means to elope with him, but

+what am I to do?” thought she, recalling all the signs that clearly

+indicated that Natásha had some terrible intention. “The count is

+away. What am I to do? Write to Kurágin demanding an explanation? But

+what is there to oblige him to reply? Write to Pierre, as Prince Andrew

+asked me to in case of some misfortune?... But perhaps she really

+has already refused Bolkónski—she sent a letter to Princess Mary

+yesterday. And Uncle is away....” To tell Márya Dmítrievna who had

+such faith in Natásha seemed to Sónya terrible. “Well, anyway,”

+thought Sónya as she stood in the dark passage, “now or never I must

+prove that I remember the family’s goodness to me and that I love

+Nicholas. Yes! If I don’t sleep for three nights I’ll not leave this

+passage and will hold her back by force and will and not let the family

+be disgraced,” thought she.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XVI

+

+Anatole had lately moved to Dólokhov’s. The plan for Natalie

+Rostóva’s abduction had been arranged and the preparations made by

+Dólokhov a few days before, and on the day that Sónya, after listening

+at Natásha’s door, resolved to safeguard her, it was to have been

+put into execution. Natásha had promised to come out to Kurágin at the

+back porch at ten that evening. Kurágin was to put her into a troyka

+he would have ready and to drive her forty miles to the village of

+Kámenka, where an unfrocked priest was in readiness to perform a

+marriage ceremony over them. At Kámenka a relay of horses was to wait

+which would take them to the Warsaw highroad, and from there they would

+hasten abroad with post horses.

+

+Anatole had a passport, an order for post horses, ten thousand rubles

+he had taken from his sister and another ten thousand borrowed with

+Dólokhov’s help.

+

+Two witnesses for the mock marriage—Khvóstikov, a retired petty

+official whom Dólokhov made use of in his gambling transactions, and

+Makárin, a retired hussar, a kindly, weak fellow who had an unbounded

+affection for Kurágin—were sitting at tea in Dólokhov’s front

+room.

+

+In his large study, the walls of which were hung to the ceiling with

+Persian rugs, bearskins, and weapons, sat Dólokhov in a traveling cloak

+and high boots, at an open desk on which lay an abacus and some bundles

+of paper money. Anatole, with uniform unbuttoned, walked to and fro from

+the room where the witnesses were sitting, through the study to the room

+behind, where his French valet and others were packing the last of his

+things. Dólokhov was counting the money and noting something down.

+

+“Well,” he said, “Khvóstikov must have two thousand.”

+

+“Give it to him, then,” said Anatole.

+

+“Makárka” (their name for Makárin) “will go through fire and

+water for you for nothing. So here are our accounts all settled,” said

+Dólokhov, showing him the memorandum. “Is that right?”

+

+“Yes, of course,” returned Anatole, evidently not listening to

+Dólokhov and looking straight before him with a smile that did not

+leave his face.

+

+Dólokhov banged down the lid of his desk and turned to Anatole with an

+ironic smile:

+

+“Do you know? You’d really better drop it all. There’s still

+time!”

+

+“Fool,” retorted Anatole. “Don’t talk nonsense! If you only

+knew... it’s the devil knows what!”

+

+“No, really, give it up!” said Dólokhov. “I am speaking

+seriously. It’s no joke, this plot you’ve hatched.”

+

+“What, teasing again? Go to the devil! Eh?” said Anatole, making a

+grimace. “Really it’s no time for your stupid jokes,” and he left

+the room.

+

+Dólokhov smiled contemptuously and condescendingly when Anatole had

+gone out.

+

+“You wait a bit,” he called after him. “I’m not joking, I’m

+talking sense. Come here, come here!”

+

+Anatole returned and looked at Dólokhov, trying to give him his

+attention and evidently submitting to him involuntarily.

+

+“Now listen to me. I’m telling you this for the last time. Why

+should I joke about it? Did I hinder you? Who arranged everything for

+you? Who found the priest and got the passport? Who raised the money? I

+did it all.”

+

+“Well, thank you for it. Do you think I am not grateful?” And

+Anatole sighed and embraced Dólokhov.

+

+“I helped you, but all the same I must tell you the truth; it is a

+dangerous business, and if you think about it—a stupid business. Well,

+you’ll carry her off—all right! Will they let it stop at that? It

+will come out that you’re already married. Why, they’ll have you in

+the criminal court....”

+

+“Oh, nonsense, nonsense!” Anatole ejaculated and again made a

+grimace. “Didn’t I explain to you? What?” And Anatole, with the

+partiality dull-witted people have for any conclusion they have reached

+by their own reasoning, repeated the argument he had already put to

+Dólokhov a hundred times. “Didn’t I explain to you that I have come

+to this conclusion: if this marriage is invalid,” he went on, crooking

+one finger, “then I have nothing to answer for; but if it is valid, no

+matter! Abroad no one will know anything about it. Isn’t that so? And

+don’t talk to me, don’t, don’t.”

+

+“Seriously, you’d better drop it! You’ll only get yourself into a

+mess!”

+

+“Go to the devil!” cried Anatole and, clutching his hair, left the

+room, but returned at once and dropped into an armchair in front of

+Dólokhov with his feet turned under him. “It’s the very devil!

+What? Feel how it beats!” He took Dólokhov’s hand and put it on his

+heart. “What a foot, my dear fellow! What a glance! A goddess!” he

+added in French. “What?”

+

+Dólokhov with a cold smile and a gleam in his handsome insolent eyes

+looked at him—evidently wishing to get some more amusement out of him.

+

+“Well and when the money’s gone, what then?”

+

+“What then? Eh?” repeated Anatole, sincerely perplexed by a thought

+of the future. “What then?... Then, I don’t know.... But why talk

+nonsense!” He glanced at his watch. “It’s time!”

+

+Anatole went into the back room.

+

+“Now then! Nearly ready? You’re dawdling!” he shouted to the

+servants.

+

+Dólokhov put away the money, called a footman whom he ordered to bring

+something for them to eat and drink before the journey, and went into

+the room where Khvóstikov and Makárin were sitting.

+

+Anatole lay on the sofa in the study leaning on his elbow and smiling

+pensively, while his handsome lips muttered tenderly to himself.

+

+“Come and eat something. Have a drink!” Dólokhov shouted to him

+from the other room.

+

+“I don’t want to,” answered Anatole continuing to smile.

+

+“Come! Balagá is here.”

+

+Anatole rose and went into the dining room. Balagá was a famous troyka

+driver who had known Dólokhov and Anatole some six years and had given

+them good service with his troykas. More than once when Anatole’s

+regiment was stationed at Tver he had taken him from Tver in the

+evening, brought him to Moscow by daybreak, and driven him back again

+the next night. More than once he had enabled Dólokhov to escape when

+pursued. More than once he had driven them through the town with gypsies

+and “ladykins” as he called the cocottes. More than once in their

+service he had run over pedestrians and upset vehicles in the streets

+of Moscow and had always been protected from the consequences by “my

+gentlemen” as he called them. He had ruined more than one horse in

+their service. More than once they had beaten him, and more than once

+they had made him drunk on champagne and Madeira, which he loved; and

+he knew more than one thing about each of them which would long ago have

+sent an ordinary man to Siberia. They often called Balagá into their

+orgies and made him drink and dance at the gypsies’, and more than one

+thousand rubles of their money had passed through his hands. In their

+service he risked his skin and his life twenty times a year, and in

+their service had lost more horses than the money he had from them would

+buy. But he liked them; liked that mad driving at twelve miles an hour,

+liked upsetting a driver or running down a pedestrian, and flying at

+full gallop through the Moscow streets. He liked to hear those wild,

+tipsy shouts behind him: “Get on! Get on!” when it was impossible

+to go any faster. He liked giving a painful lash on the neck to some

+peasant who, more dead than alive, was already hurrying out of his way.

+“Real gentlemen!” he considered them.

+

+Anatole and Dólokhov liked Balagá too for his masterly driving and

+because he liked the things they liked. With others Balagá bargained,

+charging twenty-five rubles for a two hours’ drive, and rarely

+drove himself, generally letting his young men do so. But with “his

+gentlemen” he always drove himself and never demanded anything for

+his work. Only a couple of times a year—when he knew from their valets

+that they had money in hand—he would turn up of a morning quite sober

+and with a deep bow would ask them to help him. The gentlemen always

+made him sit down.

+

+“Do help me out, Theodore Iványch, sir,” or “your excellency,”

+he would say. “I am quite out of horses. Let me have what you can to

+go to the fair.”

+

+And Anatole and Dólokhov, when they had money, would give him a

+thousand or a couple of thousand rubles.

+

+Balagá was a fair-haired, short, and snub-nosed peasant of about

+twenty-seven; red-faced, with a particularly red thick neck, glittering

+little eyes, and a small beard. He wore a fine, dark-blue, silk-lined

+cloth coat over a sheepskin.

+

+On entering the room now he crossed himself, turning toward the front

+corner of the room, and went up to Dólokhov, holding out a small, black

+hand.

+

+“Theodore Iványch!” he said, bowing.

+

+“How d’you do, friend? Well, here he is!”

+

+“Good day, your excellency!” he said, again holding out his hand to

+Anatole who had just come in.

+

+“I say, Balagá,” said Anatole, putting his hands on the man’s

+shoulders, “do you care for me or not? Eh? Now, do me a service....

+What horses have you come with? Eh?”

+

+“As your messenger ordered, your special beasts,” replied Balagá.

+

+“Well, listen, Balagá! Drive all three to death but get me there in

+three hours. Eh?”

+

+“When they are dead, what shall I drive?” said Balagá with a wink.

+

+“Mind, I’ll smash your face in! Don’t make jokes!” cried

+Anatole, suddenly rolling his eyes.

+

+“Why joke?” said the driver, laughing. “As if I’d grudge my

+gentlemen anything! As fast as ever the horses can gallop, so fast

+we’ll go!”

+

+“Ah!” said Anatole. “Well, sit down.”

+

+“Yes, sit down!” said Dólokhov.

+

+“I’ll stand, Theodore Iványch.”

+

+“Sit down; nonsense! Have a drink!” said Anatole, and filled a large

+glass of Madeira for him.

+

+The driver’s eyes sparkled at the sight of the wine. After refusing

+it for manners’ sake, he drank it and wiped his mouth with a red silk

+handkerchief he took out of his cap.

+

+“And when are we to start, your excellency?”

+

+“Well...” Anatole looked at his watch. “We’ll start at once.

+Mind, Balagá! You’ll get there in time? Eh?”

+

+“That depends on our luck in starting, else why shouldn’t we be

+there in time?” replied Balagá. “Didn’t we get you to Tver in

+seven hours? I think you remember that, your excellency?”

+

+“Do you know, one Christmas I drove from Tver,” said Anatole,

+smilingly at the recollection and turning to Makárin who gazed

+rapturously at him with wide-open eyes. “Will you believe it,

+Makárka, it took one’s breath away, the rate we flew. We came across

+a train of loaded sleighs and drove right over two of them. Eh?”

+

+“Those were horses!” Balagá continued the tale. “That time I’d

+harnessed two young side horses with the bay in the shafts,” he went

+on, turning to Dólokhov. “Will you believe it, Theodore Iványch,

+those animals flew forty miles? I couldn’t hold them in, my hands grew

+numb in the sharp frost so that I threw down the reins—‘Catch hold

+yourself, your excellency!’ says I, and I just tumbled on the bottom

+of the sleigh and sprawled there. It wasn’t a case of urging them on,

+there was no holding them in till we reached the place. The devils took

+us there in three hours! Only the near one died of it.”

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XVII

+

+Anatole went out of the room and returned a few minutes later wearing

+a fur coat girt with a silver belt, and a sable cap jauntily set on one

+side and very becoming to his handsome face. Having looked in a mirror,

+and standing before Dólokhov in the same pose he had assumed before it,

+he lifted a glass of wine.

+

+“Well, good-by, Theodore. Thank you for everything and farewell!” said

+Anatole. “Well, comrades and friends...” he considered for a moment “...

+of my youth, farewell!” he said, turning to Makárin and the others.

+

+Though they were all going with him, Anatole evidently wished to make

+something touching and solemn out of this address to his comrades. He

+spoke slowly in a loud voice and throwing out his chest slightly swayed

+one leg.

+

+“All take glasses; you too, Balagá. Well, comrades and friends of my

+youth, we’ve had our fling and lived and reveled. Eh? And now, when

+shall we meet again? I am going abroad. We have had a good time—now

+farewell, lads! To our health! Hurrah!...” he cried, and emptying his

+glass flung it on the floor.

+

+“To your health!” said Balagá who also emptied his glass, and wiped his

+mouth with his handkerchief.

+

+Makárin embraced Anatole with tears in his eyes.

+

+“Ah, Prince, how sorry I am to part from you!

+

+“Let’s go. Let’s go!” cried Anatole.

+

+Balagá was about to leave the room.

+

+“No, stop!” said Anatole. “Shut the door; we have first to sit down.

+That’s the way.”

+

+They shut the door and all sat down.

+

+“Now, quick march, lads!” said Anatole, rising.

+

+Joseph, his valet, handed him his sabretache and saber, and they all

+went out into the vestibule.

+

+“And where’s the fur cloak?” asked Dólokhov. “Hey, Ignátka! Go to

+Matrëna Matrévna and ask her for the sable cloak. I have heard what

+elopements are like,” continued Dólokhov with a wink. “Why, she’ll rush

+out more dead than alive just in the things she is wearing; if you delay

+at all there’ll be tears and ‘Papa’ and ‘Mamma,’ and she’s frozen in a

+minute and must go back—but you wrap the fur cloak round her first thing

+and carry her to the sleigh.”

+

+The valet brought a woman’s fox-lined cloak.

+

+“Fool, I told you the sable one! Hey, Matrëna, the sable!” he shouted so

+that his voice rang far through the rooms.

+

+A handsome, slim, and pale-faced gypsy girl with glittering black eyes

+and curly blue-black hair, wearing a red shawl, ran out with a sable

+mantle on her arm.

+

+“Here, I don’t grudge it—take it!” she said, evidently afraid of her

+master and yet regretful of her cloak.

+

+Dólokhov, without answering, took the cloak, threw it over Matrëna, and

+wrapped her up in it.

+

+“That’s the way,” said Dólokhov, “and then so!” and he turned the collar

+up round her head, leaving only a little of the face uncovered. “And

+then so, do you see?” and he pushed Anatole’s head forward to meet the

+gap left by the collar, through which Matrëna’s brilliant smile was

+seen.

+

+“Well, good-by, Matrëna,” said Anatole, kissing her. “Ah, my revels here

+are over. Remember me to Stëshka. There, good-by! Good-by, Matrëna, wish

+me luck!”

+

+“Well, Prince, may God give you great luck!” said Matrëna in her gypsy

+accent.

+

+Two troykas were standing before the porch and two young drivers were

+holding the horses. Balagá took his seat in the front one and holding

+his elbows high arranged the reins deliberately. Anatole and Dólokhov

+got in with him. Makárin, Khvóstikov, and a valet seated themselves in

+the other sleigh.

+

+“Well, are you ready?” asked Balagá.

+

+“Go!” he cried, twisting the reins round his hands, and the troyka tore

+down the Nikítski Boulevard.

+

+“Tproo! Get out of the way! Hi!... Tproo!...” The shouting of Balagá

+and of the sturdy young fellow seated on the box was all that could

+be heard. On the Arbát Square the troyka caught against a carriage;

+something cracked, shouts were heard, and the troyka flew along the

+Arbát Street.

+

+After taking a turn along the Podnovínski Boulevard, Balagá began to

+rein in, and turning back drew up at the crossing of the old Konyúsheny

+Street.

+

+The young fellow on the box jumped down to hold the horses and Anatole

+and Dólokhov went along the pavement. When they reached the gate

+Dólokhov whistled. The whistle was answered, and a maidservant ran out.

+

+“Come into the courtyard or you’ll be seen; she’ll come out directly,”

+said she.

+

+Dólokhov stayed by the gate. Anatole followed the maid into the

+courtyard, turned the corner, and ran up into the porch.

+

+He was met by Gabriel, Márya Dmítrievna’s gigantic footman.

+

+“Come to the mistress, please,” said the footman in his deep bass,

+intercepting any retreat.

+

+“To what Mistress? Who are you?” asked Anatole in a breathless whisper.

+

+“Kindly step in, my orders are to bring you in.”

+

+“Kurágin! Come back!” shouted Dólokhov. “Betrayed! Back!”

+

+Dólokhov, after Anatole entered, had remained at the wicket gate and was

+struggling with the yard porter who was trying to lock it. With a last

+desperate effort Dólokhov pushed the porter aside, and when Anatole ran

+back seized him by the arm, pulled him through the wicket, and ran back

+with him to the troyka.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XVIII

+

+Márya Dmítrievna, having found Sónya weeping in the corridor, made her

+confess everything, and intercepting the note to Natásha she read it and

+went into Natásha’s room with it in her hand.

+

+“You shameless good-for-nothing!” said she. “I won’t hear a word.”

+

+Pushing back Natásha who looked at her with astonished but tearless

+eyes, she locked her in; and having given orders to the yard porter to

+admit the persons who would be coming that evening, but not to let them

+out again, and having told the footman to bring them up to her, she

+seated herself in the drawing room to await the abductors.

+

+When Gabriel came to inform her that the men who had come had run

+away again, she rose frowning, and clasping her hands behind her paced

+through the rooms a long time considering what she should do. Toward

+midnight she went to Natásha’s room fingering the key in her pocket.

+Sónya was sitting sobbing in the corridor. “Márya Dmítrievna, for God’s

+sake let me in to her!” she pleaded, but Márya Dmítrievna unlocked

+the door and went in without giving her an answer.... “Disgusting,

+abominable... In my house... horrid girl, hussy! I’m only sorry for her

+father!” thought she, trying to restrain her wrath. “Hard as it may

+be, I’ll tell them all to hold their tongues and will hide it from the

+count.” She entered the room with resolute steps. Natásha lying on the

+sofa, her head hidden in her hands, and she did not stir. She was in

+just the same position in which Márya Dmítrievna had left her.

+

+“A nice girl! Very nice!” said Márya Dmítrievna. “Arranging meetings

+with lovers in my house! It’s no use pretending: you listen when I speak

+to you!” And Márya Dmítrievna touched her arm. “Listen when I speak!

+You’ve disgraced yourself like the lowest of hussies. I’d treat you

+differently, but I’m sorry for your father, so I will conceal it.”

+

+Natásha did not change her position, but her whole body heaved with

+noiseless, convulsive sobs which choked her. Márya Dmítrievna glanced

+round at Sónya and seated herself on the sofa beside Natásha.

+

+“It’s lucky for him that he escaped me; but I’ll find him!” she said in

+her rough voice. “Do you hear what I am saying or not?” she added.

+

+She put her large hand under Natásha’s face and turned it toward her.

+Both Márya Dmítrievna and Sónya were amazed when they saw how Natásha

+looked. Her eyes were dry and glistening, her lips compressed, her

+cheeks sunken.

+

+“Let me be!... What is it to me?... I shall die!” she muttered,

+wrenching herself from Márya Dmítrievna’s hands with a vicious effort

+and sinking down again into her former position.

+

+“Natalie!” said Márya Dmítrievna. “I wish for your good. Lie still,

+stay like that then, I won’t touch you. But listen. I won’t tell you how

+guilty you are. You know that yourself. But when your father comes back

+tomorrow what am I to tell him? Eh?”

+

+Again Natásha’s body shook with sobs.

+

+“Suppose he finds out, and your brother, and your betrothed?”

+

+“I have no betrothed: I have refused him!” cried Natásha.

+

+“That’s all the same,” continued Márya Dmítrievna. “If they hear of

+this, will they let it pass? He, your father, I know him... if he

+challenges him to a duel will that be all right? Eh?”

+

+“Oh, let me be! Why have you interfered at all? Why? Why? Who asked

+you to?” shouted Natásha, raising herself on the sofa and looking

+malignantly at Márya Dmítrievna.

+

+“But what did you want?” cried Márya Dmítrievna, growing angry again.

+“Were you kept under lock and key? Who hindered his coming to the house?

+Why carry you off as if you were some gypsy singing girl?... Well, if he

+had carried you off... do you think they wouldn’t have found him?

+Your father, or brother, or your betrothed? And he’s a scoundrel, a

+wretch—that’s a fact!”

+

+“He is better than any of you!” exclaimed Natásha getting up. “If you

+hadn’t interfered... Oh, my God! What is it all? What is it? Sónya,

+why?... Go away!”

+

+And she burst into sobs with the despairing vehemence with which people

+bewail disasters they feel they have themselves occasioned. Márya

+Dmítrievna was to speak again but Natásha cried out:

+

+“Go away! Go away! You all hate and despise me!” and she threw herself

+back on the sofa.

+

+Márya Dmítrievna went on admonishing her for some time, enjoining on her

+that it must all be kept from her father and assuring her that nobody

+would know anything about it if only Natásha herself would undertake

+to forget it all and not let anyone see that something had happened.

+Natásha did not reply, nor did she sob any longer, but she grew cold

+and had a shivering fit. Márya Dmítrievna put a pillow under her head,

+covered her with two quilts, and herself brought her some lime-flower

+water, but Natásha did not respond to her.

+

+“Well, let her sleep,” said Márya Dmítrievna as she went out of the room

+supposing Natásha to be asleep.

+

+But Natásha was not asleep; with pale face and fixed wide-open eyes she

+looked straight before her. All that night she did not sleep or weep and

+did not speak to Sónya who got up and went to her several times.

+

+Next day Count Rostóv returned from his estate near Moscow in time for

+lunch as he had promised. He was in very good spirits; the affair with

+the purchaser was going on satisfactorily, and there was nothing to keep

+him any longer in Moscow, away from the countess whom he missed. Márya

+Dmítrievna met him and told him that Natásha had been very unwell the

+day before and that they had sent for the doctor, but that she was

+better now. Natásha had not left her room that morning. With compressed

+and parched lips and dry fixed eyes, she sat at the window, uneasily

+watching the people who drove past and hurriedly glancing round at

+anyone who entered the room. She was evidently expecting news of him and

+that he would come or would write to her.

+

+When the count came to see her she turned anxiously round at the sound

+of a man’s footstep, and then her face resumed its cold and malevolent

+expression. She did not even get up to greet him. “What is the matter

+with you, my angel? Are you ill?” asked the count.

+

+After a moment’s silence Natásha answered: “Yes, ill.”

+

+In reply to the count’s anxious inquiries as to why she was so dejected

+and whether anything had happened to her betrothed, she assured him

+that nothing had happened and asked him not to worry. Márya Dmítrievna

+confirmed Natásha’s assurances that nothing had happened. From

+the pretense of illness, from his daughter’s distress, and by the

+embarrassed faces of Sónya and Márya Dmítrievna, the count saw clearly

+that something had gone wrong during his absence, but it was so terrible

+for him to think that anything disgraceful had happened to his beloved

+daughter, and he so prized his own cheerful tranquillity, that he

+avoided inquiries and tried to assure himself that nothing particularly

+had happened; and he was only dissatisfied that her indisposition

+delayed their return to the country.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XIX

+

+From the day his wife arrived in Moscow Pierre had been intending to go

+away somewhere, so as not to be near her. Soon after the Rostóvs came

+to Moscow the effect Natásha had on him made him hasten to carry out

+his intention. He went to Tver to see Joseph Alexéevich’s widow, who

+had long since promised to hand over to him some papers of her deceased

+husband’s.

+

+When he returned to Moscow Pierre was handed a letter from Márya

+Dmítrievna asking him to come and see her on a matter of great

+importance relating to Andrew Bolkónski and his betrothed. Pierre had

+been avoiding Natásha because it seemed to him that his feeling for her

+was stronger than a married man’s should be for his friend’s fiancée.

+Yet some fate constantly threw them together.

+

+“What can have happened? And what can they want with me?” thought he

+as he dressed to go to Márya Dmítrievna’s. “If only Prince Andrew would

+hurry up and come and marry her!” thought he on his way to the house.

+

+On the Tverskóy Boulevard a familiar voice called to him.

+

+“Pierre! Been back long?” someone shouted. Pierre raised his head. In

+a sleigh drawn by two gray trotting-horses that were bespattering the

+dashboard with snow, Anatole and his constant companion Makárin dashed

+past. Anatole was sitting upright in the classic pose of military

+dandies, the lower part of his face hidden by his beaver collar and his

+head slightly bent. His face was fresh and rosy, his white-plumed hat,

+tilted to one side, disclosed his curled and pomaded hair besprinkled

+with powdery snow.

+

+“Yes, indeed, that’s a true sage,” thought Pierre. “He sees nothing

+beyond the pleasure of the moment, nothing troubles him and so he is

+always cheerful, satisfied, and serene. What wouldn’t I give to be like

+him!” he thought enviously.

+

+In Márya Dmítrievna’s anteroom the footman who helped him off with his

+fur coat said that the mistress asked him to come to her bedroom.

+

+When he opened the ballroom door Pierre saw Natásha sitting at the

+window, with a thin, pale, and spiteful face. She glanced round at him,

+frowned, and left the room with an expression of cold dignity.

+

+“What has happened?” asked Pierre, entering Márya Dmítrievna’s room.

+

+“Fine doings!” answered Dmítrievna. “For fifty-eight years have I lived

+in this world and never known anything so disgraceful!”

+

+And having put him on his honor not to repeat anything she told him,

+Márya Dmítrievna informed him that Natásha had refused Prince Andrew

+without her parents’ knowledge and that the cause of this was Anatole

+Kurágin into whose society Pierre’s wife had thrown her and with whom

+Natásha had tried to elope during her father’s absence, in order to be

+married secretly.

+

+Pierre raised his shoulders and listened open-mouthed to what was told

+him, scarcely able to believe his own ears. That Prince Andrew’s

+deeply loved affianced wife—the same Natásha Rostóva who used to be so

+charming—should give up Bolkónski for that fool Anatole who was already

+secretly married (as Pierre knew), and should be so in love with him as

+to agree to run away with him, was something Pierre could not conceive

+and could not imagine.

+

+He could not reconcile the charming impression he had of Natásha, whom

+he had known from a child, with this new conception of her baseness,

+folly, and cruelty. He thought of his wife. “They are all alike!” he

+said to himself, reflecting that he was not the only man unfortunate

+enough to be tied to a bad woman. But still he pitied Prince Andrew to

+the point of tears and sympathized with his wounded pride, and the more

+he pitied his friend the more did he think with contempt and even with

+disgust of that Natásha who had just passed him in the ballroom with

+such a look of cold dignity. He did not know that Natásha’s soul was

+overflowing with despair, shame, and humiliation, and that it was not

+her fault that her face happened to assume an expression of calm dignity

+and severity.

+

+“But how get married?” said Pierre, in answer to Márya Dmítrievna. “He

+could not marry—he is married!”

+

+“Things get worse from hour to hour!” ejaculated Márya Dmítrievna. “A

+nice youth! What a scoundrel! And she’s expecting him—expecting him

+since yesterday. She must be told! Then at least she won’t go on

+expecting him.”

+

+After hearing the details of Anatole’s marriage from Pierre, and giving

+vent to her anger against Anatole in words of abuse, Márya Dmítrievna

+told Pierre why she had sent for him. She was afraid that the count or

+Bolkónski, who might arrive at any moment, if they knew of this affair

+(which she hoped to hide from them) might challenge Anatole to a duel,

+and she therefore asked Pierre to tell his brother-in-law in her name to

+leave Moscow and not dare to let her set eyes on him again. Pierre—only

+now realizing the danger to the old count, Nicholas, and Prince

+Andrew—promised to do as she wished. Having briefly and exactly

+explained her wishes to him, she let him go to the drawing room.

+

+“Mind, the count knows nothing. Behave as if you know nothing either,”

+she said. “And I will go and tell her it is no use expecting him! And

+stay to dinner if you care to!” she called after Pierre.

+

+Pierre met the old count, who seemed nervous and upset. That morning

+Natásha had told him that she had rejected Bolkónski.

+

+“Troubles, troubles, my dear fellow!” he said to Pierre. “What troubles

+one has with these girls without their mother! I do so regret having

+come here.... I will be frank with you. Have you heard she has broken

+off her engagement without consulting anybody? It’s true this engagement

+never was much to my liking. Of course he is an excellent man, but

+still, with his father’s disapproval they wouldn’t have been happy, and

+Natásha won’t lack suitors. Still, it has been going on so long, and

+to take such a step without father’s or mother’s consent! And now she’s

+ill, and God knows what! It’s hard, Count, hard to manage daughters in

+their mother’s absence....”

+

+Pierre saw that the count was much upset and tried to change the

+subject, but the count returned to his troubles.

+

+Sónya entered the room with an agitated face.

+

+“Natásha is not quite well; she’s in her room and would like to see you.

+Márya Dmítrievna is with her and she too asks you to come.”

+

+“Yes, you are a great friend of Bolkónski’s, no doubt she wants to send

+him a message,” said the count. “Oh dear! Oh dear! How happy it all

+was!”

+

+And clutching the spare gray locks on his temples the count left the

+room.

+

+When Márya Dmítrievna told Natásha that Anatole was married, Natásha

+did not wish to believe it and insisted on having it confirmed by Pierre

+himself. Sónya told Pierre this as she led him along the corridor to

+Natásha’s room.

+

+Natásha, pale and stern, was sitting beside Márya Dmítrievna, and her

+eyes, glittering feverishly, met Pierre with a questioning look the

+moment he entered. She did not smile or nod, but only gazed fixedly at

+him, and her look asked only one thing: was he a friend, or like the

+others an enemy in regard to Anatole? As for Pierre, he evidently did

+not exist for her.

+

+“He knows all about it,” said Márya Dmítrievna pointing to Pierre and

+addressing Natásha. “Let him tell you whether I have told the truth.”

+

+Natásha looked from one to the other as a hunted and wounded animal

+looks at the approaching dogs and sportsmen.

+

+“Natálya Ilyníchna,” Pierre began, dropping his eyes with a feeling of

+pity for her and loathing for the thing he had to do, “whether it is

+true or not should make no difference to you, because...”

+

+“Then it is not true that he’s married!”

+

+“Yes, it is true.”

+

+“Has he been married long?” she asked. “On your honor?...”

+

+Pierre gave his word of honor.

+

+“Is he still here?” she asked, quickly.

+

+“Yes, I have just seen him.”

+

+She was evidently unable to speak and made a sign with her hands that

+they should leave her alone.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XX

+

+Pierre did not stay for dinner, but left the room and went away at once.

+He drove through the town seeking Anatole Kurágin, at the thought of

+whom now the blood rushed to his heart and he felt a difficulty in

+breathing. He was not at the ice hills, nor at the gypsies’, nor at

+Komoneno’s. Pierre drove to the Club. In the Club all was going on as

+usual. The members who were assembling for dinner were sitting about

+in groups; they greeted Pierre and spoke of the town news. The footman

+having greeted him, knowing his habits and his acquaintances, told him

+there was a place left for him in the small dining room and that Prince

+Michael Zakhárych was in the library, but Paul Timoféevich had not yet

+arrived. One of Pierre’s acquaintances, while they were talking about

+the weather, asked if he had heard of Kurágin’s abduction of Rostóva

+which was talked of in the town, and was it true? Pierre laughed and

+said it was nonsense for he had just come from the Rostóvs’. He asked

+everyone about Anatole. One man told him he had not come yet, and

+another that he was coming to dinner. Pierre felt it strange to see this

+calm, indifferent crowd of people unaware of what was going on in his

+soul. He paced through the ballroom, waited till everyone had come, and

+as Anatole had not turned up did not stay for dinner but drove home.

+

+Anatole, for whom Pierre was looking, dined that day with Dólokhov,

+consulting him as to how to remedy this unfortunate affair. It seemed to

+him essential to see Natásha. In the evening he drove to his sister’s

+to discuss with her how to arrange a meeting. When Pierre returned home

+after vainly hunting all over Moscow, his valet informed him that Prince

+Anatole was with the countess. The countess’ drawing room was full of

+guests.

+

+Pierre without greeting his wife whom he had not seen since his

+return—at that moment she was more repulsive to him than ever—entered

+the drawing room and seeing Anatole went up to him.

+

+“Ah, Pierre,” said the countess going up to her husband. “You don’t know

+what a plight our Anatole...”

+

+She stopped, seeing in the forward thrust of her husband’s head, in his

+glowing eyes and his resolute gait, the terrible indications of that

+rage and strength which she knew and had herself experienced after his

+duel with Dólokhov.

+

+“Where you are, there is vice and evil!” said Pierre to his wife.

+“Anatole, come with me! I must speak to you,” he added in French.

+

+Anatole glanced round at his sister and rose submissively, ready to

+follow Pierre. Pierre, taking him by the arm, pulled him toward himself

+and was leading him from the room.

+

+“If you allow yourself in my drawing room...” whispered Hélène, but

+Pierre did not reply and went out of the room.

+

+Anatole followed him with his usual jaunty step but his face betrayed

+anxiety.

+

+Having entered his study Pierre closed the door and addressed Anatole

+without looking at him.

+

+“You promised Countess Rostóva to marry her and were about to elope with

+her, is that so?”

+

+“Mon cher,” answered Anatole (their whole conversation was in French),

+“I don’t consider myself bound to answer questions put to me in that

+tone.”

+

+Pierre’s face, already pale, became distorted by fury. He seized Anatole

+by the collar of his uniform with his big hand and shook him from side

+to side till Anatole’s face showed a sufficient degree of terror.

+

+“When I tell you that I must talk to you!...” repeated Pierre.

+

+“Come now, this is stupid. What?” said Anatole, fingering a button of

+his collar that had been wrenched loose with a bit of the cloth.

+

+“You’re a scoundrel and a blackguard, and I don’t know what deprives

+me from the pleasure of smashing your head with this!” said Pierre,

+expressing himself so artificially because he was talking French.

+

+He took a heavy paperweight and lifted it threateningly, but at once put

+it back in its place.

+

+“Did you promise to marry her?”

+

+“I... I didn’t think of it. I never promised, because...”

+

+Pierre interrupted him.

+

+“Have you any letters of hers? Any letters?” he said, moving toward

+Anatole.

+

+Anatole glanced at him and immediately thrust his hand into his pocket

+and drew out his pocketbook.

+

+Pierre took the letter Anatole handed him and, pushing aside a table

+that stood in his way, threw himself on the sofa.

+

+“I shan’t be violent, don’t be afraid!” said Pierre in answer to a

+frightened gesture of Anatole’s. “First, the letters,” said he, as if

+repeating a lesson to himself. “Secondly,” he continued after a short

+pause, again rising and again pacing the room, “tomorrow you must get

+out of Moscow.”

+

+“But how can I?...”

+

+“Thirdly,” Pierre continued without listening to him, “you must never

+breathe a word of what has passed between you and Countess Rostóva.

+I know I can’t prevent your doing so, but if you have a spark of

+conscience...” Pierre paced the room several times in silence.

+

+Anatole sat at a table frowning and biting his lips.

+

+“After all, you must understand that besides your pleasure there is such

+a thing as other people’s happiness and peace, and that you are ruining

+a whole life for the sake of amusing yourself! Amuse yourself with women

+like my wife—with them you are within your rights, for they know what

+you want of them. They are armed against you by the same experience

+of debauchery; but to promise a maid to marry her... to deceive, to

+kidnap.... Don’t you understand that it is as mean as beating an old man

+or a child?...”

+

+Pierre paused and looked at Anatole no longer with an angry but with a

+questioning look.

+

+“I don’t know about that, eh?” said Anatole, growing more confident as

+Pierre mastered his wrath. “I don’t know that and don’t want to,” he

+said, not looking at Pierre and with a slight tremor of his lower jaw,

+“but you have used such words to me—‘mean’ and so on—which as a man of

+honor I can’t allow anyone to use.”

+

+Pierre glanced at him with amazement, unable to understand what he

+wanted.

+

+“Though it was tête-à-tête,” Anatole continued, “still I can’t...”

+

+“Is it satisfaction you want?” said Pierre ironically.

+

+“You could at least take back your words. What? If you want me to do as

+you wish, eh?”

+

+“I take them back, I take them back!” said Pierre, “and I ask you to

+forgive me.” Pierre involuntarily glanced at the loose button. “And if

+you require money for your journey...”

+

+Anatole smiled. The expression of that base and cringing smile, which

+Pierre knew so well in his wife, revolted him.

+

+“Oh, vile and heartless brood!” he exclaimed, and left the room.

+

+Next day Anatole left for Petersburg.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XXI

+

+Pierre drove to Márya Dmítrievna’s to tell her of the fulfillment of her

+wish that Kurágin should be banished from Moscow. The whole house was in

+a state of alarm and commotion. Natásha was very ill, having, as Márya

+Dmítrievna told him in secret, poisoned herself the night after she had

+been told that Anatole was married, with some arsenic she had stealthily

+procured. After swallowing a little she had been so frightened that she

+woke Sónya and told her what she had done. The necessary antidotes had

+been administered in time and she was now out of danger, though still so

+weak that it was out of the question to move her to the country, and

+so the countess had been sent for. Pierre saw the distracted count, and

+Sónya, who had a tear-stained face, but he could not see Natásha.

+

+Pierre dined at the club that day and heard on all sides gossip about

+the attempted abduction of Rostóva. He resolutely denied these

+rumors, assuring everyone that nothing had happened except that his

+brother-in-law had proposed to her and been refused. It seemed to

+Pierre that it was his duty to conceal the whole affair and re-establish

+Natásha’s reputation.

+

+He was awaiting Prince Andrew’s return with dread and went every day to

+the old prince’s for news of him.

+

+Old Prince Bolkónski heard all the rumors current in the town from

+Mademoiselle Bourienne and had read the note to Princess Mary in which

+Natásha had broken off her engagement. He seemed in better spirits than

+usual and awaited his son with great impatience.

+

+Some days after Anatole’s departure Pierre received a note from Prince

+Andrew, informing him of his arrival and asking him to come to see him.

+

+As soon as he reached Moscow, Prince Andrew had received from his

+father Natásha’s note to Princess Mary breaking off her engagement

+(Mademoiselle Bourienne had purloined it from Princess Mary and given

+it to the old prince), and he heard from him the story of Natásha’s

+elopement, with additions.

+

+Prince Andrew had arrived in the evening and Pierre came to see him next

+morning. Pierre expected to find Prince Andrew in almost the same state

+as Natásha and was therefore surprised on entering the drawing room

+to hear him in the study talking in a loud animated voice about some

+intrigue going on in Petersburg. The old prince’s voice and another now

+and then interrupted him. Princess Mary came out to meet Pierre. She

+sighed, looking toward the door of the room where Prince Andrew was,

+evidently intending to express her sympathy with his sorrow, but Pierre

+saw by her face that she was glad both at what had happened and at the

+way her brother had taken the news of Natásha’s faithlessness.

+

+“He says he expected it,” she remarked. “I know his pride will not let

+him express his feelings, but still he has taken it better, far better,

+than I expected. Evidently it had to be....”

+

+“But is it possible that all is really ended?” asked Pierre.

+

+Princess Mary looked at him with astonishment. She did not understand

+how he could ask such a question. Pierre went into the study. Prince

+Andrew, greatly changed and plainly in better health, but with a fresh

+horizontal wrinkle between his brows, stood in civilian dress facing

+his father and Prince Meshchérski, warmly disputing and vigorously

+gesticulating. The conversation was about Speránski—the news of whose

+sudden exile and alleged treachery had just reached Moscow.

+

+“Now he is censured and accused by all who were enthusiastic about him

+a month ago,” Prince Andrew was saying, “and by those who were unable to

+understand his aims. To judge a man who is in disfavor and to throw on

+him all the blame of other men’s mistakes is very easy, but I maintain

+that if anything good has been accomplished in this reign it was done by

+him, by him alone.”

+

+He paused at the sight of Pierre. His face quivered and immediately

+assumed a vindictive expression.

+

+“Posterity will do him justice,” he concluded, and at once turned to

+Pierre.

+

+“Well, how are you? Still getting stouter?” he said with animation, but

+the new wrinkle on his forehead deepened. “Yes, I am well,” he said in

+answer to Pierre’s question, and smiled.

+

+To Pierre that smile said plainly: “I am well, but my health is now of

+no use to anyone.”

+

+After a few words to Pierre about the awful roads from the Polish

+frontier, about people he had met in Switzerland who knew Pierre, and

+about M. Dessalles, whom he had brought from abroad to be his son’s

+tutor, Prince Andrew again joined warmly in the conversation about

+Speránski which was still going on between the two old men.

+

+“If there were treason, or proofs of secret relations with Napoleon,

+they would have been made public,” he said with warmth and haste. “I do

+not, and never did, like Speránski personally, but I like justice!”

+

+Pierre now recognized in his friend a need with which he was only too

+familiar, to get excited and to have arguments about extraneous matters

+in order to stifle thoughts that were too oppressive and too intimate.

+When Prince Meshchérski had left, Prince Andrew took Pierre’s arm and

+asked him into the room that had been assigned him. A bed had been made

+up there, and some open portmanteaus and trunks stood about. Prince

+Andrew went to one and took out a small casket, from which he drew a

+packet wrapped in paper. He did it all silently and very quickly. He

+stood up and coughed. His face was gloomy and his lips compressed.

+

+“Forgive me for troubling you....”

+

+Pierre saw that Prince Andrew was going to speak of Natásha, and his

+broad face expressed pity and sympathy. This expression irritated Prince

+Andrew, and in a determined, ringing, and unpleasant tone he continued:

+

+“I have received a refusal from Countess Rostóva and have heard reports

+of your brother-in-law having sought her hand, or something of that

+kind. Is that true?”

+

+“Both true and untrue,” Pierre began; but Prince Andrew interrupted him.

+

+“Here are her letters and her portrait,” said he.

+

+He took the packet from the table and handed it to Pierre.

+

+“Give this to the countess... if you see her.”

+

+“She is very ill,” said Pierre.

+

+“Then she is here still?” said Prince Andrew. “And Prince Kurágin?” he

+added quickly.

+

+“He left long ago. She has been at death’s door.”

+

+“I much regret her illness,” said Prince Andrew; and he smiled like his

+father, coldly, maliciously, and unpleasantly.

+

+“So Monsieur Kurágin has not honored Countess Rostóva with his hand?”

+said Prince Andrew, and he snorted several times.

+

+“He could not marry, for he was married already,” said Pierre.

+

+Prince Andrew laughed disagreeably, again reminding one of his father.

+

+“And where is your brother-in-law now, if I may ask?” he said.

+

+“He has gone to Peters... But I don’t know,” said Pierre.

+

+“Well, it doesn’t matter,” said Prince Andrew. “Tell Countess Rostóva

+that she was and is perfectly free and that I wish her all that is

+good.”

+

+Pierre took the packet. Prince Andrew, as if trying to remember whether

+he had something more to say, or waiting to see if Pierre would say

+anything, looked fixedly at him.

+

+“I say, do you remember our discussion in Petersburg?” asked Pierre,

+“about...”

+

+“Yes,” returned Prince Andrew hastily. “I said that a fallen woman

+should be forgiven, but I didn’t say I could forgive her. I can’t.”

+

+“But can this be compared...?” said Pierre.

+

+Prince Andrew interrupted him and cried sharply: “Yes, ask her hand

+again, be magnanimous, and so on?... Yes, that would be very noble, but

+I am unable to follow in that gentleman’s footsteps. If you wish to be

+my friend never speak to me of that... of all that! Well, good-by. So

+you’ll give her the packet?”

+

+Pierre left the room and went to the old prince and Princess Mary.

+

+The old man seemed livelier than usual. Princess Mary was the same as

+always, but beneath her sympathy for her brother, Pierre noticed her

+satisfaction that the engagement had been broken off. Looking at them

+Pierre realized what contempt and animosity they all felt for the

+Rostóvs, and that it was impossible in their presence even to mention

+the name of her who could give up Prince Andrew for anyone else.

+

+At dinner the talk turned on the war, the approach of which was becoming

+evident. Prince Andrew talked incessantly, arguing now with his father,

+now with the Swiss tutor Dessalles, and showing an unnatural animation,

+the cause of which Pierre so well understood.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XXII

+

+That same evening Pierre went to the Rostóvs’ to fulfill the commission

+entrusted to him. Natásha was in bed, the count at the club, and Pierre,

+after giving the letters to Sónya, went to Márya Dmítrievna who was

+interested to know how Prince Andrew had taken the news. Ten minutes

+later Sónya came to Márya Dmítrievna.

+

+“Natásha insists on seeing Count Peter Kirílovich,” said she.

+

+“But how? Are we to take him up to her? The room there has not been

+tidied up.”

+

+“No, she has dressed and gone into the drawing room,” said Sónya.

+

+Márya Dmítrievna only shrugged her shoulders.

+

+“When will her mother come? She has worried me to death! Now mind, don’t

+tell her everything!” said she to Pierre. “One hasn’t the heart to scold

+her, she is so much to be pitied, so much to be pitied.”

+

+Natásha was standing in the middle of the drawing room, emaciated, with

+a pale set face, but not at all shamefaced as Pierre expected to find

+her. When he appeared at the door she grew flurried, evidently undecided

+whether to go to meet him or to wait till he came up.

+

+Pierre hastened to her. He thought she would give him her hand as

+usual; but she, stepping up to him, stopped, breathing heavily, her arms

+hanging lifelessly just in the pose she used to stand in when she

+went to the middle of the ballroom to sing, but with quite a different

+expression of face.

+

+“Peter Kirílovich,” she began rapidly, “Prince Bolkónski was your

+friend—is your friend,” she corrected herself. (It seemed to her that

+everything that had once been must now be different.) “He told me once

+to apply to you...”

+

+Pierre sniffed as he looked at her, but did not speak. Till then he had

+reproached her in his heart and tried to despise her, but he now felt so

+sorry for her that there was no room in his soul for reproach.

+

+“He is here now: tell him... to for... forgive me!” She stopped and

+breathed still more quickly, but did not shed tears.

+

+“Yes... I will tell him,” answered Pierre; “but...”

+

+He did not know what to say.

+

+Natásha was evidently dismayed at the thought of what he might think she

+had meant.

+

+“No, I know all is over,” she said hurriedly. “No, that can never be.

+I’m only tormented by the wrong I have done him. Tell him only that I

+beg him to forgive, forgive, forgive me for everything....”

+

+She trembled all over and sat down on a chair.

+

+A sense of pity he had never before known overflowed Pierre’s heart.

+

+“I will tell him, I will tell him everything once more,” said Pierre.

+“But... I should like to know one thing....”

+

+“Know what?” Natásha’s eyes asked.

+

+“I should like to know, did you love...” Pierre did not know how to

+refer to Anatole and flushed at the thought of him—“did you love that

+bad man?”

+

+“Don’t call him bad!” said Natásha. “But I don’t know, don’t know at

+all....”

+

+She began to cry and a still greater sense of pity, tenderness, and love

+welled up in Pierre. He felt the tears trickle under his spectacles and

+hoped they would not be noticed.

+

+“We won’t speak of it any more, my dear,” said Pierre, and his gentle,

+cordial tone suddenly seemed very strange to Natásha.

+

+“We won’t speak of it, my dear—I’ll tell him everything; but one thing

+I beg of you, consider me your friend and if you want help, advice,

+or simply to open your heart to someone—not now, but when your mind is

+clearer think of me!” He took her hand and kissed it. “I shall be happy

+if it’s in my power...”

+

+Pierre grew confused.

+

+“Don’t speak to me like that. I am not worth it!” exclaimed Natásha and

+turned to leave the room, but Pierre held her hand.

+

+He knew he had something more to say to her. But when he said it he was

+amazed at his own words.

+

+“Stop, stop! You have your whole life before you,” said he to her.

+

+“Before me? No! All is over for me,” she replied with shame and

+self-abasement.

+

+“All over?” he repeated. “If I were not myself, but the handsomest,

+cleverest, and best man in the world, and were free, I would this moment

+ask on my knees for your hand and your love!”

+

+For the first time for many days Natásha wept tears of gratitude and

+tenderness, and glancing at Pierre she went out of the room.

+

+Pierre too when she had gone almost ran into the anteroom, restraining

+tears of tenderness and joy that choked him, and without finding the

+sleeves of his fur cloak threw it on and got into his sleigh.

+

+“Where to now, your excellency?” asked the coachman.

+

+“Where to?” Pierre asked himself. “Where can I go now? Surely not to the

+Club or to pay calls?” All men seemed so pitiful, so poor, in comparison

+with this feeling of tenderness and love he experienced: in comparison

+with that softened, grateful, last look she had given him through her

+tears.

+

+“Home!” said Pierre, and despite twenty-two degrees of frost Fahrenheit

+he threw open the bearskin cloak from his broad chest and inhaled the

+air with joy.

+

+It was clear and frosty. Above the dirty, ill-lit streets, above the

+black roofs, stretched the dark starry sky. Only looking up at the sky

+did Pierre cease to feel how sordid and humiliating were all mundane

+things compared with the heights to which his soul had just been raised.

+At the entrance to the Arbát Square an immense expanse of dark starry

+sky presented itself to his eyes. Almost in the center of it, above the

+Prechístenka Boulevard, surrounded and sprinkled on all sides by stars

+but distinguished from them all by its nearness to the earth, its white

+light, and its long uplifted tail, shone the enormous and brilliant

+comet of 1812—the comet which was said to portend all kinds of woes

+and the end of the world. In Pierre, however, that comet with its long

+luminous tail aroused no feeling of fear. On the contrary he gazed

+joyfully, his eyes moist with tears, at this bright comet which, having

+traveled in its orbit with inconceivable velocity through immeasurable

+space, seemed suddenly—like an arrow piercing the earth—to remain

+fixed in a chosen spot, vigorously holding its tail erect, shining and

+displaying its white light amid countless other scintillating stars. It

+seemed to Pierre that this comet fully responded to what was passing in

+his own softened and uplifted soul, now blossoming into a new life.

+

+

+

+

+

+BOOK NINE: 1812

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER I

+

+From the close of the year 1811 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 naïve 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,

+Rumyántsev, 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

+war was the Continental System which was ruining Europe; to the generals

+and old soldiers that the chief reason for the war was the necessity of

+giving them employment; to the legitimists of that day that it was the

+need of re-establishing les bons principes, and to the diplomatists of

+that time that it all resulted from the fact that the alliance between

+Russia and Austria in 1809 had not been sufficiently well concealed

+from Napoleon, and from the awkward wording of Memorandum No. 178. It

+is natural that these and a countless and infinite quantity of other

+reasons, the number depending on the endless diversity of points

+of view, presented themselves to the men of that day; but to us, to

+posterity who view the thing that happened in all its magnitude and

+perceive its plain and terrible meaning, these causes seem insufficient.

+To us it is incomprehensible that millions of Christian men killed and

+tortured each other either because Napoleon was ambitious or Alexander

+was firm, or because 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 Smolénsk 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 anyone 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 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 frère, 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 Königsberg. 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,

+Beauché; 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, Gérard, 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 Kóvno, 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 Víliya, 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 Légion

+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 Vílna 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 Vílna 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 Vílna 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 Bezúkhova was present among other Russian ladies who had

+followed the sovereign from Petersburg to Vílna 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.

+

+Borís Drubetskóy, having left his wife in Moscow and being for the

+present en garçon (as he phrased it), was also there and, though not an

+aide-de-camp, had subscribed a large sum toward the expenses. Borís

+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 Hélène in Vílna after not having seen her for

+a long time and did not recall the past, but as Hélène was enjoying

+the favors of a very important personage and Borís had only recently

+married, they met as good friends of long standing.

+

+At midnight dancing was still going on. Hélène, not having a suitable

+partner, herself offered to dance the mazurka with Borís. They were the

+third couple. Borís, coolly looking at Hélène’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, Borís saw that Adjutant General Balashëv, 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 Balashëv 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 Balashëv begun to speak before a look of

+amazement appeared on the Emperor’s face. He took Balashëv 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. Borís noticed

+Arakchéev’s excited face when the sovereign went out with Balashëv.

+Arakchéev 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. (Borís understood that Arakchéev envied Balashëv and

+was displeased that evidently important news had reached the Emperor

+otherwise than through himself.)

+

+But the Emperor and Balashëv passed out into the illuminated garden

+without noticing Arakchéev who, holding his sword and glancing

+wrathfully around, followed some twenty paces behind them.

+

+All the time Borís was going through the figures of the mazurka, he was

+worried by the question of what news Balashëv 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 Hélène 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 Balashëv

+and the Emperor returning to the veranda, he stood still. They were

+moving toward the door. Borís, 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 Borís 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

+Borís had overheard it.

+

+“Let no one know of it!” the Emperor added with a frown.

+

+Borís 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.

+

+Borís 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, Shishkóv, and told

+him to write an order to the troops and a rescript to Field Marshal

+Prince Saltykóv, 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 frère,

+

+Yesterday I learned that, despite the loyalty with which I have kept

+my engagements with Your Majesty, your troops have crossed the Russian

+frontier, and I have this moment received from Petersburg a note, in

+which Count Lauriston informs me, as a reason for this aggression, that

+Your Majesty has considered yourself to be in a state of war with me

+from the time Prince Kurákin 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 Balashëv and read him his letter to Napoleon, ordered him to

+take it and hand it personally to the French Emperor. When dispatching

+Balashëv, 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 Balashëv to

+repeat them personally to Napoleon.

+

+Having set off in the small hours of the fourteenth, accompanied by a

+bugler and two Cossacks, Balashëv reached the French outposts at the

+village of Rykónty, 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 Balashëv to halt. Balashëv 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 Balashëv, 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? Balashëv 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, Balashëv

+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.

+

+Balashëv 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 Balashëv’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 Rykónty, 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 Balashëv 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 Balashëv at a gallop, his plumes flowing and his gems and

+gold lace glittering in the bright June sunshine.

+

+Balashëv was only two horses’ length from the equestrian with the

+bracelets, plumes, necklaces, and gold embroidery, who was galloping

+toward him with a theatrically solemn countenance, when Julner, the

+French colonel, whispered respectfully: “The King of Naples!” It was,

+in fact, Murat, now called “King of Naples.” Though it was quite

+incomprehensible why he should be King of Naples, he was called so,

+and was himself convinced that he was so, and therefore assumed a more

+solemn and important air than formerly. He was so sure that he really

+was the King of Naples that when, on the eve of his departure from that

+city, while walking through the streets with his wife, some Italians

+called out to him: “Viva il re!” * he turned to his wife with a pensive

+smile and said: “Poor fellows, they 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 Balashëv’s mission, whose name he could not pronounce.

+

+“De Bal-machève!” 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 Balashëv’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 Balashëv, “my master, the Emperor, does not

+desire war and as Your Majesty sees...” said Balashëv, 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-machève.” But royauté 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 Balashëv’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.”

+

+

+Balashëv 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.

+

+Balashëv 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.

+

+Balashëv 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 Arakchéev was to Alexander—though not a

+coward like Arakchéev, 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 Arakchéev, 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.

+

+Balashëv 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

+Balashëv was brought in. He became still more absorbed in his task when

+the Russian general entered, and after glancing over his spectacles at

+Balashëv’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 Balashëv’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, Balashëv 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.”

+

+Balashëv 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.

+

+Balashëv 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 Balashëv, “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 Balashëv’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 Castrès, came in and conducted

+Balashëv 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 Balashëv 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 Castrès.

+

+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, Balashëv was brought to Vílna—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 Balashëv and informed him of the Emperor Napoleon’s wish to honor him

+with an audience.

+

+Four days before, sentinels of the Preobrazhénsk regiment had stood in

+front of the house to which Balashëv 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 Balashëv in the very

+house in Vílna from which Alexander had dispatched him on his mission.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER VI

+

+Though Balashëv 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

+Balashëv 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 Balashëv to follow

+him.

+

+Balashëv 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 Balashëv’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 Balashëv’s face and immediately looked past him.

+

+It was plain that Balashëv’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, Balashëv

+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, Balashëv 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

+Balashëv’s uniform and sword.

+

+Balashëv recovered himself and began to speak. He said that the

+Emperor Alexander did not consider Kurákin’s demand for his passports a

+sufficient cause for war; that Kurákin 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 Balashëv might

+proceed.

+

+After saying all he had been instructed to say, Balashëv added that

+the Emperor Alexander wished for peace, but would not enter into

+negotiations except on condition that... Here Balashëv hesitated:

+he remembered the words the Emperor Alexander had not written in his

+letter, but had specially inserted in the rescript to Saltykóv and had

+told Balashëv to repeat to Napoleon. Balashëv 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 Balashëv’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, Balashëv, 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 Balashëv.

+

+“The Niemen?” repeated Napoleon. “So now you want me to retire beyond

+the Niemen—only the Niemen?” repeated Napoleon, looking straight at

+Balashëv.

+

+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 Balashëv. Balashëv 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?”

+

+Balashëv 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 Balashëv 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 Balashëv, 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.

+Bagratión 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 Vílna. You are cut in two and have been driven out of the Polish

+provinces. Your army is grumbling.”

+

+“On the contrary, Your Majesty,” said Balashëv, 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.

+

+Balashëv 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, Balashëv 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. Balashëv 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. Balashëv 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 Balashëv still stood silently before him in

+the same attitude of submission to fate, Napoleon abruptly turned

+round, drew close to Balashëv’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 Dvína 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 Balashëv. He

+paused, looked ironically straight into Balashëv’s eyes, and said in a

+quiet voice:

+

+“And yet what a splendid reign your master might have had!”

+

+Balashëv, 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. Balashëv 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 Balashëv had ended, Napoleon again took out his snuffbox, sniffed

+at it, and stamped his foot twice on the floor as a signal. The door

+opened, a gentleman-in-waiting, bending respectfully, handed the Emperor

+his hat and gloves; another brought him a pocket handkerchief. Napoleon,

+without giving them a glance, turned to Balashëv:

+

+“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,” Balashëv 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, Balashëv received, through Duroc, an invitation to dine

+with the Emperor that day.

+

+Bessières, Caulaincourt, and Berthier were present at that dinner.

+

+Napoleon met Balashëv 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 Balashëv. 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 Vílna, 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 Balashëv beside him, Napoleon not only treated

+him amiably but behaved as if Balashëv 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 Balashëv about the Russian capital, not merely as an

+interested traveler asks about a new city he intends to visit, but as

+if convinced that Balashëv, 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 Balashëv.

+

+“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.

+

+Balashëv 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 Balashëv, “besides Russia there

+is Spain, where there are also many churches and monasteries.”

+

+This reply of Balashëv’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 Balashëv’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 naïvely asked Balashëv through what towns the

+direct road from there to Moscow passed. Balashëv, 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 Poltáva, which Charles XII chose.” Balashëv involuntarily

+flushed with pleasure at the aptitude of this reply, but hardly had

+he uttered the word Poltáva 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 Sèvres coffee cup, and motioned Balashëv 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,

+Balashëv 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.

+

+Balashëv made no reply and bowed his head in silence.

+

+“Yes. Four days ago in this room, Wintzingerode and Stein were

+deliberating,” continued Napoleon with the same derisive and

+self-confident smile. “What I 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 do the same?”

+and he turned inquiringly to Balashëv, 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 Württemberg, Baden, and

+Weimar relations out of Germany.... Yes. I’ll drive them out. Let him

+prepare an asylum for them in Russia!”

+

+Balashëv 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 Balashëv 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

+Balashëv and with a slight smile, as confidently, quickly, and simply

+as if he were doing something not merely important but pleasing to

+Balashëv, 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 Balashëv’s bow. “Let him have mine, he has a long way to

+go!”

+

+The letter taken by Balashëv 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 Kurágin whom he felt it necessary to encounter. On reaching

+Petersburg he inquired for Kurágin but the latter had already left the

+city. Pierre had warned his brother-in-law that Prince Andrew was on

+his track. Anatole Kurágin promptly obtained an appointment from

+the Minister of War and went to join the army in Moldavia. While in

+Petersburg Prince Andrew met Kutúzov, his former commander who was

+always well disposed toward him, and Kutúzov 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 Kurágin.

+He thought that if he challenged him without some fresh cause it might

+compromise the young Countess Rostóva and so he wanted to meet Kurágin

+personally in order to find a fresh pretext for a duel. But he again

+failed to meet Kurágin 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 Boguchárovo and then in Switzerland and Rome,

+but he even dreaded to recall them and the bright and boundless horizons

+they had revealed. He was now concerned only with the nearest practical

+matters unrelated to his past interests, and he seized on these the more

+eagerly the more those past interests were closed to him. It was as if

+that lofty, infinite canopy of heaven that had once towered above him

+had suddenly turned into a low, solid vault that weighed him down, in

+which all was clear, but nothing eternal or mysterious.

+

+Of the activities that presented themselves to him, army service was the

+simplest and most familiar. As a general on duty on Kutúzov’s staff,

+he applied himself to business with zeal and perseverance and surprised

+Kutúzov by his willingness and accuracy in work. Not having found

+Kurágin 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 Kurágin, 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 Kutúzov had been living for two months, passing his

+days and nights with a Wallachian woman—Prince Andrew asked Kutúzov

+to transfer him to the Western Army. Kutúzov, who was already weary of

+Bolkónski’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 Smolénsk highroad. During the last three

+years there had been so many changes in his life, he had thought, felt,

+and seen so much (having traveled both in the east and the west), that

+on reaching Bald Hills it struck him as strange and unexpected to find

+the way of life there unchanged and still the same in every detail.

+He entered through the gates with their stone pillars and drove up

+the avenue leading to the house as if he were entering an enchanted,

+sleeping castle. The same old stateliness, the same cleanliness, the

+same stillness reigned there, and inside there was the same furniture,

+the same walls, sounds, and smell, and the same timid faces, only

+somewhat older. Princess Mary was still the same timid, plain maiden

+getting on in years, uselessly and joylessly passing the best years of

+her life in fear and constant suffering. Mademoiselle Bourienne was

+the same coquettish, self-satisfied girl, enjoying every moment of her

+existence and full of joyous hopes for the future. She had merely become

+more self-confident, Prince Andrew thought. Dessalles, the tutor he had

+brought from Switzerland, was wearing a coat of Russian cut and

+talking broken Russian to the servants, but was still the same narrowly

+intelligent, conscientious, and pedantic preceptor. The old prince

+had changed in appearance only by the loss of a tooth, which left a

+noticeable gap on one side of his mouth; in character he was the same as

+ever, only showing still more irritability and skepticism as to what was

+happening in the world. Little Nicholas alone had changed. He had grown,

+become rosier, had curly dark hair, and, when merry and laughing, quite

+unconsciously lifted the upper lip of his pretty little mouth just

+as the little princess used to do. He alone did not obey the law of

+immutability in the enchanted, sleeping castle. But though externally

+all remained as of old, the inner relations of all these people had

+changed since Prince Andrew had seen them last. The household was

+divided into two alien and hostile camps, who changed their habits for

+his sake and only met because he was there. To the one camp belonged

+the old prince, Mademoiselle Bourienne, and the architect; to the other

+Princess Mary, Dessalles, little Nicholas, and all the old nurses and

+maids.

+

+During his stay at Bald Hills all the family dined together, but they

+were ill at ease and Prince Andrew felt that he was a visitor for whose

+sake an exception was being made and that his presence made them all

+feel awkward. Involuntarily feeling this at dinner on the first day, he

+was taciturn, and the old prince noticing this also became morosely dumb

+and retired to his apartments directly after dinner. In the evening,

+when Prince Andrew went to him and, trying to rouse him, began to

+tell him of the young Count Kámensky’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

+Tíkhon, 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 Kurágin, all his unexpended

+anger suddenly swelled up in his heart.

+

+“If Mary is already persuading me to forgive, it means that I ought long

+ago to have punished him,” he thought. And giving her no further reply,

+he began thinking of the glad vindictive moment when he would meet

+Kurágin 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

+Bolkónski 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 Kurágin, 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 Kurágin. 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 Vílna, the forces had been divided

+into three armies. First, the army under Barclay de Tolly, secondly, the

+army under Bagratión, and thirdly, the one commanded by Tormásov. 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 Volkónski, 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: Arakchéev, the ex-Minister

+of War; Count Bennigsen, the senior general in rank; the Grand Duke

+Tsarévich Constantine Pávlovich; Count Rumyántsev, 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 émigré; 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,

+Arakchéev, or Prince Volkónski, 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. Arakchéev was a faithful

+custodian to enforce order and acted as the sovereign’s bodyguard.

+Bennigsen was a landlord in the Vílna 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 tendencies and parties:

+

+The first party consisted of Pfuel and his adherents—military theorists

+who believed in a science of war with immutable laws—laws of oblique

+movements, outflankings, and so forth. Pfuel and his adherents demanded

+a retirement into the depths of the country in accordance with precise

+laws defined by a pseudo-theory of war, and they saw only barbarism,

+ignorance, or evil intention in every deviation from that theory. To

+this party belonged the foreign nobles, Wolzogen, Wintzingerode, and

+others, chiefly Germans.

+

+The second party was directly opposed to the first; one extreme, as

+always happens, was met by representatives of the other. The members of

+this party were those who had demanded an advance from Vílna 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: Bagratión, Ermólov

+(who was beginning to come to the front), and others. At that time a

+famous joke of Ermólov’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 Suvórov, 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 Arakchéev 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

+Tsarévich, 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 Vílna and Vítebsk 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, Rumyántsev, 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 Rostóv 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,

+Shishkóv, the Secretary of State and one of the chief representatives of

+this party, wrote a letter to the Emperor which Arakchéev and Balashëv

+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 Bolkónski 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 Chernýshev, the Emperor’s

+aide-de-camp, received Bolkónski 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.

+

+Chernýshev 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 Chernýshev.

+

+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 Chernýshev 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 Chernýshev, 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 Chernýshev 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 and 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 Auerstädt, 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 Chernýshev 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 Bolkónski, 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.

+Chernýshev 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 Bolkónski, 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

+Mikháylovich Volkónski 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 Mikháylovich Volkónski 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 Volkónski, 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 Volkónski 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 Volkónski 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 Schön 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. Bagratión 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, Rostóv had received a letter from

+his parents in which they told him briefly of Natásha’s illness and the

+breaking off of her engagement to Prince Andrew (which they explained by

+Natásha’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 Natásha was ill and her

+engagement broken off, and that he would do all he could to meet their

+wishes. To Sónya 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

+Rostóv from returning home as he had promised and marrying Sónya. The

+autumn in Otrádnoe with the hunting, and the winter with the Christmas

+holidays and Sónya’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 Rostóv,

+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 Rostóv, 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 Vílna 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 Pávlograd 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 Vílna, 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 Sventsyáni and destroy any provisions they could not carry

+away with them. Sventsyáni 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. Rostóv remembered

+Sventsyáni, 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 Sventsyáni 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 Pávlograds took part in a serious action

+for the first time.

+

+On the twelfth of July, on the eve of that action, there was a heavy

+storm of rain and hail. In general, the summer of 1812 was remarkable

+for its storms.

+

+The two Pávlograd 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 Rostóv, with a young

+officer named Ilyín, his protégé, 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 Rostóv’s shelter.

+

+“I have come from the staff, Count. Have you heard of Raévski’s

+exploit?”

+

+And the officer gave them details of the Saltánov battle, which he had

+heard at the staff.

+

+Rostóv, smoking his pipe and turning his head about as the water

+trickled down his neck, listened inattentively, with an occasional

+glance at Ilyín, 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 Denísov seven years

+before. Ilyín tried to imitate Rostóv in everything and adored him as a

+girl might have done.

+

+Zdrzhinski, the officer with the long mustache, spoke grandiloquently of

+the Saltánov dam being “a Russian Thermopylae,” and of how a deed worthy

+of antiquity had been performed by General Raévski. He recounted how

+Raévski had led his two sons onto the dam under terrific fire and had

+charged with them beside him. Rostóv 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 Rostóv 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 Rostóv in the narrow shanty. Rostóv 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 Raévski 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 Raévski 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

+Raévski’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 Saltánov 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 Pétya

+there, or even Ilyín, 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 Ilyín, noticing that Rostóv 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.”

+

+Ilyín went out and Zdrzhinski rode away.

+

+Five minutes later Ilyín, splashing through the mud, came running back

+to the shanty.

+

+“Hurrah! Rostóv, 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 Hendríkhovna’s there.”

+

+Mary Hendríkhovna 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.

+

+Rostóv threw his cloak over his shoulders, shouted to Lavrúshka to

+follow with the things, and—now slipping in the mud, now splashing right

+through it—set off with Ilyín in the lessening rain and the darkness

+that was occasionally rent by distant lightning.

+

+“Rostóv, 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 Hendríkhovna, 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.

+Rostóv and Ilyín, on entering the room, were welcomed with merry shouts

+and laughter.

+

+“Dear me, how jolly we are!” said Rostóv 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 Hendríkhovna’s dress!” cried other voices.

+

+Rostóv and Ilyín hastened to find a corner where they could change into

+dry clothes without offending Mary Hendríkhovna’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 Hendríkhovna obliged them with the

+loan of a petticoat to be used as a curtain, and behind that screen

+Rostóv and Ilyín, helped by Lavrúshka 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

+Hendríkhovna 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 Hendríkhovna, smiling timidly and happily.

+“He is sleeping well as it is, after a sleepless night.”

+

+“Oh, no, Mary Hendríkhovna,” 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

+Hendríkhovna’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 Hendríkhovna. 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

+Hendríkhovna should stir the sugar for everyone in turn. Rostóv received

+his tumbler, and adding some rum to it asked Mary Hendríkhovna 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 Hendríkhovna assented and began looking for the spoon which someone

+meanwhile had pounced on.

+

+“Use your finger, Mary Hendríkhovna, it will be still nicer,” said

+Rostóv.

+

+“Too hot!” she replied, blushing with pleasure.

+

+Ilyín put a few drops of rum into the bucket of water and brought it to

+Mary Hendríkhovna, 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, Rostóv took a pack of cards and

+proposed that they should play “Kings” with Mary Hendríkhovna. They drew

+lots to settle who should make up her set. At Rostóv’s suggestion it

+was agreed that whoever became “King” should have the right to kiss Mary

+Hendríkhovna’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 Hendríkhovna is ‘King’?” asked Ilyín.

+

+“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 Hendríkhovna. 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

+Hendríkhovna 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 Rostóv. “What an idea,

+doctor!”

+

+“I’ll stand guard on it myself!” said Ilyín.

+

+“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 Rostóv, 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 Ostróvna. Still laughing and talking, the officers began hurriedly

+getting ready and again boiled some muddy water in the samovar. But

+Rostóv 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, Rostóv and Ilyín 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 Rostóv to Ilyín, who was

+following him.

+

+“A charming woman!” said Ilyín, 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.

+Rostóv 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. Rostóv,

+always closely followed by Ilyín, rode along the side of the road

+between two rows of birch trees.

+

+When campaigning, Rostóv 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, Donéts 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, Rostóv 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 Ilyín 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 Ilyín, 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 Rostóv had had time to consider and determine the distance of

+that firing, Count Ostermann-Tolstóy’s adjutant came galloping from

+Vítebsk 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, Rostóv’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 Rostóv 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

+

+Rostóv, 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.

+

+Rostóv 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 Sevastyánych!” said Rostóv. “You know, we could crush them....”

+

+“A fine thing too!” replied the captain, “and really...”

+

+Rostóv, 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. Rostóv 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, Rostóv

+gave rein to his Donéts 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. Rostóv, 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 Rostóv’s horse dashed

+its breast against the hindquarters of the officer’s horse, almost

+knocking it over, and at the same instant Rostóv, without knowing why,

+raised his saber and struck the Frenchman with it.

+

+The instant he had done this, all Rostóv’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.

+Rostóv 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

+Rostóv 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 Rostóv 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 Rostóv’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. Rostóv 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-Tolstóy met the returning hussars, sent for Rostóv,

+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, Rostóv, 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. “Ilyín? 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.”

+

+Rostóv 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 Rostóv with a feigned smile and waved his hand in greeting.

+Rostóv still had the same indefinite feeling, as of shame.

+

+All that day and the next his friends and comrades noticed that Rostóv,

+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.

+

+Rostóv 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 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

+Ostróvna 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 Natásha’s illness, the countess, though not quite

+well yet and still weak, went to Moscow with Pétya and the rest of the

+household, and the whole family moved from Márya Dmítrievna’s house to

+their own and settled down in town.

+

+Natásha’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

+Natásha 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 Rostóv 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 Natásha 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 Arbát and got a powder and some pills in a pretty box for a ruble

+and seventy kopeks, and if she took those powders in boiled water at

+intervals of precisely two hours, neither more nor less.

+

+What would Sónya 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 Métivier and Feller had not understood the symptoms,

+but Frise had, and Múdrov 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 Sónya 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 Natásha 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 Natásha’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 Rostóvs 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. Natásha’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

+

+Natásha 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 Nastásya Ivánovna, 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 Otrádnoe 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. Natásha 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 Pétya. 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 Bezúkhov. Natásha 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 Natásha

+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 Natásha 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

+Natásha felt very strongly with him that moral barrier the absence of

+which she had experienced with Kurágin 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, Agraféna Ivánovna Belóva, a

+country neighbor of the Rostóvs, came to Moscow to pay her devotions at

+the shrines of the Moscow saints. She suggested that Natásha should fast

+and prepare for Holy Communion, and Natásha gladly welcomed the idea.

+Despite the doctor’s orders that she should not go out early in the

+morning, Natásha insisted on fasting and preparing for the sacrament,

+not as they generally prepared for it in the Rostóv family by attending

+three services in their own house, but as Agraféna Ivánovna did, by

+going to church every day for a week and not once missing Vespers,

+Matins, or Mass.

+

+The countess was pleased with Natásha’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 Natásha’s wish and

+entrusted her to Belóva. Agraféna Ivánovna used to come to wake Natásha

+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, Natásha, shivering in the fresh

+air, went out into the deserted streets lit by the clear light of dawn.

+By Agraféna Ivánovna’s advice Natásha prepared herself not in their

+own parish, but at a church where, according to the devout Agraféna

+Ivánovna, the priest was a man of very severe and lofty life. There were

+never many people in the church; Natásha always stood beside Belóva 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,

+Natásha 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 Agraféna

+Ivánovna, joyously playing with the word, called it, seemed to Natásha

+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 Smolénsk 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 Rostóvs’, promised

+to come to dinner next day, Sunday, and bring a copy of the manifesto

+and appeal, which he would obtain from Count Rostopchín.

+

+That Sunday, the Rostóvs went to Mass at the Razumóvskis’ private chapel

+as usual. It was a hot July day. Even at ten o’clock, when the Rostóvs

+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 Rostóvs’ acquaintances, were at the Razumóvskis’

+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 Natásha, 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 Rostóva, the one who...”

+

+“She’s much thinner, but all the same she’s pretty!”

+

+She heard, or thought she heard, the names of Kurágin and Bolkónski. 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, Natásha 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 Natásha’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 Natásha.

+

+“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

+Natásha.

+

+When they prayed for the warriors, she thought of her brother and

+Denísov. 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

+Sónya, 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,” Natásha 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 Natásha, 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

+Natásha 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 Pávlovich; 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 Natásha’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 Rostóvs’ with Natásha’s

+grateful look fresh in his mind, had gazed at the comet that seemed to

+be fixed in the sky and felt that something new was appearing on his own

+horizon—from that day the problem of the vanity and uselessness of all

+earthly things, that had incessantly tormented him, no longer presented

+itself. That terrible question “Why?” “Wherefore?” which had come to him

+amid every occupation, was now replaced, not by another question or by a

+reply to the former question, but by her image. When he listened to, or

+himself took part in, trivial conversations, when he read or heard of

+human baseness or folly, he was not horrified as formerly, and did

+not ask himself why men struggled so about these things when all is so

+transient and incomprehensible—but he remembered her as he had last

+seen her, and all his doubts vanished—not because she had answered

+the questions that had haunted him, but because his conception of her

+transferred him instantly to another, a brighter, realm of spiritual

+activity in which no one could be justified or guilty—a realm of beauty

+and love which it was worth living for. Whatever worldly baseness

+presented itself to him, he said to himself:

+

+“Well, supposing N. N. has swindled the country and the Tsar, and the

+country and the Tsar confer honors upon him, what does that matter? She

+smiled at me yesterday and asked me to come again, and I love her, and

+no one will ever know it.” And his soul felt calm and peaceful.

+

+Pierre still went into society, drank as much and led the same idle

+and dissipated life, because besides the hours he spent at the Rostóvs’

+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 Natásha’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 Napoléon in numbers, it appears that the

+sum of them is 666, and that Napoleon was therefore the beast foretold

+in the Apocalypse. Moreover, by applying the same system to the words

+quarante-deux, * which was the term allowed to the beast that “spoke

+great things and blasphemies,” the same number 666 was obtained; from

+which it followed that the limit fixed for Napoleon’s power had come

+in the year 1812 when the French emperor was forty-two. This prophecy

+pleased Pierre very much and he often asked himself what would put an

+end to the power of the beast, that is, of Napoleon, and tried by the

+same system of using letters as numbers and adding them up, to find an

+answer to the question that engrossed him. He wrote the words L’Empereur

+Alexandre, La nation russe and added up their numbers, but the sums

+were either more or less than 666. Once when making such calculations he

+wrote down his own name in French, Comte Pierre Besouhoff, but the

+sum of the numbers did not come right. Then he changed the spelling,

+substituting a z for the s and adding de and the article le, still

+without obtaining the desired result. Then it occurred to him: if the

+answer to the question were contained in his name, his nationality would

+also be given in the answer. So he wrote Le russe Besuhof and adding

+up the numbers got 671. This was only five too much, and five was

+represented by e, the very letter elided from the article le before the

+word Empereur. By omitting the e, though incorrectly, Pierre got the

+answer he sought. L’russe Besuhof made 666. This discovery excited him.

+How, or by what means, he was connected with the great event foretold in

+the Apocalypse he did not know, but he did not doubt that connection for

+a moment. His love for Natásha, Antichrist, Napoleon, the invasion, the

+comet, 666, L’Empereur Napoléon, 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 Rostóvs to bring them, from Count Rostopchín 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 Rostopchín’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 Rostóv to his father. Pierre

+took that letter, and Rostopchín 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 Rostóv, awarded a St. George’s Cross of the Fourth Class for

+courage shown in the Ostróvna affair, and in the same order the name

+of Prince Andrew Bolkónski, appointed to the command of a regiment of

+Chasseurs. Though he did not want to remind the Rostóvs of Bolkónski,

+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 Rostóvs, keeping the appeal, the bulletin,

+and the other orders to take with him when he went to dinner.

+

+His conversation with Count Rostopchín 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 Rostóvs 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 Rostóvs’ he stayed till midnight. The Rostóvs’ 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 Natásha. Even before he saw

+her, while taking off his cloak, he heard her. She was practicing solfa

+exercises in the music room. He knew that she had not sung since her

+illness, and so the sound of her voice surprised and delighted him. He

+opened the door softly and saw her, in the lilac dress she had worn at

+church, walking about the room singing. She had her back to him when he

+opened the door, but when, turning quickly, she saw his broad, surprised

+face, she blushed and came rapidly up to him.

+

+“I want to try to sing again,” she said, adding as if by way of excuse,

+“it is, at least, something to do.”

+

+“That’s capital!”

+

+“How glad I am you’ve come! I am so happy today,” she said, with the old

+animation Pierre had not seen in her for a long time. “You know Nicholas

+has received a St. George’s Cross? I am so proud of him.”

+

+“Oh yes, I sent that announcement. But I don’t want to interrupt you,”

+he added, and was about to go to the drawing room.

+

+Natásha 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,” Natásha 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, Bolkónski” (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 Pétya came running in from the drawing room.

+

+Pétya was now a handsome rosy lad of fifteen with full red lips and

+resembled Natásha. He was preparing to enter the university, but he and

+his friend Obolénski had lately, in secret, agreed to join the hussars.

+

+Pétya 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 Pétya

+was saying.

+

+Pétya pulled him by the arm to attract his attention.

+

+“Well, what about my plan? Peter Kirílych, for heaven’s sake! You are my

+only hope,” said Pétya.

+

+“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 Razumóvskis’ 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 Smolénsk,” 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

+Natásha, 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.

+

+Natásha 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 Sónya, 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, Shinshín told them the town news, of the

+illness of the old Georgian princess, of Métivier’s disappearance from

+Moscow, and of how some German fellow had been brought to Rostopchín

+and accused of being a French “spyer” (so Count Rostopchín had told the

+story), and how Rostopchín 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?” Shinshín asked. “Prince Golítsyn has engaged a

+master to teach him Russian. It is becoming dangerous to speak French in

+the streets.”

+

+“And how about you, Count Peter Kirílych? 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 Sónya, 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.”

+

+Sónya read painstakingly in her high-pitched voice. The count listened

+with closed eyes, heaving abrupt sighs at certain passages.

+

+Natásha 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. Shinshín, with a sarcastic

+smile on his lips, was evidently preparing to make fun of anything that

+gave him the opportunity: Sónya’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,

+Sónya, with a quiver in her voice due chiefly to the attention that was

+being paid to her, read the last words:

+

+“We ourselves will not delay to appear among our people in that Capital

+and in other parts of our realm for consultation, and for the direction

+of all our levies, both those now barring the enemy’s path and those

+freshly formed to defeat him wherever he may appear. May the ruin he

+hopes to bring upon us recoil on his own head, and may Europe delivered

+from bondage glorify the name of Russia!”

+

+

+“Yes, that’s it!” cried the count, opening his moist eyes and sniffing

+repeatedly, as if a strong vinaigrette had been held to his nose; and he

+added, “Let the Emperor but say the word and we’ll sacrifice everything

+and begrudge nothing.”

+

+Before Shinshín had time to utter the joke he was ready to make on the

+count’s patriotism, Natásha 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 Shinshín.

+

+“Not a patriot at all, but simply...” Natásha 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, Pétya, 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. Fédya Obolénski is younger than I, and he’s

+going too. Besides, all the same I can’t study now when...” Pétya

+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.”

+

+“Pétya! 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 Kirílych 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 Kirílych, let’s go and have a smoke,” he said.

+

+Pierre was agitated and undecided. Natásha’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 Natásha, “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 Natásha, 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!” Natásha 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 Rostóvs’ any more.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XXI

+

+After the definite refusal he had received, Pétya 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 Rostóvs’

+domestic serfs begged permission to go to have a look at him. That

+morning Pétya 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. Pétya 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 Rostóv,

+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, Pétya 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 Pétya 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 Krémlin, the less he remembered

+to walk with the sedateness and deliberation of a man. As he approached

+the Krémlin 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 Pétya stood a peasant woman, a

+footman, two tradesmen, and a discharged soldier. After standing some

+time in the gateway, Pétya 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 Pétya into a very filthy corner of the

+gateway.

+

+Pétya 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 Rostóvs’, and Pétya 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 Pétya with it, streamed forward into the Krémlin 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 Pétya found

+himself in the square he clearly heard the sound of bells and the joyous

+voices of the crowd that filled the whole Krémlin.

+

+For a while the crowd was less dense, but suddenly all heads were bared,

+and everyone rushed forward in one direction. Pétya was being pressed so

+that he could scarcely breathe, and everybody shouted, “Hurrah! hurrah!

+hurrah!” Pétya 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 Pétya 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, Pétya, 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 Pétya. “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 Pétya 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 Pétya—pale and breathless—to

+the Tsar-cannon. Several people were sorry for Pétya, 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.

+

+Pétya 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. Pétya 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 Pétya 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 Pétya 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 Pétya 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 Pétya 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. Pétya 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 Pétya in a tearful voice, of those around

+him, but no one answered him, everybody was too excited; and Pétya,

+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 Pétya 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, Valúev, 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 Pétya among them, rushed

+toward the balcony.

+

+“Angel! Dear one! Hurrah! Father!...” cried the crowd, and Pétya with

+it, and again the women and men of weaker mold, Pétya 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. Pétya’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. Pétya 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 Pétya 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 Krémlin, but called on his friend Obolénski, who was fifteen and was

+also entering the regiment. On returning home Pétya announced resolutely

+and firmly that if he was not allowed to enter the service he would

+run away. And next day, Count Ilyá Rostóv—though he had not yet quite

+yielded—went to inquire how he could arrange for Pétya 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 Slobóda 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 Pétya 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,

+Zinaída Dmítrievna’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 états généraux (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 Ilyá Rostóv, 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 Smolénsk people have offahd to waise militia for the

+Empewah? Ah we to take Smolénsk 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 Ilyá Rostóv 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 Rostóv’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 très honorable préopinant”—“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 à 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 Rostóv 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, Stepán

+Stepánovich Adráksin. Adráksin 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,

+Adráksin 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 Adráksin.

+

+“Yes, and this is not a time for discussing,” he continued, “but for

+acting: there is war in Russia! The enemy is advancing to destroy

+Russia, to desecrate the tombs of our fathers, to carry off our wives

+and children.” The nobleman smote his breast. “We will all arise,

+everyone of us will go, for our father the Tsar!” he shouted, rolling

+his bloodshot eyes. Several approving voices were heard in the crowd.

+“We are Russians and will not grudge our blood in defense of our faith,

+the throne, and the Fatherland! We must cease raving if we are sons of

+our Fatherland! We will show Europe how Russia rises to the defense of

+Russia!”

+

+Pierre wished to reply, but could not get in a word. He felt that his

+words, apart from what meaning they conveyed, were less audible than the

+sound of his opponent’s voice.

+

+Count Rostóv 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 Rostóv 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.

+

+Glínka, 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 Rostopchín 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 Rostopchín.

+“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 Smolénsk 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 Rostóv, 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 otkupshchík. 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 otkupshchík

+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 Mamónov was

+furnishing a regiment, Bezúkhov at once informed Rostopchín that he

+would give a thousand men and their maintenance.

+

+Old Rostóv could not tell his wife of what had passed without tears, and

+at once consented to Pétya’s request and went himself to enter his name.

+

+Next day the Emperor left Moscow. The assembled nobles all took off

+their uniforms and settled down again in their homes and clubs, and not

+without some groans gave orders to their stewards about the enrollment,

+feeling amazed themselves at what they had done.

+

+

+

+

+

+BOOK TEN: 1812

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER I

+

+Napoleon began the war with Russia because he could not resist going

+to Dresden, could not help having his head turned by the homage he

+received, could not help donning a Polish uniform and yielding to the

+stimulating influence of a June morning, and could not refrain from

+bursts of anger in the presence of Kurákin and then of Balashëv.

+

+Alexander refused negotiations because he felt himself to be personally

+insulted. Barclay de Tolly tried to command the army in the best

+way, because he wished to fulfill his duty and earn fame as a great

+commander. Rostóv charged the French because he could not restrain

+his wish for a gallop across a level field; and in the same way the

+innumerable people who took part in the war acted in accord with their

+personal characteristics, habits, circumstances, and aims. They were

+moved by fear or vanity, rejoiced or were indignant, reasoned, imagining

+that they knew what they were doing and did it of their own free will,

+but they all were involuntary tools of history, carrying on a work

+concealed from them but comprehensible to us. Such is the inevitable

+fate of men of action, and the higher they stand in the social hierarchy

+the less are they free.

+

+The actors of 1812 have long since left the stage, their personal

+interests have vanished leaving no trace, and nothing remains of that

+time but its historic results.

+

+Providence compelled all these men, striving to attain personal aims, to

+further the accomplishment of a stupendous result no one of them at all

+expected—neither Napoleon, nor Alexander, nor still less any of those

+who did the actual fighting.

+

+The cause of the destruction of the French army in 1812 is clear to us

+now. No one will deny that that cause was, on the one hand, its advance

+into the heart of Russia late in the season without any preparation for

+a winter campaign and, on the other, the character given to the war

+by the burning of Russian towns and the hatred of the foe this aroused

+among the Russian people. But no one at the time foresaw (what now seems

+so evident) that this was the only way an army of eight hundred thousand

+men—the best in the world and led by the best general—could be destroyed

+in conflict with a raw army of half its numerical strength, and led by

+inexperienced commanders as the Russian army was. Not only did no one

+see this, but on the Russian side every effort was made to hinder the

+only thing that could save Russia, while on the French side, despite

+Napoleon’s experience and so-called military genius, every effort was

+directed to pushing on to Moscow at the end of the summer, that is, to

+doing the very thing that was bound to lead to destruction.

+

+In historical works on the year 1812 French writers are very fond of

+saying that Napoleon felt the danger of extending his line, that he

+sought a battle and that his marshals advised him to stop at Smolénsk,

+and of making similar statements to show that the danger of the campaign

+was even then understood. Russian authors are still fonder of telling

+us that from the commencement of the campaign a Scythian war plan was

+adopted to lure Napoleon into the depths of Russia, and this plan some

+of them attribute to Pfuel, others to a certain Frenchman, others to

+Toll, and others again to Alexander himself—pointing to notes, projects,

+and letters which contain hints of such a line of action. But all these

+hints at what happened, both from the French side and the Russian, are

+advanced only because they fit in with the event. Had that event not

+occurred these hints would have been forgotten, as we have forgotten the

+thousands and millions of hints and expectations to the contrary

+which were current then but have now been forgotten because the event

+falsified them. There are always so many conjectures as to the issue of

+any event that however it may end there will always be people to say:

+“I said then that it would be so,” quite forgetting that amid their

+innumerable conjectures many were to quite the contrary effect.

+

+Conjectures as to Napoleon’s awareness of the danger of extending his

+line, and (on the Russian side) as to luring the enemy into the depths

+of Russia, are evidently of that kind, and only by much straining can

+historians attribute such conceptions to Napoleon and his marshals,

+or such plans to the Russian commanders. All the facts are in flat

+contradiction to such conjectures. During the whole period of the war

+not only was there no wish on the Russian side to draw the French

+into the heart of the country, but from their first entry into Russia

+everything was done to stop them. And not only was Napoleon not afraid

+to extend his line, but he welcomed every step forward as a triumph and

+did not seek battle as eagerly as in former campaigns, but very lazily.

+

+At the very beginning of the war our armies were divided, and our sole

+aim was to unite them, though uniting the armies was no advantage if we

+meant to retire and lure the enemy into the depths of the country. Our

+Emperor joined the army to encourage it to defend every inch of Russian

+soil and not to retreat. The enormous Drissa camp was formed on Pfuel’s

+plan, and there was no intention of retiring farther. The Emperor

+reproached the commanders in chief for every step they retired. He could

+not bear the idea of letting the enemy even reach Smolénsk, still less

+could he contemplate the burning of Moscow, and when our armies did

+unite he was displeased that Smolénsk was abandoned and burned without a

+general engagement having been fought under its walls.

+

+So thought the Emperor, and the Russian commanders and people were still

+more provoked at the thought that our forces were retreating into the

+depths of the country.

+

+Napoleon having cut our armies apart advanced far into the country and

+missed several chances of forcing an engagement. In August he was at

+Smolénsk and thought only of how to advance farther, though as we now

+see that advance was evidently ruinous to him.

+

+The facts clearly show that Napoleon did not foresee the danger of the

+advance on Moscow, nor did Alexander and the Russian commanders then

+think of luring Napoleon on, but quite the contrary. The luring of

+Napoleon into the depths of the country was not the result of any plan,

+for no one believed it to be possible; it resulted from a most complex

+interplay of intrigues, aims, and wishes among those who took part in

+the war and had no perception whatever of the inevitable, or of the one

+way of saving Russia. Everything came about fortuitously. The armies

+were divided at the commencement of the campaign. We tried to unite

+them, with the evident intention of giving battle and checking the

+enemy’s advance, and by this effort to unite them while avoiding battle

+with a much stronger enemy, and necessarily withdrawing the armies at

+an acute angle—we led the French on to Smolénsk. But we withdrew at an

+acute angle not only because the French advanced between our two armies;

+the angle became still more acute and we withdrew still farther, because

+Barclay de Tolly was an unpopular foreigner disliked by Bagratión (who

+would come under his command), and Bagratión—being in command of the

+second army—tried to postpone joining up and coming under Barclay’s

+command as long as he could. Bagratión was slow in effecting the

+junction—though that was the chief aim of all at headquarters—because,

+as he alleged, he exposed his army to danger on this march, and it was

+best for him to retire more to the left and more to the south, worrying

+the enemy from flank and rear and securing from the Ukraine recruits for

+his army; and it looks as if he planned this in order not to come under

+the command of the detested foreigner Barclay, whose rank was inferior

+to his own.

+

+The Emperor was with the army to encourage it, but his presence and

+ignorance of what steps to take, and the enormous number of advisers and

+plans, destroyed the first army’s energy and it retired.

+

+The intention was to make a stand at the Drissa camp, but Paulucci,

+aiming at becoming commander in chief, unexpectedly employed his energy

+to influence Alexander, and Pfuel’s whole plan was abandoned and the

+command entrusted to Barclay. But as Barclay did not inspire confidence

+his power was limited. The armies were divided, there was no unity of

+command, and Barclay was unpopular; but from this confusion, division,

+and the unpopularity of the foreign commander in chief, there resulted

+on the one hand indecision and the avoidance of a battle (which we could

+not have refrained from had the armies been united and had someone else,

+instead of Barclay, been in command) and on the other an ever-increasing

+indignation against the foreigners and an increase in patriotic zeal.

+

+At last the Emperor left the army, and as the most convenient and indeed

+the only pretext for his departure it was decided that it was necessary

+for him to inspire the people in the capitals and arouse the nation in

+general to a patriotic war. And by this visit of the Emperor to Moscow

+the strength of the Russian army was trebled.

+

+He left in order not to obstruct the commander in chief’s undivided

+control of the army, and hoping that more decisive action would then

+be taken, but the command of the armies became still more confused and

+enfeebled. Bennigsen, the Tsarévich, and a swarm of adjutants general

+remained with the army to keep the commander in chief under observation

+and arouse his energy, and Barclay, feeling less free than ever under

+the observation of all these “eyes of the Emperor,” became still more

+cautious of undertaking any decisive action and avoided giving battle.

+

+Barclay stood for caution. The Tsarévich hinted at treachery and

+demanded a general engagement. Lubomírski, Bronnítski, Wlocki, and the

+others of that group stirred up so much trouble that Barclay, under

+pretext of sending papers to the Emperor, dispatched these Polish

+adjutants general to Petersburg and plunged into an open struggle with

+Bennigsen and the Tsarévich.

+

+At Smolénsk the armies at last reunited, much as Bagratión disliked it.

+

+Bagratión drove up in a carriage to the house occupied by Barclay.

+Barclay donned his sash and came out to meet and report to his senior

+officer Bagratión.

+

+Despite his seniority in rank Bagratión, in this contest of magnanimity,

+took his orders from Barclay, but, having submitted, agreed with him

+less than ever. By the Emperor’s orders Bagratión reported direct to

+him. He wrote to Arakchéev, the Emperor’s confidant: “It must be as

+my sovereign pleases, but I cannot work with the Minister (meaning

+Barclay). For God’s sake send me somewhere else if only in command of

+a regiment. I cannot stand it here. Headquarters are so full of Germans

+that a Russian cannot exist and there is no sense in anything. I thought

+I was really serving my sovereign and the Fatherland, but it turns out

+that I am serving Barclay. I confess I do not want to.”

+

+The swarm of Bronnítskis and Wintzingerodes and their like still further

+embittered the relations between the commanders in chief, and even

+less unity resulted. Preparations were made to fight the French before

+Smolénsk. A general was sent to survey the position. This general,

+hating Barclay, rode to visit a friend of his own, a corps commander,

+and, having spent the day with him, returned to Barclay and condemned,

+as unsuitable from every point of view, the battleground he had not

+seen.

+

+While disputes and intrigues were going on about the future field of

+battle, and while we were looking for the French—having lost touch with

+them—the French stumbled upon Nevérovski’s division and reached the

+walls of Smolénsk.

+

+It was necessary to fight an unexpected battle at Smolénsk to save our

+lines of communication. The battle was fought and thousands were killed

+on both sides.

+

+Smolénsk was abandoned contrary to the wishes of the Emperor and of the

+whole people. But Smolénsk was burned by its own inhabitants who had

+been misled by their governor. And these ruined inhabitants, setting

+an example to other Russians, went to Moscow thinking only of their own

+losses but kindling hatred of the foe. Napoleon advanced farther and we

+retired, thus arriving at the very result which caused his destruction.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER II

+

+The day after his son had left, Prince Nicholas sent for Princess Mary

+to come to his study.

+

+“Well? Are you satisfied now?” said he. “You’ve made me quarrel with my

+son! Satisfied, are you? That’s all you wanted! Satisfied?... It hurts

+me, it hurts. I’m old and weak and this is what you wanted. Well then,

+gloat over it! Gloat over it!”

+

+After that Princess Mary did not see her father for a whole week. He was

+ill and did not leave his study.

+

+Princess Mary noticed to her surprise that during this illness the

+old prince not only excluded her from his room, but did not admit

+Mademoiselle Bourienne either. Tíkhon alone attended him.

+

+At the end of the week the prince reappeared and resumed his former way

+of life, devoting himself with special activity to building operations

+and the arrangement of the gardens and completely breaking off his

+relations with Mademoiselle Bourienne. His looks and cold tone to his

+daughter seemed to say: “There, you see? You plotted against me, you

+lied to Prince Andrew about my relations with that Frenchwoman and made

+me quarrel with him, but you see I need neither her nor you!”

+

+Princess Mary spent half of every day with little Nicholas, watching

+his lessons, teaching him Russian and music herself, and talking to

+Dessalles; the rest of the day she spent over her books, with her old

+nurse, or with “God’s folk” who sometimes came by the back door to see

+her.

+

+Of the war Princess Mary thought as women do think about wars. She

+feared for her brother who was in it, was horrified by and amazed at

+the strange cruelty that impels men to kill one another, but she did not

+understand the significance of this war, which seemed to her like all

+previous wars. She did not realize the significance of this war, though

+Dessalles with whom she constantly conversed was passionately interested

+in its progress and tried to explain his own conception of it to her,

+and though the “God’s folk” who came to see her reported, in their own

+way, the rumors current among the people of an invasion by Antichrist,

+and though Julie (now Princess Drubetskáya), who had resumed

+correspondence with her, wrote patriotic letters from Moscow.

+

+“I write you in Russian, my good friend,” wrote Julie in her Frenchified

+Russian, “because I have a detestation for all the French, and the

+same for their language which I cannot support to hear spoken.... We in

+Moscow are elated by enthusiasm for our adored Emperor.

+

+“My poor husband is enduring pains and hunger in Jewish taverns, but the

+news which I have inspires me yet more.

+

+“You heard probably of the heroic exploit of Raévski, embracing his two

+sons and saying: ‘I will perish with them but we will not be shaken!’

+And truly though the enemy was twice stronger than we, we were

+unshakable. We pass the time as we can, but in war as in war! The

+princesses Aline and Sophie sit whole days with me, and we, unhappy

+widows of live men, make beautiful conversations over our charpie, only

+you, my friend, are missing...” and so on.

+

+The chief reason Princess Mary did not realize the full significance of

+this war was that the old prince never spoke of it, did not recognize

+it, and laughed at Dessalles when he mentioned it at dinner.

+The prince’s tone was so calm and confident that Princess Mary

+unhesitatingly believed him.

+

+All that July the old prince was exceedingly active and even animated.

+He planned another garden and began a new building for the domestic

+serfs. The only thing that made Princess Mary anxious about him was that

+he slept very little and, instead of sleeping in his study as usual,

+changed his sleeping place every day. One day he would order his camp

+bed to be set up in the glass gallery, another day he remained on the

+couch or on the lounge chair in the drawing room and dozed there without

+undressing, while—instead of Mademoiselle Bourienne—a serf boy read to

+him. Then again he would spend a night in the dining room.

+

+On August 1, a second letter was received from Prince Andrew. In his

+first letter which came soon after he had left home, Prince Andrew had

+dutifully asked his father’s forgiveness for what he had allowed himself

+to say and begged to be restored to his favor. To this letter the old

+prince had replied affectionately, and from that time had kept the

+Frenchwoman at a distance. Prince Andrew’s second letter, written near

+Vítebsk after the French had occupied that town, gave a brief account of

+the whole campaign, enclosed for them a plan he had drawn and forecasts

+as to the further progress of the war. In this letter Prince Andrew

+pointed out to his father the danger of staying at Bald Hills, so near

+the theater of war and on the army’s direct line of march, and advised

+him to move to Moscow.

+

+At dinner that day, on Dessalles’ mentioning that the French were said

+to have already entered Vítebsk, the old prince remembered his son’s

+letter.

+

+“There was a letter from Prince Andrew today,” he said to Princess

+Mary—“Haven’t you read it?”

+

+“No, Father,” she replied in a frightened voice.

+

+She could not have read the letter as she did not even know it had

+arrived.

+

+“He writes about this war,” said the prince, with the ironic smile that

+had become habitual to him in speaking of the present war.

+

+“That must be very interesting,” said Dessalles. “Prince Andrew is in a

+position to know...”

+

+“Oh, very interesting!” said Mademoiselle Bourienne.

+

+“Go and get it for me,” said the old prince to Mademoiselle Bourienne.

+“You know—under the paperweight on the little table.”

+

+Mademoiselle Bourienne jumped up eagerly.

+

+“No, don’t!” he exclaimed with a frown. “You go, Michael Ivánovich.”

+

+Michael Ivánovich rose and went to the study. But as soon as he had left

+the room the old prince, looking uneasily round, threw down his napkin

+and went himself.

+

+“They can’t do anything... always make some muddle,” he muttered.

+

+While he was away Princess Mary, Dessalles, Mademoiselle Bourienne, and

+even little Nicholas exchanged looks in silence. The old prince returned

+with quick steps, accompanied by Michael Ivánovich, bringing the letter

+and a plan. These he put down beside him—not letting anyone read them at

+dinner.

+

+On moving to the drawing room he handed the letter to Princess Mary and,

+spreading out before him the plan of the new building and fixing his

+eyes upon it, told her to read the letter aloud. When she had done so

+Princess Mary looked inquiringly at her father. He was examining the

+plan, evidently engrossed in his own ideas.

+

+“What do you think of it, Prince?” Dessalles ventured to ask.

+

+“I? I?...” said the prince as if unpleasantly awakened, and not taking

+his eyes from the plan of the building.

+

+“Very possibly the theater of war will move so near to us that...”

+

+“Ha ha ha! The theater of war!” said the prince. “I have said and still

+say that the theater of war is Poland and the enemy will never get

+beyond the Niemen.”

+

+Dessalles looked in amazement at the prince, who was talking of the

+Niemen when the enemy was already at the Dnieper, but Princess Mary,

+forgetting the geographical position of the Niemen, thought that what

+her father was saying was correct.

+

+“When the snow melts they’ll sink in the Polish swamps. Only they

+could fail to see it,” the prince continued, evidently thinking of the

+campaign of 1807 which seemed to him so recent. “Bennigsen should have

+advanced into Prussia sooner, then things would have taken a different

+turn...”

+

+“But, Prince,” Dessalles began timidly, “the letter mentions

+Vítebsk....”

+

+“Ah, the letter? Yes...” replied the prince peevishly. “Yes... yes...”

+His face suddenly took on a morose expression. He paused. “Yes, he

+writes that the French were beaten at... at... what river is it?”

+

+Dessalles dropped his eyes.

+

+“The prince says nothing about that,” he remarked gently.

+

+“Doesn’t he? But I didn’t invent it myself.”

+

+No one spoke for a long time.

+

+“Yes... yes... Well, Michael Ivánovich,” he suddenly went on, raising

+his head and pointing to the plan of the building, “tell me how you mean

+to alter it....”

+

+Michael Ivánovich went up to the plan, and the prince after speaking to

+him about the building looked angrily at Princess Mary and Dessalles and

+went to his own room.

+

+Princess Mary saw Dessalles’ embarrassed and astonished look fixed on

+her father, noticed his silence, and was struck by the fact that her

+father had forgotten his son’s letter on the drawing room table; but she

+was not only afraid to speak of it and ask Dessalles the reason of his

+confusion and silence, but was afraid even to think about it.

+

+In the evening Michael Ivánovich, sent by the prince, came to Princess

+Mary for Prince Andrew’s letter which had been forgotten in the drawing

+room. She gave it to him and, unpleasant as it was to her to do so,

+ventured to ask him what her father was doing.

+

+“Always busy,” replied Michael Ivánovich with a respectfully ironic

+smile which caused Princess Mary to turn pale. “He’s worrying very much

+about the new building. He has been reading a little, but now”—Michael

+Ivánovich went on, lowering his voice—“now he’s at his desk, busy with

+his will, I expect.” (One of the prince’s favorite occupations of late

+had been the preparation of some papers he meant to leave at his death

+and which he called his “will.”)

+

+“And Alpátych is being sent to Smolénsk?” asked Princess Mary.

+

+“Oh, yes, he has been waiting to start for some time.”

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER III

+

+When Michael Ivánovich returned to the study with the letter, the old

+prince, with spectacles on and a shade over his eyes, was sitting at his

+open bureau with screened candles, holding a paper in his outstretched

+hand, and in a somewhat dramatic attitude was reading his manuscript—his

+“Remarks” as he termed it—which was to be transmitted to the Emperor

+after his death.

+

+When Michael Ivánovich went in there were tears in the prince’s eyes

+evoked by the memory of the time when the paper he was now reading had

+been written. He took the letter from Michael Ivánovich’s hand, put it

+in his pocket, folded up his papers, and called in Alpátych who had long

+been waiting.

+

+The prince had a list of things to be bought in Smolénsk and, walking

+up and down the room past Alpátych who stood by the door, he gave his

+instructions.

+

+“First, notepaper—do you hear? Eight quires, like this sample,

+gilt-edged... it must be exactly like the sample. Varnish, sealing wax,

+as in Michael Ivánovich’s list.”

+

+He paced up and down for a while and glanced at his notes.

+

+“Then hand to the governor in person a letter about the deed.”

+

+Next, bolts for the doors of the new building were wanted and had to be

+of a special shape the prince had himself designed, and a leather case

+had to be ordered to keep the “will” in.

+

+The instructions to Alpátych took over two hours and still the prince

+did not let him go. He sat down, sank into thought, closed his eyes, and

+dozed off. Alpátych made a slight movement.

+

+“Well, go, go! If anything more is wanted I’ll send after you.”

+

+Alpátych went out. The prince again went to his bureau, glanced into it,

+fingered his papers, closed the bureau again, and sat down at the table

+to write to the governor.

+

+It was already late when he rose after sealing the letter. He wished

+to sleep, but he knew he would not be able to and that most depressing

+thoughts came to him in bed. So he called Tíkhon and went through the

+rooms with him to show him where to set up the bed for that night.

+

+He went about looking at every corner. Every place seemed

+unsatisfactory, but worst of all was his customary couch in the study.

+That couch was dreadful to him, probably because of the oppressive

+thoughts he had had when lying there. It was unsatisfactory everywhere,

+but the corner behind the piano in the sitting room was better than

+other places: he had never slept there yet.

+

+With the help of a footman Tíkhon brought in the bedstead and began

+putting it up.

+

+“That’s not right! That’s not right!” cried the prince, and himself

+pushed it a few inches from the corner and then closer in again.

+

+“Well, at last I’ve finished, now I’ll rest,” thought the prince, and

+let Tíkhon undress him.

+

+Frowning with vexation at the effort necessary to divest himself of his

+coat and trousers, the prince undressed, sat down heavily on the

+bed, and appeared to be meditating as he looked contemptuously at his

+withered yellow legs. He was not meditating, but only deferring the

+moment of making the effort to lift those legs up and turn over on the

+bed. “Ugh, how hard it is! Oh, that this toil might end and you would

+release me!” thought he. Pressing his lips together he made that effort

+for the twenty-thousandth time and lay down. But hardly had he done so

+before he felt the bed rocking backwards and forwards beneath him as if

+it were breathing heavily and jolting. This happened to him almost every

+night. He opened his eyes as they were closing.

+

+“No peace, damn them!” he muttered, angry he knew not with whom. “Ah

+yes, there was something else important, very important, that I was

+keeping till I should be in bed. The bolts? No, I told him about them.

+No, it was something, something in the drawing room. Princess Mary

+talked some nonsense. Dessalles, that fool, said something. Something in

+my pocket—can’t remember....”

+

+“Tíkhon, what did we talk about at dinner?”

+

+“About Prince Michael...”

+

+“Be quiet, quiet!” The prince slapped his hand on the table. “Yes, I

+know, Prince Andrew’s letter! Princess Mary read it. Dessalles said

+something about Vítebsk. Now I’ll read it.”

+

+He had the letter taken from his pocket and the table—on which stood a

+glass of lemonade and a spiral wax candle—moved close to the bed, and

+putting on his spectacles he began reading. Only now in the stillness of

+the night, reading it by the faint light under the green shade, did he

+grasp its meaning for a moment.

+

+“The French at Vítebsk, in four days’ march they may be at Smolénsk;

+perhaps are already there! Tíkhon!” Tíkhon jumped up. “No, no, I don’t

+want anything!” he shouted.

+

+He put the letter under the candlestick and closed his eyes. And there

+rose before him the Danube at bright noonday: reeds, the Russian

+camp, and himself a young general without a wrinkle on his ruddy face,

+vigorous and alert, entering Potëmkin’s gaily colored tent, and a

+burning sense of jealousy of “the favorite” agitated him now as strongly

+as it had done then. He recalled all the words spoken at that

+first meeting with Potëmkin. And he saw before him a plump, rather

+sallow-faced, short, stout woman, the Empress Mother, with her smile

+and her words at her first gracious reception of him, and then that same

+face on the catafalque, and the encounter he had with Zúbov over her

+coffin about his right to kiss her hand.

+

+“Oh, quicker, quicker! To get back to that time and have done with all

+the present! Quicker, quicker—and that they should leave me in peace!”

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER IV

+

+Bald Hills, Prince Nicholas Bolkónski’s estate, lay forty miles east

+from Smolénsk and two miles from the main road to Moscow.

+

+The same evening that the prince gave his instructions to Alpátych,

+Dessalles, having asked to see Princess Mary, told her that, as the

+prince was not very well and was taking no steps to secure his safety,

+though from Prince Andrew’s letter it was evident that to remain at Bald

+Hills might be dangerous, he respectfully advised her to send a letter

+by Alpátych to the Provincial Governor at Smolénsk, asking him to let

+her know the state of affairs and the extent of the danger to which

+Bald Hills was exposed. Dessalles wrote this letter to the Governor

+for Princess Mary, she signed it, and it was given to Alpátych with

+instructions to hand it to the Governor and to come back as quickly as

+possible if there was danger.

+

+Having received all his orders Alpátych, wearing a white beaver hat—a

+present from the prince—and carrying a stick as the prince did, went out

+accompanied by his family. Three well-fed roans stood ready harnessed to

+a small conveyance with a leather hood.

+

+The larger bell was muffled and the little bells on the harness stuffed

+with paper. The prince allowed no one at Bald Hills to drive with

+ringing bells; but on a long journey Alpátych liked to have them. His

+satellites—the senior clerk, a countinghouse clerk, a scullery maid,

+a cook, two old women, a little pageboy, the coachman, and various

+domestic serfs—were seeing him off.

+

+His daughter placed chintz-covered down cushions for him to sit on and

+behind his back. His old sister-in-law popped in a small bundle, and one

+of the coachmen helped him into the vehicle.

+

+“There! There! Women’s fuss! Women, women!” said Alpátych, puffing and

+speaking rapidly just as the prince did, and he climbed into the trap.

+

+After giving the clerk orders about the work to be done, Alpátych, not

+trying to imitate the prince now, lifted the hat from his bald head and

+crossed himself three times.

+

+“If there is anything... come back, Yákov Alpátych! For Christ’s sake

+think of us!” cried his wife, referring to the rumors of war and the

+enemy.

+

+“Women, women! Women’s fuss!” muttered Alpátych to himself and started

+on his journey, looking round at the fields of yellow rye and the

+still-green, thickly growing oats, and at other quite black fields just

+being plowed a second time.

+

+As he went along he looked with pleasure at the year’s splendid crop

+of corn, scrutinized the strips of ryefield which here and there were

+already being reaped, made his calculations as to the sowing and the

+harvest, and asked himself whether he had not forgotten any of the

+prince’s orders.

+

+Having baited the horses twice on the way, he arrived at the town toward

+evening on the fourth of August.

+

+Alpátych kept meeting and overtaking baggage trains and troops on the

+road. As he approached Smolénsk he heard the sounds of distant firing,

+but these did not impress him. What struck him most was the sight of a

+splendid field of oats in which a camp had been pitched and which

+was being mown down by the soldiers, evidently for fodder. This fact

+impressed Alpátych, but in thinking about his own business he soon

+forgot it.

+

+All the interests of his life for more than thirty years had been

+bounded by the will of the prince, and he never went beyond that limit.

+Everything not connected with the execution of the prince’s orders did

+not interest and did not even exist for Alpátych.

+

+On reaching Smolénsk on the evening of the fourth of August he put up

+in the Gáchina suburb across the Dnieper, at the inn kept by Ferapóntov,

+where he had been in the habit of putting up for the last thirty years.

+Some thirty years ago Ferapóntov, by Alpátych’s advice, had bought a

+wood from the prince, had begun to trade, and now had a house, an

+inn, and a corn dealer’s shop in that province. He was a stout, dark,

+red-faced peasant in the forties, with thick lips, a broad knob of a

+nose, similar knobs over his black frowning brows, and a round belly.

+

+Wearing a waistcoat over his cotton shirt, Ferapóntov was standing

+before his shop which opened onto the street. On seeing Alpátych he went

+up to him.

+

+“You’re welcome, Yákov Alpátych. Folks are leaving the town, but you

+have come to it,” said he.

+

+“Why are they leaving the town?” asked Alpátych.

+

+“That’s what I say. Folks are foolish! Always afraid of the French.”

+

+“Women’s fuss, women’s fuss!” said Alpátych.

+

+“Just what I think, Yákov Alpátych. What I say is: orders have been

+given not to let them in, so that must be right. And the peasants are

+asking three rubles for carting—it isn’t Christian!”

+

+Yákov Alpátych heard without heeding. He asked for a samovar and for hay

+for his horses, and when he had had his tea he went to bed.

+

+All night long troops were moving past the inn. Next morning Alpátych

+donned a jacket he wore only in town and went out on business. It was a

+sunny morning and by eight o’clock it was already hot. “A good day for

+harvesting,” thought Alpátych.

+

+From beyond the town firing had been heard since early morning. At eight

+o’clock the booming of cannon was added to the sound of musketry. Many

+people were hurrying through the streets and there were many soldiers,

+but cabs were still driving about, tradesmen stood at their shops, and

+service was being held in the churches as usual. Alpátych went to the

+shops, to government offices, to the post office, and to the Governor’s.

+In the offices and shops and at the post office everyone was talking

+about the army and about the enemy who was already attacking the town,

+everybody was asking what should be done, and all were trying to calm

+one another.

+

+In front of the Governor’s house Alpátych found a large number of

+people, Cossacks, and a traveling carriage of the Governor’s. At the

+porch he met two of the landed gentry, one of whom he knew. This man, an

+ex-captain of police, was saying angrily:

+

+“It’s no joke, you know! It’s all very well if you’re single. ‘One man

+though undone is but one,’ as the proverb says, but with thirteen in

+your family and all the property... They’ve brought us to utter ruin!

+What sort of governors are they to do that? They ought to be hanged—the

+brigands!...”

+

+“Oh come, that’s enough!” said the other.

+

+“What do I care? Let him hear! We’re not dogs,” said the ex-captain of

+police, and looking round he noticed Alpátych.

+

+“Oh, Yákov Alpátych! What have you come for?”

+

+“To see the Governor by his excellency’s order,” answered Alpátych,

+lifting his head and proudly thrusting his hand into the bosom of his

+coat as he always did when he mentioned the prince.... “He has ordered

+me to inquire into the position of affairs,” he added.

+

+“Yes, go and find out!” shouted the angry gentleman. “They’ve brought

+things to such a pass that there are no carts or anything!... There it

+is again, do you hear?” said he, pointing in the direction whence came

+the sounds of firing.

+

+“They’ve brought us all to ruin... the brigands!” he repeated, and

+descended the porch steps.

+

+Alpátych swayed his head and went upstairs. In the waiting room were

+tradesmen, women, and officials, looking silently at one another. The

+door of the Governor’s room opened and they all rose and moved forward.

+An official ran out, said some words to a merchant, called a stout

+official with a cross hanging on his neck to follow him, and vanished

+again, evidently wishing to avoid the inquiring looks and questions

+addressed to him. Alpátych moved forward and next time the official came

+out addressed him, one hand placed in the breast of his buttoned coat,

+and handed him two letters.

+

+“To his Honor Baron Asch, from General-in-Chief Prince Bolkónski,” he

+announced with such solemnity and significance that the official turned

+to him and took the letters.

+

+A few minutes later the Governor received Alpátych and hurriedly said to

+him:

+

+“Inform the prince and princess that I knew nothing: I acted on the

+highest instructions—here...” and he handed a paper to Alpátych. “Still,

+as the prince is unwell my advice is that they should go to Moscow. I am

+just starting myself. Inform them...”

+

+But the Governor did not finish: a dusty perspiring officer ran into the

+room and began to say something in French. The Governor’s face expressed

+terror.

+

+“Go,” he said, nodding his head to Alpátych, and began questioning the

+officer.

+

+Eager, frightened, helpless glances were turned on Alpátych when he came

+out of the Governor’s room. Involuntarily listening now to the firing,

+which had drawn nearer and was increasing in strength, Alpátych hurried

+to his inn. The paper handed to him by the Governor said this:

+

+“I assure you that the town of Smolénsk is not in the slightest danger

+as yet and it is unlikely that it will be threatened with any. I from

+the one side and Prince Bagratión from the other are marching to unite

+our forces before Smolénsk, which junction will be effected on the

+22nd instant, and both armies with their united forces will defend our

+compatriots of the province entrusted to your care till our efforts

+shall have beaten back the enemies of our Fatherland, or till the last

+warrior in our valiant ranks has perished. From this you will see that

+you have a perfect right to reassure the inhabitants of Smolénsk, for

+those defended by two such brave armies may feel assured of victory.”

+(Instructions from Barclay de Tolly to Baron Asch, the civil governor of

+Smolénsk, 1812.)

+

+People were anxiously roaming about the streets.

+

+Carts piled high with household utensils, chairs, and cupboards kept

+emerging from the gates of the yards and moving along the streets.

+Loaded carts stood at the house next to Ferapóntov’s and women were

+wailing and lamenting as they said good-by. A small watchdog ran round

+barking in front of the harnessed horses.

+

+Alpátych entered the innyard at a quicker pace than usual and went

+straight to the shed where his horses and trap were. The coachman was

+asleep. He woke him up, told him to harness, and went into the passage.

+From the host’s room came the sounds of a child crying, the despairing

+sobs of a woman, and the hoarse angry shouting of Ferapóntov. The cook

+began running hither and thither in the passage like a frightened hen,

+just as Alpátych entered.

+

+“He’s done her to death. Killed the mistress!... Beat her... dragged her

+about so!...”

+

+“What for?” asked Alpátych.

+

+“She kept begging to go away. She’s a woman! ‘Take me away,’ says she,

+‘don’t let me perish with my little children! Folks,’ she says, ‘are all

+gone, so why,’ she says, ‘don’t we go?’ And he began beating and pulling

+her about so!”

+

+At these words Alpátych nodded as if in approval, and not wishing to

+hear more went to the door of the room opposite the innkeeper’s, where

+he had left his purchases.

+

+“You brute, you murderer!” screamed a thin, pale woman who, with a baby

+in her arms and her kerchief torn from her head, burst through the door

+at that moment and down the steps into the yard.

+

+Ferapóntov came out after her, but on seeing Alpátych adjusted his

+waistcoat, smoothed his hair, yawned, and followed Alpátych into the

+opposite room.

+

+“Going already?” said he.

+

+Alpátych, without answering or looking at his host, sorted his packages

+and asked how much he owed.

+

+“We’ll reckon up! Well, have you been to the Governor’s?” asked

+Ferapóntov. “What has been decided?”

+

+Alpátych replied that the Governor had not told him anything definite.

+

+“With our business, how can we get away?” said Ferapóntov. “We’d have

+to pay seven rubles a cartload to Dorogobúzh and I tell them they’re

+not Christians to ask it! Selivánov, now, did a good stroke last

+Thursday—sold flour to the army at nine rubles a sack. Will you have

+some tea?” he added.

+

+While the horses were being harnessed Alpátych and Ferapóntov over their

+tea talked of the price of corn, the crops, and the good weather for

+harvesting.

+

+“Well, it seems to be getting quieter,” remarked Ferapóntov, finishing

+his third cup of tea and getting up. “Ours must have got the best of it.

+The orders were not to let them in. So we’re in force, it seems....

+They say the other day Matthew Iványch Plátov drove them into the river

+Márina and drowned some eighteen thousand in one day.”

+

+Alpátych collected his parcels, handed them to the coachman who had come

+in, and settled up with the innkeeper. The noise of wheels, hoofs, and

+bells was heard from the gateway as a little trap passed out.

+

+It was by now late in the afternoon. Half the street was in shadow, the

+other half brightly lit by the sun. Alpátych looked out of the window

+and went to the door. Suddenly the strange sound of a far-off whistling

+and thud was heard, followed by a boom of cannon blending into a dull

+roar that set the windows rattling.

+

+He went out into the street: two men were running past toward the

+bridge. From different sides came whistling sounds and the thud of

+cannon balls and bursting shells falling on the town. But these sounds

+were hardly heard in comparison with the noise of the firing outside the

+town and attracted little attention from the inhabitants. The town was

+being bombarded by a hundred and thirty guns which Napoleon had ordered

+up after four o’clock. The people did not at once realize the meaning of

+this bombardment.

+

+At first the noise of the falling bombs and shells only aroused

+curiosity. Ferapóntov’s wife, who till then had not ceased wailing under

+the shed, became quiet and with the baby in her arms went to the gate,

+listening to the sounds and looking in silence at the people.

+

+The cook and a shop assistant came to the gate. With lively curiosity

+everyone tried to get a glimpse of the projectiles as they flew over

+their heads. Several people came round the corner talking eagerly.

+

+“What force!” remarked one. “Knocked the roof and ceiling all to

+splinters!”

+

+“Routed up the earth like a pig,” said another.

+

+“That’s grand, it bucks one up!” laughed the first. “Lucky you jumped

+aside, or it would have wiped you out!”

+

+Others joined those men and stopped and told how cannon balls had fallen

+on a house close to them. Meanwhile still more projectiles, now with

+the swift sinister whistle of a cannon ball, now with the agreeable

+intermittent whistle of a shell, flew over people’s heads incessantly,

+but not one fell close by, they all flew over. Alpátych was getting into

+his trap. The innkeeper stood at the gate.

+

+“What are you staring at?” he shouted to the cook, who in her red skirt,

+with sleeves rolled up, swinging her bare elbows, had stepped to the

+corner to listen to what was being said.

+

+“What marvels!” she exclaimed, but hearing her master’s voice she turned

+back, pulling down her tucked-up skirt.

+

+Once more something whistled, but this time quite close, swooping

+downwards like a little bird; a flame flashed in the middle of the

+street, something exploded, and the street was shrouded in smoke.

+

+“Scoundrel, what are you doing?” shouted the innkeeper, rushing to the

+cook.

+

+At that moment the pitiful wailing of women was heard from different

+sides, the frightened baby began to cry, and people crowded silently

+with pale faces round the cook. The loudest sound in that crowd was her

+wailing.

+

+“Oh-h-h! Dear souls, dear kind souls! Don’t let me die! My good

+souls!...”

+

+Five minutes later no one remained in the street. The cook, with her

+thigh broken by a shell splinter, had been carried into the kitchen.

+Alpátych, his coachman, Ferapóntov’s wife and children and the house

+porter were all sitting in the cellar, listening. The roar of guns, the

+whistling of projectiles, and the piteous moaning of the cook, which

+rose above the other sounds, did not cease for a moment. The mistress

+rocked and hushed her baby and when anyone came into the cellar asked

+in a pathetic whisper what had become of her husband who had remained

+in the street. A shopman who entered told her that her husband had

+gone with others to the cathedral, whence they were fetching the

+wonder-working icon of Smolénsk.

+

+Toward dusk the cannonade began to subside. Alpátych left the cellar

+and stopped in the doorway. The evening sky that had been so clear was

+clouded with smoke, through which, high up, the sickle of the new moon

+shone strangely. Now that the terrible din of the guns had ceased a hush

+seemed to reign over the town, broken only by the rustle of footsteps,

+the moaning, the distant cries, and the crackle of fires which seemed

+widespread everywhere. The cook’s moans had now subsided. On two sides

+black curling clouds of smoke rose and spread from the fires. Through

+the streets soldiers in various uniforms walked or ran confusedly in

+different directions like ants from a ruined ant-hill. Several of them

+ran into Ferapóntov’s yard before Alpátych’s eyes. Alpátych went out

+to the gate. A retreating regiment, thronging and hurrying, blocked the

+street.

+

+Noticing him, an officer said: “The town is being abandoned. Get away,

+get away!” and then, turning to the soldiers, shouted:

+

+“I’ll teach you to run into the yards!”

+

+Alpátych went back to the house, called the coachman, and told him to

+set off. Ferapóntov’s whole household came out too, following Alpátych

+and the coachman. The women, who had been silent till then, suddenly

+began to wail as they looked at the fires—the smoke and even the flames

+of which could be seen in the failing twilight—and as if in reply the

+same kind of lamentation was heard from other parts of the street.

+Inside the shed Alpátych and the coachman arranged the tangled reins and

+traces of their horses with trembling hands.

+

+As Alpátych was driving out of the gate he saw some ten soldiers in

+Ferapóntov’s open shop, talking loudly and filling their bags and

+knapsacks with flour and sunflower seeds. Just then Ferapóntov returned

+and entered his shop. On seeing the soldiers he was about to shout at

+them, but suddenly stopped and, clutching at his hair, burst into sobs

+and laughter:

+

+“Loot everything, lads! Don’t let those devils get it!” he cried, taking

+some bags of flour himself and throwing them into the street.

+

+Some of the soldiers were frightened and ran away, others went on

+filling their bags. On seeing Alpátych, Ferapóntov turned to him:

+

+“Russia is done for!” he cried. “Alpátych, I’ll set the place on fire

+myself. We’re done for!...” and Ferapóntov ran into the yard.

+

+Soldiers were passing in a constant stream along the street blocking

+it completely, so that Alpátych could not pass out and had to wait.

+Ferapóntov’s wife and children were also sitting in a cart waiting till

+it was possible to drive out.

+

+Night had come. There were stars in the sky and the new moon shone out

+amid the smoke that screened it. On the sloping descent to the Dnieper

+Alpátych’s cart and that of the innkeeper’s wife, which were slowly

+moving amid the rows of soldiers and of other vehicles, had to stop.

+In a side street near the crossroads where the vehicles had stopped, a

+house and some shops were on fire. This fire was already burning itself

+out. The flames now died down and were lost in the black smoke, now

+suddenly flared up again brightly, lighting up with strange distinctness

+the faces of the people crowding at the crossroads. Black figures

+flitted about before the fire, and through the incessant crackling of

+the flames talking and shouting could be heard. Seeing that his trap

+would not be able to move on for some time, Alpátych got down and turned

+into the side street to look at the fire. Soldiers were continually

+rushing backwards and forwards near it, and he saw two of them and a

+man in a frieze coat dragging burning beams into another yard across the

+street, while others carried bundles of hay.

+

+Alpátych went up to a large crowd standing before a high barn which was

+blazing briskly. The walls were all on fire and the back wall had fallen

+in, the wooden roof was collapsing, and the rafters were alight. The

+crowd was evidently watching for the roof to fall in, and Alpátych

+watched for it too.

+

+“Alpátych!” a familiar voice suddenly hailed the old man.

+

+“Mercy on us! Your excellency!” answered Alpátych, immediately

+recognizing the voice of his young prince.

+

+Prince Andrew in his riding cloak, mounted on a black horse, was looking

+at Alpátych from the back of the crowd.

+

+“Why are you here?” he asked.

+

+“Your... your excellency,” stammered Alpátych and broke into sobs. “Are

+we really lost? Master!...”

+

+“Why are you here?” Prince Andrew repeated.

+

+At that moment the flames flared up and showed his young master’s pale

+worn face. Alpátych told how he had been sent there and how difficult it

+was to get away.

+

+“Are we really quite lost, your excellency?” he asked again.

+

+Prince Andrew without replying took out a notebook and raising his knee

+began writing in pencil on a page he tore out. He wrote to his sister:

+

+“Smolénsk is being abandoned. Bald Hills will be occupied by the enemy

+within a week. Set off immediately for Moscow. Let me know at once when

+you will start. Send by special messenger to Usvyázh.”

+

+Having written this and given the paper to Alpátych, he told him how

+to arrange for departure of the prince, the princess, his son, and the

+boy’s tutor, and how and where to let him know immediately. Before

+he had had time to finish giving these instructions, a chief of staff

+followed by a suite galloped up to him.

+

+“You are a colonel?” shouted the chief of staff with a German accent,

+in a voice familiar to Prince Andrew. “Houses are set on fire in your

+presence and you stand by! What does this mean? You will answer for

+it!” shouted Berg, who was now assistant to the chief of staff of the

+commander of the left flank of the infantry of the first army, a place,

+as Berg said, “very agreeable and well en évidence.”

+

+Prince Andrew looked at him and without replying went on speaking to

+Alpátych.

+

+“So tell them that I shall await a reply till the tenth, and if by the

+tenth I don’t receive news that they have all got away I shall have to

+throw up everything and come myself to Bald Hills.”

+

+“Prince,” said Berg, recognizing Prince Andrew, “I only spoke because

+I have to obey orders, because I always do obey exactly.... You must

+please excuse me,” he went on apologetically.

+

+Something cracked in the flames. The fire died down for a moment and

+wreaths of black smoke rolled from under the roof. There was another

+terrible crash and something huge collapsed.

+

+“Ou-rou-rou!” yelled the crowd, echoing the crash of the collapsing roof

+of the barn, the burning grain in which diffused a cakelike aroma all

+around. The flames flared up again, lighting the animated, delighted,

+exhausted faces of the spectators.

+

+The man in the frieze coat raised his arms and shouted:

+

+“It’s fine, lads! Now it’s raging... It’s fine!”

+

+“That’s the owner himself,” cried several voices.

+

+“Well then,” continued Prince Andrew to Alpátych, “report to them as I

+have told you”; and not replying a word to Berg who was now mute beside

+him, he touched his horse and rode down the side street.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER V

+

+From Smolénsk the troops continued to retreat, followed by the enemy.

+On the tenth of August the regiment Prince Andrew commanded was marching

+along the highroad past the avenue leading to Bald Hills. Heat and

+drought had continued for more than three weeks. Each day fleecy clouds

+floated across the sky and occasionally veiled the sun, but toward

+evening the sky cleared again and the sun set in reddish-brown mist.

+Heavy night dews alone refreshed the earth. The unreaped corn was

+scorched and shed its grain. The marshes dried up. The cattle lowed from

+hunger, finding no food on the sun-parched meadows. Only at night and

+in the forests while the dew lasted was there any freshness. But on the

+road, the highroad along which the troops marched, there was no such

+freshness even at night or when the road passed through the forest; the

+dew was imperceptible on the sandy dust churned up more than six inches

+deep. As soon as day dawned the march began. The artillery and baggage

+wagons moved noiselessly through the deep dust that rose to the very

+hubs of the wheels, and the infantry sank ankle-deep in that soft,

+choking, hot dust that never cooled even at night. Some of this dust

+was kneaded by the feet and wheels, while the rest rose and hung like a

+cloud over the troops, settling in eyes, ears, hair, and nostrils, and

+worst of all in the lungs of the men and beasts as they moved along that

+road. The higher the sun rose the higher rose that cloud of dust, and

+through the screen of its hot fine particles one could look with naked

+eye at the sun, which showed like a huge crimson ball in the unclouded

+sky. There was no wind, and the men choked in that motionless

+atmosphere. They marched with handkerchiefs tied over their noses and

+mouths. When they passed through a village they all rushed to the wells

+and fought for the water and drank it down to the mud.

+

+Prince Andrew was in command of a regiment, and the management of that

+regiment, the welfare of the men and the necessity of receiving

+and giving orders, engrossed him. The burning of Smolénsk and its

+abandonment made an epoch in his life. A novel feeling of anger against

+the foe made him forget his own sorrow. He was entirely devoted to the

+affairs of his regiment and was considerate and kind to his men and

+officers. In the regiment they called him “our prince,” were proud

+of him and loved him. But he was kind and gentle only to those of his

+regiment, to Timókhin and the like—people quite new to him, belonging

+to a different world and who could not know and understand his past. As

+soon as he came across a former acquaintance or anyone from the

+staff, he bristled up immediately and grew spiteful, ironical, and

+contemptuous. Everything that reminded him of his past was repugnant to

+him, and so in his relations with that former circle he confined himself

+to trying to do his duty and not to be unfair.

+

+In truth everything presented itself in a dark and gloomy light to

+Prince Andrew, especially after the abandonment of Smolénsk on the sixth

+of August (he considered that it could and should have been defended)

+and after his sick father had had to flee to Moscow, abandoning to

+pillage his dearly beloved Bald Hills which he had built and peopled.

+But despite this, thanks to his regiment, Prince Andrew had something to

+think about entirely apart from general questions. Two days previously

+he had received news that his father, son, and sister had left for

+Moscow; and though there was nothing for him to do at Bald Hills, Prince

+Andrew with a characteristic desire to foment his own grief decided that

+he must ride there.

+

+He ordered his horse to be saddled and, leaving his regiment on the

+march, rode to his father’s estate where he had been born and spent his

+childhood. Riding past the pond where there used always to be dozens

+of women chattering as they rinsed their linen or beat it with wooden

+beetles, Prince Andrew noticed that there was not a soul about and that

+the little washing wharf, torn from its place and half submerged, was

+floating on its side in the middle of the pond. He rode to the keeper’s

+lodge. No one at the stone entrance gates of the drive and the door

+stood open. Grass had already begun to grow on the garden paths, and

+horses and calves were straying in the English park. Prince Andrew rode

+up to the hothouse; some of the glass panes were broken, and of the

+trees in tubs some were overturned and others dried up. He called for

+Tarás the gardener, but no one replied. Having gone round the corner

+of the hothouse to the ornamental garden, he saw that the carved garden

+fence was broken and branches of the plum trees had been torn off with

+the fruit. An old peasant whom Prince Andrew in his childhood had often

+seen at the gate was sitting on a green garden seat, plaiting a bast

+shoe.

+

+He was deaf and did not hear Prince Andrew ride up. He was sitting on

+the seat the old prince used to like to sit on, and beside him strips of

+bast were hanging on the broken and withered branch of a magnolia.

+

+Prince Andrew rode up to the house. Several limes in the old garden had

+been cut down and a piebald mare and her foal were wandering in front of

+the house among the rosebushes. The shutters were all closed, except at

+one window which was open. A little serf boy, seeing Prince Andrew, ran

+into the house. Alpátych, having sent his family away, was alone at

+Bald Hills and was sitting indoors reading the Lives of the Saints. On

+hearing that Prince Andrew had come, he went out with his spectacles on

+his nose, buttoning his coat, and, hastily stepping up, without a word

+began weeping and kissing Prince Andrew’s knee.

+

+Then, vexed at his own weakness, he turned away and began to report

+on the position of affairs. Everything precious and valuable had been

+removed to Boguchárovo. Seventy quarters of grain had also been carted

+away. The hay and the spring corn, of which Alpátych said there had been

+a remarkable crop that year, had been commandeered by the troops and

+mown down while still green. The peasants were ruined; some of them too

+had gone to Boguchárovo, only a few remained.

+

+Without waiting to hear him out, Prince Andrew asked:

+

+“When did my father and sister leave?” meaning when did they leave for

+Moscow.

+

+Alpátych, understanding the question to refer to their departure for

+Boguchárovo, replied that they had left on the seventh and again went

+into details concerning the estate management, asking for instructions.

+

+“Am I to let the troops have the oats, and to take a receipt for them?

+We have still six hundred quarters left,” he inquired.

+

+“What am I to say to him?” thought Prince Andrew, looking down on the

+old man’s bald head shining in the sun and seeing by the expression on

+his face that the old man himself understood how untimely such questions

+were and only asked them to allay his grief.

+

+“Yes, let them have it,” replied Prince Andrew.

+

+“If you noticed some disorder in the garden,” said Alpátych, “it was

+impossible to prevent it. Three regiments have been here and spent

+the night, dragoons mostly. I took down the name and rank of their

+commanding officer, to hand in a complaint about it.”

+

+“Well, and what are you going to do? Will you stay here if the enemy

+occupies the place?” asked Prince Andrew.

+

+Alpátych turned his face to Prince Andrew, looked at him, and suddenly

+with a solemn gesture raised his arm.

+

+“He is my refuge! His will be done!” he exclaimed.

+

+A group of bareheaded peasants was approaching across the meadow toward

+the prince.

+

+“Well, good-by!” said Prince Andrew, bending over to Alpátych. “You

+must go away too, take away what you can and tell the serfs to go to the

+Ryazán estate or to the one near Moscow.”

+

+Alpátych clung to Prince Andrew’s leg and burst into sobs. Gently

+disengaging himself, the prince spurred his horse and rode down the

+avenue at a gallop.

+

+The old man was still sitting in the ornamental garden, like a fly

+impassive on the face of a loved one who is dead, tapping the last on

+which he was making the bast shoe, and two little girls, running out

+from the hot house carrying in their skirts plums they had plucked from

+the trees there, came upon Prince Andrew. On seeing the young master,

+the elder one with frightened look clutched her younger companion by the

+hand and hid with her behind a birch tree, not stopping to pick up some

+green plums they had dropped.

+

+Prince Andrew turned away with startled haste, unwilling to let them

+see that they had been observed. He was sorry for the pretty frightened

+little girl, was afraid of looking at her, and yet felt an irresistible

+desire to do so. A new sensation of comfort and relief came over him

+when, seeing these girls, he realized the existence of other human

+interests entirely aloof from his own and just as legitimate as those

+that occupied him. Evidently these girls passionately desired one

+thing—to carry away and eat those green plums without being caught—and

+Prince Andrew shared their wish for the success of their enterprise. He

+could not resist looking at them once more. Believing their danger past,

+they sprang from their ambush and, chirruping something in their shrill

+little voices and holding up their skirts, their bare little sunburned

+feet scampered merrily and quickly across the meadow grass.

+

+Prince Andrew was somewhat refreshed by having ridden off the dusty

+highroad along which the troops were moving. But not far from Bald Hills

+he again came out on the road and overtook his regiment at its halting

+place by the dam of a small pond. It was past one o’clock. The sun,

+a red ball through the dust, burned and scorched his back intolerably

+through his black coat. The dust always hung motionless above the buzz

+of talk that came from the resting troops. There was no wind. As he

+crossed the dam Prince Andrew smelled the ooze and freshness of the

+pond. He longed to get into that water, however dirty it might be, and

+he glanced round at the pool from whence came sounds of shrieks and

+laughter. The small, muddy, green pond had risen visibly more than a

+foot, flooding the dam, because it was full of the naked white bodies

+of soldiers with brick-red hands, necks, and faces, who were splashing

+about in it. All this naked white human flesh, laughing and shrieking,

+floundered about in that dirty pool like carp stuffed into a watering

+can, and the suggestion of merriment in that floundering mass rendered

+it specially pathetic.

+

+One fair-haired young soldier of the third company, whom Prince Andrew

+knew and who had a strap round the calf of one leg, crossed himself,

+stepped back to get a good run, and plunged into the water; another,

+a dark noncommissioned officer who was always shaggy, stood up to his

+waist in the water joyfully wriggling his muscular figure and snorted

+with satisfaction as he poured the water over his head with hands

+blackened to the wrists. There were sounds of men slapping one another,

+yelling, and puffing.

+

+Everywhere on the bank, on the dam, and in the pond, there was healthy,

+white, muscular flesh. The officer, Timókhin, with his red little nose,

+standing on the dam wiping himself with a towel, felt confused at seeing

+the prince, but made up his mind to address him nevertheless.

+

+“It’s very nice, your excellency! Wouldn’t you like to?” said he.

+

+“It’s dirty,” replied Prince Andrew, making a grimace.

+

+“We’ll clear it out for you in a minute,” said Timókhin, and, still

+undressed, ran off to clear the men out of the pond.

+

+“The prince wants to bathe.”

+

+“What prince? Ours?” said many voices, and the men were in such haste

+to clear out that the prince could hardly stop them. He decided that he

+would rather wash himself with water in the barn.

+

+“Flesh, bodies, cannon fodder!” he thought, and he looked at his own

+naked body and shuddered, not from cold but from a sense of disgust

+and horror he did not himself understand, aroused by the sight of that

+immense number of bodies splashing about in the dirty pond.

+

+

+On the seventh of August Prince Bagratión wrote as follows from his

+quarters at Mikháylovna on the Smolénsk road:

+

+Dear Count Aléxis Andréevich—(He was writing to Arakchéev but knew that

+his letter would be read by the Emperor, and therefore weighed every

+word in it to the best of his ability.)

+

+I expect the Minister (Barclay de Tolly) has already reported the

+abandonment of Smolénsk to the enemy. It is pitiable and sad, and

+the whole army is in despair that this most important place has been

+wantonly abandoned. I, for my part, begged him personally most urgently

+and finally wrote him, but nothing would induce him to consent. I swear

+to you on my honor that Napoleon was in such a fix as never before and

+might have lost half his army but could not have taken Smolénsk. Our

+troops fought, and are fighting, as never before. With fifteen thousand

+men I held the enemy at bay for thirty-five hours and beat him; but he

+would not hold out even for fourteen hours. It is disgraceful, a stain

+on our army, and as for him, he ought, it seems to me, not to live. If

+he reports that our losses were great, it is not true; perhaps about

+four thousand, not more, and not even that; but even were they ten

+thousand, that’s war! But the enemy has lost masses....

+

+What would it have cost him to hold out for another two days? They would

+have had to retire of their own accord, for they had no water for men

+or horses. He gave me his word he would not retreat, but suddenly sent

+instructions that he was retiring that night. We cannot fight in this

+way, or we may soon bring the enemy to Moscow....

+

+There is a rumor that you are thinking of peace. God forbid that you

+should make peace after all our sacrifices and such insane retreats! You

+would set all Russia against you and everyone of us would feel ashamed

+to wear the uniform. If it has come to this—we must fight as long as

+Russia can and as long as there are men able to stand....

+

+One man ought to be in command, and not two. Your Minister may perhaps

+be good as a Minister, but as a general he is not merely bad but

+execrable, yet to him is entrusted the fate of our whole country.... I

+am really frantic with vexation; forgive my writing boldly. It is clear

+that the man who advocates the conclusion of a peace, and that the

+Minister should command the army, does not love our sovereign and

+desires the ruin of us all. So I write you frankly: call out the

+militia. For the Minister is leading these visitors after him to Moscow

+in a most masterly way. The whole army feels great suspicion of the

+Imperial aide-de-camp Wolzogen. He is said to be more Napoleon’s man

+than ours, and he is always advising the Minister. I am not merely civil

+to him but obey him like a corporal, though I am his senior. This is

+painful, but, loving my benefactor and sovereign, I submit. Only I am

+sorry for the Emperor that he entrusts our fine army to such as he.

+Consider that on our retreat we have lost by fatigue and left in the

+hospital more than fifteen thousand men, and had we attacked this would

+not have happened. Tell me, for God’s sake, what will Russia, our mother

+Russia, say to our being so frightened, and why are we abandoning our

+good and gallant Fatherland to such rabble and implanting feelings of

+hatred and shame in all our subjects? What are we scared at and of whom

+are we afraid? I am not to blame that the Minister is vacillating,

+a coward, dense, dilatory, and has all bad qualities. The whole army

+bewails it and calls down curses upon him....

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER VI

+

+Among the innumerable categories applicable to the phenomena of human

+life one may discriminate between those in which substance prevails

+and those in which form prevails. To the latter—as distinguished

+from village, country, provincial, or even Moscow life—we may allot

+Petersburg life, and especially the life of its salons. That life of

+the salons is unchanging. Since the year 1805 we had made peace and had

+again quarreled with Bonaparte and had made constitutions and unmade

+them again, but the salons of Anna Pávlovna and Hélène remained just

+as they had been—the one seven and the other five years before. At Anna

+Pávlovna’s they talked with perplexity of Bonaparte’s successes just

+as before and saw in them and in the subservience shown to him by the

+European sovereigns a malicious conspiracy, the sole object of which was

+to cause unpleasantness and anxiety to the court circle of which Anna

+Pávlovna was the representative. And in Hélène’s salon, which Rumyántsev

+himself honored with his visits, regarding Hélène as a remarkably

+intelligent woman, they talked with the same ecstasy in 1812 as in 1808

+of the “great nation” and the “great man,” and regretted our rupture

+with France, a rupture which, according to them, ought to be promptly

+terminated by peace.

+

+Of late, since the Emperor’s return from the army, there had been some

+excitement in these conflicting salon circles and some demonstrations

+of hostility to one another, but each camp retained its own tendency.

+In Anna Pávlovna’s circle only those Frenchmen were admitted who were

+deep-rooted legitimists, and patriotic views were expressed to the

+effect that one ought not to go to the French theater and that to

+maintain the French troupe was costing the government as much as a whole

+army corps. The progress of the war was eagerly followed, and only

+the reports most flattering to our army were circulated. In the French

+circle of Hélène and Rumyántsev the reports of the cruelty of the

+enemy and of the war were contradicted and all Napoleon’s attempts at

+conciliation were discussed. In that circle they discountenanced those

+who advised hurried preparations for a removal to Kazán of the court and

+the girls’ educational establishments under the patronage of the Dowager

+Empress. In Hélène’s circle the war in general was regarded as a series

+of formal demonstrations which would very soon end in peace, and the

+view prevailed expressed by Bilíbin—who now in Petersburg was quite at

+home in Hélène’s house, which every clever man was obliged to visit—that

+not by gunpowder but by those who invented it would matters be

+settled. In that circle the Moscow enthusiasm—news of which had reached

+Petersburg simultaneously with the Emperor’s return—was ridiculed

+sarcastically and very cleverly, though with much caution.

+

+Anna Pávlovna’s circle on the contrary was enraptured by this enthusiasm

+and spoke of it as Plutarch speaks of the deeds of the ancients.

+Prince Vasíli, who still occupied his former important posts, formed a

+connecting link between these two circles. He visited his “good friend

+Anna Pávlovna” as well as his daughter’s “diplomatic salon,” and often

+in his constant comings and goings between the two camps became confused

+and said at Hélène’s what he should have said at Anna Pávlovna’s and

+vice versa.

+

+Soon after the Emperor’s return Prince Vasíli in a conversation about

+the war at Anna Pávlovna’s severely condemned Barclay de Tolly, but was

+undecided as to who ought to be appointed commander in chief. One of the

+visitors, usually spoken of as “a man of great merit,” having described

+how he had that day seen Kutúzov, the newly chosen chief of the

+Petersburg militia, presiding over the enrollment of recruits at the

+Treasury, cautiously ventured to suggest that Kutúzov would be the man

+to satisfy all requirements.

+

+Anna Pávlovna remarked with a melancholy smile that Kutúzov had done

+nothing but cause the Emperor annoyance.

+

+“I have talked and talked at the Assembly of the Nobility,” Prince

+Vasíli interrupted, “but they did not listen to me. I told them his

+election as chief of the militia would not please the Emperor. They did

+not listen to me.

+

+“It’s all this mania for opposition,” he went on. “And who for? It is

+all because we want to ape the foolish enthusiasm of those Muscovites,”

+Prince Vasíli continued, forgetting for a moment that though at Hélène’s

+one had to ridicule the Moscow enthusiasm, at Anna Pávlovna’s one had to

+be ecstatic about it. But he retrieved his mistake at once. “Now, is

+it suitable that Count Kutúzov, the oldest general in Russia, should

+preside at that tribunal? He will get nothing for his pains! How could

+they make a man commander in chief who cannot mount a horse, who drops

+asleep at a council, and has the very worst morals! A good reputation

+he made for himself at Bucharest! I don’t speak of his capacity as a

+general, but at a time like this how they appoint a decrepit, blind old

+man, positively blind? A fine idea to have a blind general! He can’t see

+anything. To play blindman’s bluff? He can’t see at all!”

+

+No one replied to his remarks.

+

+This was quite correct on the twenty-fourth of July. But on the

+twenty-ninth of July Kutúzov received the title of Prince. This might

+indicate a wish to get rid of him, and therefore Prince Vasíli’s opinion

+continued to be correct though he was not now in any hurry to express

+it. But on the eighth of August a committee, consisting of Field Marshal

+Saltykóv, Arakchéev, Vyazmítinov, Lopukhín, and Kochubéy met to consider

+the progress of the war. This committee came to the conclusion that

+our failures were due to a want of unity in the command and though the

+members of the committee were aware of the Emperor’s dislike of Kutúzov,

+after a short deliberation they agreed to advise his appointment as

+commander in chief. That same day Kutúzov was appointed commander

+in chief with full powers over the armies and over the whole region

+occupied by them.

+

+On the ninth of August Prince Vasíli at Anna Pávlovna’s again met the

+“man of great merit.” The latter was very attentive to Anna Pávlovna

+because he wanted to be appointed director of one of the educational

+establishments for young ladies. Prince Vasíli entered the room with the

+air of a happy conqueror who has attained the object of his desires.

+

+“Well, have you heard the great news? Prince Kutúzov is field marshal!

+All dissensions are at an end! I am so glad, so delighted! At last

+we have a man!” said he, glancing sternly and significantly round at

+everyone in the drawing room.

+

+The “man of great merit,” despite his desire to obtain the post of

+director, could not refrain from reminding Prince Vasíli of his former

+opinion. Though this was impolite to Prince Vasíli in Anna Pávlovna’s

+drawing room, and also to Anna Pávlovna herself who had received the

+news with delight, he could not resist the temptation.

+

+“But, Prince, they say he is blind!” said he, reminding Prince Vasíli of

+his own words.

+

+“Eh? Nonsense! He sees well enough,” said Prince Vasíli rapidly, in a

+deep voice and with a slight cough—the voice and cough with which he was

+wont to dispose of all difficulties.

+

+“He sees well enough,” he added. “And what I am so pleased about,” he

+went on, “is that our sovereign has given him full powers over all

+the armies and the whole region—powers no commander in chief ever had

+before. He is a second autocrat,” he concluded with a victorious smile.

+

+“God grant it! God grant it!” said Anna Pávlovna.

+

+The “man of great merit,” who was still a novice in court circles,

+wishing to flatter Anna Pávlovna by defending her former position on

+this question, observed:

+

+“It is said that the Emperor was reluctant to give Kutúzov those powers.

+They say he blushed like a girl to whom Joconde is read, when he said to

+Kutúzov: ‘Your Emperor and the Fatherland award you this honor.’”

+

+“Perhaps the heart took no part in that speech,” said Anna Pávlovna.

+

+“Oh, no, no!” warmly rejoined Prince Vasíli, who would not now yield

+Kutúzov to anyone; in his opinion Kutúzov was not only admirable

+himself, but was adored by everybody. “No, that’s impossible,” said he,

+“for our sovereign appreciated him so highly before.”

+

+“God grant only that Prince Kutúzov assumes real power and does not

+allow anyone to put a spoke in his wheel,” observed Anna Pávlovna.

+

+Understanding at once to whom she alluded, Prince Vasíli said in a

+whisper:

+

+“I know for a fact that Kutúzov made it an absolute condition that the

+Tsarévich should not be with the army. Do you know what he said to the

+Emperor?”

+

+And Prince Vasíli repeated the words supposed to have been spoken by

+Kutúzov to the Emperor. “I can neither punish him if he does wrong nor

+reward him if he does right.”

+

+“Oh, a very wise man is Prince Kutúzov! I have known him a long time!”

+

+“They even say,” remarked the “man of great merit” who did not yet

+possess courtly tact, “that his excellency made it an express condition

+that the sovereign himself should not be with the army.”

+

+As soon as he said this both Prince Vasíli and Anna Pávlovna turned away

+from him and glanced sadly at one another with a sigh at his naïveté.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER VII

+

+While this was taking place in Petersburg the French had already passed

+Smolénsk and were drawing nearer and nearer to Moscow. Napoleon’s

+historian Thiers, like other of his historians, trying to justify his

+hero says that he was drawn to the walls of Moscow against his will. He

+is as right as other historians who look for the explanation of historic

+events in the will of one man; he is as right as the Russian historians

+who maintain that Napoleon was drawn to Moscow by the skill of the

+Russian commanders. Here besides the law of retrospection, which regards

+all the past as a preparation for events that subsequently occur,

+the law of reciprocity comes in, confusing the whole matter. A good

+chessplayer having lost a game is sincerely convinced that his loss

+resulted from a mistake he made and looks for that mistake in the

+opening, but forgets that at each stage of the game there were similar

+mistakes and that none of his moves were perfect. He only notices the

+mistake to which he pays attention, because his opponent took advantage

+of it. How much more complex than this is the game of war, which

+occurs under certain limits of time, and where it is not one will that

+manipulates lifeless objects, but everything results from innumerable

+conflicts of various wills!

+

+After Smolénsk Napoleon sought a battle beyond Dorogobúzh at Vyázma, and

+then at Tsárevo-Zaymíshche, but it happened that owing to a conjunction

+of innumerable circumstances the Russians could not give battle till

+they reached Borodinó, seventy miles from Moscow. From Vyázma Napoleon

+ordered a direct advance on Moscow.

+

+Moscou, la capitale asiatique de ce grand empire, la ville sacrée des

+peuples d’Alexandre, Moscou avec ses innombrables églises en forme de

+pagodes chinoises, * this Moscow gave Napoleon’s imagination no rest.

+On the march from Vyázma to Tsárevo-Zaymíshche he rode his light bay

+bobtailed ambler accompanied by his Guards, his bodyguard, his pages,

+and aides-de-camp. Berthier, his chief of staff, dropped behind to

+question a Russian prisoner captured by the cavalry. Followed by

+Lelorgne d’Ideville, an interpreter, he overtook Napoleon at a gallop

+and reined in his horse with an amused expression.

+

+     * “Moscow, the Asiatic capital of this great empire, the

+     sacred city of Alexander’s people, Moscow with its

+     innumerable churches shaped like Chinese pagodas.”

+

+

+“Well?” asked Napoleon.

+

+“One of Plátov’s Cossacks says that Plátov’s corps is joining up with

+the main army and that Kutúzov has been appointed commander in chief. He

+is a very shrewd and garrulous fellow.”

+

+Napoleon smiled and told them to give the Cossack a horse and bring the

+man to him. He wished to talk to him himself. Several adjutants galloped

+off, and an hour later, Lavrúshka, the serf Denísov had handed over

+to Rostóv, rode up to Napoleon in an orderly’s jacket and on a French

+cavalry saddle, with a merry, and tipsy face. Napoleon told him to ride

+by his side and began questioning him.

+

+“You are a Cossack?”

+

+“Yes, a Cossack, your Honor.”

+

+“The Cossack, not knowing in what company he was, for Napoleon’s plain

+appearance had nothing about it that would reveal to an Oriental mind

+the presence of a monarch, talked with extreme familiarity of the

+incidents of the war,” says Thiers, narrating this episode. In

+reality Lavrúshka, having got drunk the day before and left his master

+dinnerless, had been whipped and sent to the village in quest of

+chickens, where he engaged in looting till the French took him prisoner.

+Lavrúshka was one of those coarse, bare-faced lackeys who have seen all

+sorts of things, consider it necessary to do everything in a mean and

+cunning way, are ready to render any sort of service to their master,

+and are keen at guessing their master’s baser impulses, especially those

+prompted by vanity and pettiness.

+

+Finding himself in the company of Napoleon, whose identity he had easily

+and surely recognized, Lavrúshka was not in the least abashed but merely

+did his utmost to gain his new master’s favor.

+

+He knew very well that this was Napoleon, but Napoleon’s presence could

+no more intimidate him than Rostóv’s, or a sergeant major’s with the

+rods, would have done, for he had nothing that either the sergeant major

+or Napoleon could deprive him of.

+

+So he rattled on, telling all the gossip he had heard among the

+orderlies. Much of it true. But when Napoleon asked him whether the

+Russians thought they would beat Bonaparte or not, Lavrúshka screwed up

+his eyes and considered.

+

+In this question he saw subtle cunning, as men of his type see cunning

+in everything, so he frowned and did not answer immediately.

+

+“It’s like this,” he said thoughtfully, “if there’s a battle soon, yours

+will win. That’s right. But if three days pass, then after that, well,

+then that same battle will not soon be over.”

+

+Lelorgne d’Ideville smilingly interpreted this speech to Napoleon thus:

+“If a battle takes place within the next three days the French will

+win, but if later, God knows what will happen.” Napoleon did not smile,

+though he was evidently in high good humor, and he ordered these words

+to be repeated.

+

+Lavrúshka noticed this and to entertain him further, pretending not to

+know who Napoleon was, added:

+

+“We know that you have Bonaparte and that he has beaten everybody in the

+world, but we are a different matter...”—without knowing why or how this

+bit of boastful patriotism slipped out at the end.

+

+The interpreter translated these words without the last phrase, and

+Bonaparte smiled. “The young Cossack made his mighty interlocutor

+smile,” says Thiers. After riding a few paces in silence, Napoleon

+turned to Berthier and said he wished to see how the news that he was

+talking to the Emperor himself, to that very Emperor who had written his

+immortally victorious name on the Pyramids, would affect this enfant du

+Don. *

+

+    * “Child of the Don.”

+

+

+The fact was accordingly conveyed to Lavrúshka.

+

+Lavrúshka, understanding that this was done to perplex him and that

+Napoleon expected him to be frightened, to gratify his new masters

+promptly pretended to be astonished and awe-struck, opened his eyes

+wide, and assumed the expression he usually put on when taken to be

+whipped. “As soon as Napoleon’s interpreter had spoken,” says Thiers,

+“the Cossack, seized by amazement, did not utter another word, but rode

+on, his eyes fixed on the conqueror whose fame had reached him across

+the steppes of the East. All his loquacity was suddenly arrested and

+replaced by a naïve and silent feeling of admiration. Napoleon, after

+making the Cossack a present, had him set free like a bird restored to

+its native fields.”

+

+Napoleon rode on, dreaming of the Moscow that so appealed to his

+imagination, and “the bird restored to its native fields” galloped to

+our outposts, inventing on the way all that had not taken place but that

+he meant to relate to his comrades. What had really taken place he did

+not wish to relate because it seemed to him not worth telling. He

+found the Cossacks, inquired for the regiment operating with Plátov’s

+detachment and by evening found his master, Nicholas Rostóv, quartered

+at Yankóvo. Rostóv was just mounting to go for a ride round the

+neighboring villages with Ilyín; he let Lavrúshka have another horse and

+took him along with him.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER VIII

+

+Princess Mary was not in Moscow and out of danger as Prince Andrew

+supposed.

+

+After the return of Alpátych from Smolénsk the old prince suddenly

+seemed to awake as from a dream. He ordered the militiamen to be called

+up from the villages and armed, and wrote a letter to the commander in

+chief informing him that he had resolved to remain at Bald Hills to the

+last extremity and to defend it, leaving to the commander in chief’s

+discretion to take measures or not for the defense of Bald Hills, where

+one of Russia’s oldest generals would be captured or killed, and he

+announced to his household that he would remain at Bald Hills.

+

+But while himself remaining, he gave instructions for the departure of

+the princess and Dessalles with the little prince to Boguchárovo and

+thence to Moscow. Princess Mary, alarmed by her father’s feverish and

+sleepless activity after his previous apathy, could not bring herself to

+leave him alone and for the first time in her life ventured to disobey

+him. She refused to go away and her father’s fury broke over her in a

+terrible storm. He repeated every injustice he had ever inflicted on

+her. Trying to convict her, he told her she had worn him out, had caused

+his quarrel with his son, had harbored nasty suspicions of him, making

+it the object of her life to poison his existence, and he drove her from

+his study telling her that if she did not go away it was all the same

+to him. He declared that he did not wish to remember her existence and

+warned her not to dare to let him see her. The fact that he did not, as

+she had feared, order her to be carried away by force but only told her

+not to let him see her cheered Princess Mary. She knew it was a proof

+that in the depth of his soul he was glad she was remaining at home and

+had not gone away.

+

+The morning after little Nicholas had left, the old prince donned his

+full uniform and prepared to visit the commander in chief. His calèche

+was already at the door. Princess Mary saw him walk out of the house in

+his uniform wearing all his orders and go down the garden to review his

+armed peasants and domestic serfs. She sat by the window listening to

+his voice which reached her from the garden. Suddenly several men came

+running up the avenue with frightened faces.

+

+Princess Mary ran out to the porch, down the flower-bordered path, and

+into the avenue. A large crowd of militiamen and domestics were moving

+toward her, and in their midst several men were supporting by

+the armpits and dragging along a little old man in a uniform and

+decorations. She ran up to him and, in the play of the sunlight that

+fell in small round spots through the shade of the lime-tree avenue,

+could not be sure what change there was in his face. All she could see

+was that his former stern and determined expression had altered to one

+of timidity and submission. On seeing his daughter he moved his helpless

+lips and made a hoarse sound. It was impossible to make out what he

+wanted. He was lifted up, carried to his study, and laid on the very

+couch he had so feared of late.

+

+The doctor, who was fetched that same night, bled him and said that the

+prince had had a seizure paralyzing his right side.

+

+It was becoming more and more dangerous to remain at Bald Hills, and

+next day they moved the prince to Boguchárovo, the doctor accompanying

+him.

+

+By the time they reached Boguchárovo, Dessalles and the little prince

+had already left for Moscow.

+

+For three weeks the old prince lay stricken by paralysis in the new

+house Prince Andrew had built at Boguchárovo, ever in the same state,

+getting neither better nor worse. He was unconscious and lay like

+a distorted corpse. He muttered unceasingly, his eyebrows and lips

+twitching, and it was impossible to tell whether he understood what was

+going on around him or not. One thing was certain—that he was suffering

+and wished to say something. But what it was, no one could tell: it

+might be some caprice of a sick and half-crazy man, or it might relate

+to public affairs, or possibly to family concerns.

+

+The doctor said this restlessness did not mean anything and was due

+to physical causes; but Princess Mary thought he wished to tell

+her something, and the fact that her presence always increased his

+restlessness confirmed her opinion.

+

+He was evidently suffering both physically and mentally. There was no

+hope of recovery. It was impossible for him to travel, it would not do

+to let him die on the road. “Would it not be better if the end did come,

+the very end?” Princess Mary sometimes thought. Night and day, hardly

+sleeping at all, she watched him and, terrible to say, often watched

+him not with hope of finding signs of improvement but wishing to find

+symptoms of the approach of the end.

+

+Strange as it was to her to acknowledge this feeling in herself, yet

+there it was. And what seemed still more terrible to her was that since

+her father’s illness began (perhaps even sooner, when she stayed with

+him expecting something to happen), all the personal desires and hopes

+that had been forgotten or sleeping within her had awakened. Thoughts

+that had not entered her mind for years—thoughts of a life free from

+the fear of her father, and even the possibility of love and of family

+happiness—floated continually in her imagination like temptations of the

+devil. Thrust them aside as she would, questions continually recurred

+to her as to how she would order her life now, after that. These were

+temptations of the devil and Princess Mary knew it. She knew that the

+sole weapon against him was prayer, and she tried to pray. She assumed

+an attitude of prayer, looked at the icons, repeated the words of a

+prayer, but she could not pray. She felt that a different world had

+now taken possession of her—the life of a world of strenuous and free

+activity, quite opposed to the spiritual world in which till now she

+had been confined and in which her greatest comfort had been prayer.

+She could not pray, could not weep, and worldly cares took possession of

+her.

+

+It was becoming dangerous to remain in Boguchárovo. News of the approach

+of the French came from all sides, and in one village, ten miles from

+Boguchárovo, a homestead had been looted by French marauders.

+

+The doctor insisted on the necessity of moving the prince; the

+provincial Marshal of the Nobility sent an official to Princess Mary

+to persuade her to get away as quickly as possible, and the head of the

+rural police having come to Boguchárovo urged the same thing, saying

+that the French were only some twenty-five miles away, that French

+proclamations were circulating in the villages, and that if the princess

+did not take her father away before the fifteenth, he could not answer

+for the consequences.

+

+The princess decided to leave on the fifteenth. The cares of preparation

+and giving orders, for which everyone came to her, occupied her all day.

+She spent the night of the fourteenth as usual, without undressing, in

+the room next to the one where the prince lay. Several times, waking up,

+she heard his groans and muttering, the creak of his bed, and the steps

+of Tíkhon and the doctor when they turned him over. Several times she

+listened at the door, and it seemed to her that his mutterings were

+louder than usual and that they turned him over oftener. She could not

+sleep and several times went to the door and listened, wishing to enter

+but not deciding to do so. Though he did not speak, Princess Mary saw

+and knew how unpleasant every sign of anxiety on his account was to him.

+She had noticed with what dissatisfaction he turned from the look she

+sometimes involuntarily fixed on him. She knew that her going in during

+the night at an unusual hour would irritate him.

+

+But never had she felt so grieved for him or so much afraid of losing

+him. She recalled all her life with him and in every word and act of his

+found an expression of his love of her. Occasionally amid these memories

+temptations of the devil would surge into her imagination: thoughts of

+how things would be after his death, and how her new, liberated life

+would be ordered. But she drove these thoughts away with disgust. Toward

+morning he became quiet and she fell asleep.

+

+She woke late. That sincerity which often comes with waking showed her

+clearly what chiefly concerned her about her father’s illness. On waking

+she listened to what was going on behind the door and, hearing him

+groan, said to herself with a sigh that things were still the same.

+

+“But what could have happened? What did I want? I want his death!” she

+cried with a feeling of loathing for herself.

+

+She washed, dressed, said her prayers, and went out to the porch. In

+front of it stood carriages without horses and things were being packed

+into the vehicles.

+

+It was a warm, gray morning. Princess Mary stopped at the porch, still

+horrified by her spiritual baseness and trying to arrange her thoughts

+before going to her father. The doctor came downstairs and went out to

+her.

+

+“He is a little better today,” said he. “I was looking for you. One can

+make out something of what he is saying. His head is clearer. Come in,

+he is asking for you....”

+

+Princess Mary’s heart beat so violently at this news that she grew pale

+and leaned against the wall to keep from falling. To see him, talk to

+him, feel his eyes on her now that her whole soul was overflowing with

+those dreadful, wicked temptations, was a torment of joy and terror.

+

+“Come,” said the doctor.

+

+Princess Mary entered her father’s room and went up to his bed. He was

+lying on his back propped up high, and his small bony hands with

+their knotted purple veins were lying on the quilt; his left eye gazed

+straight before him, his right eye was awry, and his brows and lips

+motionless. He seemed altogether so thin, small, and pathetic. His face

+seemed to have shriveled or melted; his features had grown smaller.

+Princess Mary went up and kissed his hand. His left hand pressed hers

+so that she understood that he had long been waiting for her to come. He

+twitched her hand, and his brows and lips quivered angrily.

+

+She looked at him in dismay trying to guess what he wanted of her. When

+she changed her position so that his left eye could see her face he

+calmed down, not taking his eyes off her for some seconds. Then his lips

+and tongue moved, sounds came, and he began to speak, gazing timidly and

+imploringly at her, evidently afraid that she might not understand.

+

+Straining all her faculties Princess Mary looked at him. The comic

+efforts with which he moved his tongue made her drop her eyes and with

+difficulty repress the sobs that rose to her throat. He said something,

+repeating the same words several times. She could not understand them,

+but tried to guess what he was saying and inquiringly repeated the words

+he uttered.

+

+“Mmm...ar...ate...ate...” he repeated several times.

+

+It was quite impossible to understand these sounds. The doctor thought

+he had guessed them, and inquiringly repeated: “Mary, are you afraid?”

+The prince shook his head, again repeated the same sounds.

+

+“My mind, my mind aches?” questioned Princess Mary.

+

+He made a mumbling sound in confirmation of this, took her hand, and

+began pressing it to different parts of his breast as if trying to find

+the right place for it.

+

+“Always thoughts... about you... thoughts...” he then uttered much

+more clearly than he had done before, now that he was sure of being

+understood.

+

+Princess Mary pressed her head against his hand, trying to hide her sobs

+and tears.

+

+He moved his hand over her hair.

+

+“I have been calling you all night...” he brought out.

+

+“If only I had known...” she said through her tears. “I was afraid to

+come in.”

+

+He pressed her hand.

+

+“Weren’t you asleep?”

+

+“No, I did not sleep,” said Princess Mary, shaking her head.

+

+Unconsciously imitating her father, she now tried to express herself as

+he did, as much as possible by signs, and her tongue too seemed to move

+with difficulty.

+

+“Dear one... Dearest...” Princess Mary could not quite make out what he

+had said, but from his look it was clear that he had uttered a tender

+caressing word such as he had never used to her before. “Why didn’t you

+come in?”

+

+“And I was wishing for his death!” thought Princess Mary.

+

+He was silent awhile.

+

+“Thank you... daughter dear!... for all, for all... forgive!... thank

+you!... forgive!... thank you!...” and tears began to flow from his

+eyes. “Call Andrew!” he said suddenly, and a childish, timid expression

+of doubt showed itself on his face as he spoke.

+

+He himself seemed aware that his demand was meaningless. So at least it

+seemed to Princess Mary.

+

+“I have a letter from him,” she replied.

+

+He glanced at her with timid surprise.

+

+“Where is he?”

+

+“He’s with the army, Father, at Smolénsk.”

+

+He closed his eyes and remained silent a long time. Then as if in

+answer to his doubts and to confirm the fact that now he understood and

+remembered everything, he nodded his head and reopened his eyes.

+

+“Yes,” he said, softly and distinctly. “Russia has perished. They’ve

+destroyed her.”

+

+And he began to sob, and again tears flowed from his eyes. Princess Mary

+could no longer restrain herself and wept while she gazed at his face.

+

+Again he closed his eyes. His sobs ceased, he pointed to his eyes, and

+Tíkhon, understanding him, wiped away the tears.

+

+Then he again opened his eyes and said something none of them could

+understand for a long time, till at last Tíkhon understood and repeated

+it. Princess Mary had sought the meaning of his words in the mood in

+which he had just been speaking. She thought he was speaking of Russia,

+or Prince Andrew, of herself, of his grandson, or of his own death, and

+so she could not guess his words.

+

+“Put on your white dress. I like it,” was what he said.

+

+Having understood this Princess Mary sobbed still louder, and the doctor

+taking her arm led her out to the veranda, soothing her and trying to

+persuade her to prepare for her journey. When she had left the room the

+prince again began speaking about his son, about the war, and about the

+Emperor, angrily twitching his brows and raising his hoarse voice, and

+then he had a second and final stroke.

+

+Princess Mary stayed on the veranda. The day had cleared, it was hot and

+sunny. She could understand nothing, think of nothing and feel nothing,

+except passionate love for her father, love such as she thought she had

+never felt till that moment. She ran out sobbing into the garden and as

+far as the pond, along the avenues of young lime trees Prince Andrew had

+planted.

+

+“Yes... I... I... I wished for his death! Yes, I wanted it to end

+quicker.... I wished to be at peace.... And what will become of me? What

+use will peace be when he is no longer here?” Princess Mary murmured,

+pacing the garden with hurried steps and pressing her hands to her bosom

+which heaved with convulsive sobs.

+

+When she had completed the tour of the garden, which brought her

+again to the house, she saw Mademoiselle Bourienne—who had remained

+at Boguchárovo and did not wish to leave it—coming toward her with a

+stranger. This was the Marshal of the Nobility of the district, who

+had come personally to point out to the princess the necessity for her

+prompt departure. Princess Mary listened without understanding him; she

+led him to the house, offered him lunch, and sat down with him. Then,

+excusing herself, she went to the door of the old prince’s room. The

+doctor came out with an agitated face and said she could not enter.

+

+“Go away, Princess! Go away... go away!”

+

+She returned to the garden and sat down on the grass at the foot of the

+slope by the pond, where no one could see her. She did not know how

+long she had been there when she was aroused by the sound of a woman’s

+footsteps running along the path. She rose and saw Dunyásha her maid,

+who was evidently looking for her, and who stopped suddenly as if in

+alarm on seeing her mistress.

+

+“Please come, Princess... The Prince,” said Dunyásha in a breaking

+voice.

+

+“Immediately, I’m coming, I’m coming!” replied the princess hurriedly,

+not giving Dunyásha time to finish what she was saying, and trying to

+avoid seeing the girl she ran toward the house.

+

+“Princess, it’s God’s will! You must be prepared for everything,” said

+the Marshal, meeting her at the house door.

+

+“Let me alone; it’s not true!” she cried angrily to him.

+

+The doctor tried to stop her. She pushed him aside and ran to her

+father’s door. “Why are these people with frightened faces stopping me?

+I don’t want any of them! And what are they doing here?” she thought.

+She opened the door and the bright daylight in that previously darkened

+room startled her. In the room were her nurse and other women. They all

+drew back from the bed, making way for her. He was still lying on the

+bed as before, but the stern expression of his quiet face made Princess

+Mary stop short on the threshold.

+

+“No, he’s not dead—it’s impossible!” she told herself and approached

+him, and repressing the terror that seized her, she pressed her lips

+to his cheek. But she stepped back immediately. All the force of the

+tenderness she had been feeling for him vanished instantly and was

+replaced by a feeling of horror at what lay there before her. “No, he

+is no more! He is not, but here where he was is something unfamiliar and

+hostile, some dreadful, terrifying, and repellent mystery!” And hiding

+her face in her hands, Princess Mary sank into the arms of the doctor,

+who held her up.

+

+

+In the presence of Tíkhon and the doctor the women washed what had been

+the prince, tied his head up with a handkerchief that the mouth should

+not stiffen while open, and with another handkerchief tied together the

+legs that were already spreading apart. Then they dressed him in uniform

+with his decorations and placed his shriveled little body on a table.

+Heaven only knows who arranged all this and when, but it all got done

+as if of its own accord. Toward night candles were burning round his

+coffin, a pall was spread over it, the floor was strewn with sprays of

+juniper, a printed band was tucked in under his shriveled head, and in a

+corner of the room sat a chanter reading the psalms.

+

+Just as horses shy and snort and gather about a dead horse, so the

+inmates of the house and strangers crowded into the drawing room round

+the coffin—the Marshal, the village Elder, peasant women—and all with

+fixed and frightened eyes, crossing themselves, bowed and kissed the old

+prince’s cold and stiffened hand.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER IX

+

+Until Prince Andrew settled in Boguchárovo its owners had always been

+absentees, and its peasants were of quite a different character from

+those of Bald Hills. They differed from them in speech, dress, and

+disposition. They were called steppe peasants. The old prince used to

+approve of them for their endurance at work when they came to Bald Hills

+to help with the harvest or to dig ponds, and ditches, but he disliked

+them for their boorishness.

+

+Prince Andrew’s last stay at Boguchárovo, when he introduced hospitals

+and schools and reduced the quitrent the peasants had to pay, had not

+softened their disposition but had on the contrary strengthened in

+them the traits of character the old prince called boorishness. Various

+obscure rumors were always current among them: at one time a rumor that

+they would all be enrolled as Cossacks; at another of a new religion to

+which they were all to be converted; then of some proclamation of the

+Tsar’s and of an oath to the Tsar Paul in 1797 (in connection with which

+it was rumored that freedom had been granted them but the landowners had

+stopped it), then of Peter Fëdorovich’s return to the throne in seven

+years’ time, when everything would be made free and so “simple” that

+there would be no restrictions. Rumors of the war with Bonaparte and

+his invasion were connected in their minds with the same sort of vague

+notions of Antichrist, the end of the world, and “pure freedom.”

+

+In the vicinity of Boguchárovo were large villages belonging to the

+crown or to owners whose serfs paid quitrent and could work where they

+pleased. There were very few resident landlords in the neighborhood

+and also very few domestic or literate serfs, and in the lives of the

+peasantry of those parts the mysterious undercurrents in the life of

+the Russian people, the causes and meaning of which are so baffling to

+contemporaries, were more clearly and strongly noticeable than among

+others. One instance, which had occurred some twenty years before, was

+a movement among the peasants to emigrate to some unknown “warm rivers.”

+Hundreds of peasants, among them the Boguchárovo folk, suddenly began

+selling their cattle and moving in whole families toward the southeast.

+As birds migrate to somewhere beyond the sea, so these men with their

+wives and children streamed to the southeast, to parts where none of

+them had ever been. They set off in caravans, bought their freedom one

+by one or ran away, and drove or walked toward the “warm rivers.” Many

+of them were punished, some sent to Siberia, many died of cold and

+hunger on the road, many returned of their own accord, and the movement

+died down of itself just as it had sprung up, without apparent reason.

+But such undercurrents still existed among the people and gathered new

+forces ready to manifest themselves just as strangely, unexpectedly, and

+at the same time simply, naturally, and forcibly. Now in 1812, to anyone

+living in close touch with these people it was apparent that these

+undercurrents were acting strongly and nearing an eruption.

+

+Alpátych, who had reached Boguchárovo shortly before the old prince’s

+death, noticed an agitation among the peasants, and that contrary to

+what was happening in the Bald Hills district, where over a radius of

+forty miles all the peasants were moving away and leaving their villages

+to be devastated by the Cossacks, the peasants in the steppe region

+round Boguchárovo were, it was rumored, in touch with the French,

+received leaflets from them that passed from hand to hand, and did not

+migrate. He learned from domestic serfs loyal to him that the peasant

+Karp, who possessed great influence in the village commune and had

+recently been away driving a government transport, had returned with

+news that the Cossacks were destroying deserted villages, but that the

+French did not harm them. Alpátych also knew that on the previous day

+another peasant had even brought from the village of Visloúkhovo, which

+was occupied by the French, a proclamation by a French general that no

+harm would be done to the inhabitants, and if they remained they would

+be paid for anything taken from them. As proof of this the peasant had

+brought from Visloúkhovo a hundred rubles in notes (he did not know that

+they were false) paid to him in advance for hay.

+

+More important still, Alpátych learned that on the morning of the

+very day he gave the village Elder orders to collect carts to move the

+princess’ luggage from Boguchárovo, there had been a village meeting at

+which it had been decided not to move but to wait. Yet there was no

+time to waste. On the fifteenth, the day of the old prince’s death,

+the Marshal had insisted on Princess Mary’s leaving at once, as it was

+becoming dangerous. He had told her that after the sixteenth he could

+not be responsible for what might happen. On the evening of the day the

+old prince died the Marshal went away, promising to return next day for

+the funeral. But this he was unable to do, for he received tidings that

+the French had unexpectedly advanced, and had barely time to remove his

+own family and valuables from his estate.

+

+For some thirty years Boguchárovo had been managed by the village Elder,

+Dron, whom the old prince called by the diminutive “Drónushka.”

+

+Dron was one of those physically and mentally vigorous peasants who grow

+big beards as soon as they are of age and go on unchanged till they

+are sixty or seventy, without a gray hair or the loss of a tooth, as

+straight and strong at sixty as at thirty.

+

+Soon after the migration to the “warm rivers,” in which he had taken

+part like the rest, Dron was made village Elder and overseer of

+Boguchárovo, and had since filled that post irreproachably for

+twenty-three years. The peasants feared him more than they did their

+master. The masters, both the old prince and the young, and the steward

+respected him and jestingly called him “the Minister.” During the

+whole time of his service Dron had never been drunk or ill, never after

+sleepless nights or the hardest tasks had he shown the least fatigue,

+and though he could not read he had never forgotten a single money

+account or the number of quarters of flour in any of the endless

+cartloads he sold for the prince, nor a single shock of the whole corn

+crop on any single acre of the Boguchárovo fields.

+

+Alpátych, arriving from the devastated Bald Hills estate, sent for his

+Dron on the day of the prince’s funeral and told him to have twelve

+horses got ready for the princess’ carriages and eighteen carts for

+the things to be removed from Boguchárovo. Though the peasants paid

+quitrent, Alpátych thought no difficulty would be made about complying

+with this order, for there were two hundred and thirty households at

+work in Boguchárovo and the peasants were well to do. But on hearing the

+order Dron lowered his eyes and remained silent. Alpátych named certain

+peasants he knew, from whom he told him to take the carts.

+

+Dron replied that the horses of these peasants were away carting.

+Alpátych named others, but they too, according to Dron, had no horses

+available: some horses were carting for the government, others were too

+weak, and others had died for want of fodder. It seemed that no horses

+could be had even for the carriages, much less for the carting.

+

+Alpátych looked intently at Dron and frowned. Just as Dron was a model

+village Elder, so Alpátych had not managed the prince’s estates for

+twenty years in vain. He was a model steward, possessing in the highest

+degree the faculty of divining the needs and instincts of those he dealt

+with. Having glanced at Dron he at once understood that his answers did

+not express his personal views but the general mood of the Boguchárovo

+commune, by which the Elder had already been carried away. But he also

+knew that Dron, who had acquired property and was hated by the commune,

+must be hesitating between the two camps: the masters’ and the serfs’.

+He noticed this hesitation in Dron’s look and therefore frowned and

+moved closer up to him.

+

+“Now just listen, Drónushka,” said he. “Don’t talk nonsense to me. His

+excellency Prince Andrew himself gave me orders to move all the people

+away and not leave them with the enemy, and there is an order from the

+Tsar about it too. Anyone who stays is a traitor to the Tsar. Do you

+hear?”

+

+“I hear,” Dron answered without lifting his eyes.

+

+Alpátych was not satisfied with this reply.

+

+“Eh, Dron, it will turn out badly!” he said, shaking his head.

+

+“The power is in your hands,” Dron rejoined sadly.

+

+“Eh, Dron, drop it!” Alpátych repeated, withdrawing his hand from his

+bosom and solemnly pointing to the floor at Dron’s feet. “I can see

+through you and three yards into the ground under you,” he continued,

+gazing at the floor in front of Dron.

+

+Dron was disconcerted, glanced furtively at Alpátych and again lowered

+his eyes.

+

+“You drop this nonsense and tell the people to get ready to leave their

+homes and go to Moscow and to get carts ready for tomorrow morning

+for the princess’ things. And don’t go to any meeting yourself, do you

+hear?”

+

+Dron suddenly fell on his knees.

+

+“Yákov Alpátych, discharge me! Take the keys from me and discharge me,

+for Christ’s sake!”

+

+“Stop that!” cried Alpátych sternly. “I see through you and three yards

+under you,” he repeated, knowing that his skill in beekeeping, his

+knowledge of the right time to sow the oats, and the fact that he had

+been able to retain the old prince’s favor for twenty years had long

+since gained him the reputation of being a wizard, and that the power of

+seeing three yards under a man is considered an attribute of wizards.

+

+Dron got up and was about to say something, but Alpátych interrupted

+him.

+

+“What is it you have got into your heads, eh?... What are you thinking

+of, eh?”

+

+“What am I to do with the people?” said Dron. “They’re quite beside

+themselves; I have already told them...”

+

+“‘Told them,’ I dare say!” said Alpátych. “Are they drinking?” he asked

+abruptly.

+

+“Quite beside themselves, Yákov Alpátych; they’ve fetched another

+barrel.”

+

+“Well, then, listen! I’ll go to the police officer, and you tell them

+so, and that they must stop this and the carts must be got ready.”

+

+“I understand.”

+

+Alpátych did not insist further. He had managed people for a long time

+and knew that the chief way to make them obey is to show no suspicion

+that they can possibly disobey. Having wrung a submissive “I understand”

+from Dron, Alpátych contented himself with that, though he not only

+doubted but felt almost certain that without the help of troops the

+carts would not be forthcoming.

+

+And so it was, for when evening came no carts had been provided. In the

+village, outside the drink shop, another meeting was being held, which

+decided that the horses should be driven out into the woods and the

+carts should not be provided. Without saying anything of this to the

+princess, Alpátych had his own belongings taken out of the carts which

+had arrived from Bald Hills and had those horses got ready for

+the princess’ carriages. Meanwhile he went himself to the police

+authorities.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER X

+

+After her father’s funeral Princess Mary shut herself up in her room and

+did not admit anyone. A maid came to the door to say that Alpátych was

+asking for orders about their departure. (This was before his talk with

+Dron.) Princess Mary raised herself on the sofa on which she had been

+lying and replied through the closed door that she did not mean to go

+away and begged to be left in peace.

+

+The windows of the room in which she was lying looked westward. She

+lay on the sofa with her face to the wall, fingering the buttons of the

+leather cushion and seeing nothing but that cushion, and her confused

+thoughts were centered on one subject—the irrevocability of death and

+her own spiritual baseness, which she had not suspected, but which had

+shown itself during her father’s illness. She wished to pray but did not

+dare to, dared not in her present state of mind address herself to God.

+She lay for a long time in that position.

+

+The sun had reached the other side of the house, and its slanting rays

+shone into the open window, lighting up the room and part of the morocco

+cushion at which Princess Mary was looking. The flow of her thoughts

+suddenly stopped. Unconsciously she sat up, smoothed her hair, got up,

+and went to the window, involuntarily inhaling the freshness of the

+clear but windy evening.

+

+“Yes, you can well enjoy the evening now! He is gone and no one will

+hinder you,” she said to herself, and sinking into a chair she let her

+head fall on the window sill.

+

+Someone spoke her name in a soft and tender voice from the garden and

+kissed her head. She looked up. It was Mademoiselle Bourienne in a black

+dress and weepers. She softly approached Princess Mary, sighed, kissed

+her, and immediately began to cry. The princess looked up at her. All

+their former disharmony and her own jealousy recurred to her mind.

+But she remembered too how he had changed of late toward Mademoiselle

+Bourienne and could not bear to see her, thereby showing how unjust were

+the reproaches Princess Mary had mentally addressed to her. “Besides,

+is it for me, for me who desired his death, to condemn anyone?” she

+thought.

+

+Princess Mary vividly pictured to herself the position of Mademoiselle

+Bourienne, whom she had of late kept at a distance, but who yet was

+dependent on her and living in her house. She felt sorry for her

+and held out her hand with a glance of gentle inquiry. Mademoiselle

+Bourienne at once began crying again and kissed that hand, speaking of

+the princess’ sorrow and making herself a partner in it. She said her

+only consolation was the fact that the princess allowed her to share her

+sorrow, that all the old misunderstandings should sink into nothing but

+this great grief; that she felt herself blameless in regard to everyone,

+and that he, from above, saw her affection and gratitude. The princess

+heard her, not heeding her words but occasionally looking up at her and

+listening to the sound of her voice.

+

+“Your position is doubly terrible, dear princess,” said Mademoiselle

+Bourienne after a pause. “I understand that you could not, and cannot,

+think of yourself, but with my love for you I must do so.... Has

+Alpátych been to you? Has he spoken to you of going away?” she asked.

+

+Princess Mary did not answer. She did not understand who was to go or

+where to. “Is it possible to plan or think of anything now? Is it not

+all the same?” she thought, and did not reply.

+

+“You know, chère Marie,” said Mademoiselle Bourienne, “that we are in

+danger—are surrounded by the French. It would be dangerous to move now.

+If we go we are almost sure to be taken prisoners, and God knows...”

+

+Princess Mary looked at her companion without understanding what she was

+talking about.

+

+“Oh, if anyone knew how little anything matters to me now,” she said.

+“Of course I would on no account wish to go away from him.... Alpátych

+did say something about going.... Speak to him; I can do nothing,

+nothing, and don’t want to....”

+

+“I’ve spoken to him. He hopes we should be in time to get away tomorrow,

+but I think it would now be better to stay here,” said Mademoiselle

+Bourienne. “Because, you will agree, chère Marie, to fall into the hands

+of the soldiers or of riotous peasants would be terrible.”

+

+Mademoiselle Bourienne took from her reticule a proclamation (not

+printed on ordinary Russian paper) of General Rameau’s, telling people

+not to leave their homes and that the French authorities would afford

+them proper protection. She handed this to the princess.

+

+“I think it would be best to appeal to that general,” she continued,

+“and I am sure that all due respect would be shown you.”

+

+Princess Mary read the paper, and her face began to quiver with stifled

+sobs.

+

+“From whom did you get this?” she asked.

+

+“They probably recognized that I am French, by my name,” replied

+Mademoiselle Bourienne blushing.

+

+Princess Mary, with the paper in her hand, rose from the window and with

+a pale face went out of the room and into what had been Prince Andrew’s

+study.

+

+“Dunyásha, send Alpátych, or Drónushka, or somebody to me!” she said,

+“and tell Mademoiselle Bourienne not to come to me,” she added, hearing

+Mademoiselle Bourienne’s voice. “We must go at once, at once!” she said,

+appalled at the thought of being left in the hands of the French.

+

+“If Prince Andrew heard that I was in the power of the French! That

+I, the daughter of Prince Nicholas Bolkónski, asked General Rameau for

+protection and accepted his favor!” This idea horrified her, made her

+shudder, blush, and feel such a rush of anger and pride as she had never

+experienced before. All that was distressing, and especially all that

+was humiliating, in her position rose vividly to her mind. “They, the

+French, would settle in this house: M. le Général Rameau would occupy

+Prince Andrew’s study and amuse himself by looking through and reading

+his letters and papers. Mademoiselle Bourienne would do the honors of

+Boguchárovo for him. I should be given a small room as a favor, the

+soldiers would violate my father’s newly dug grave to steal his crosses

+and stars, they would tell me of their victories over the Russians, and

+would pretend to sympathize with my sorrow...” thought Princess Mary,

+not thinking her own thoughts but feeling bound to think like her father

+and her brother. For herself she did not care where she remained or what

+happened to her, but she felt herself the representative of her dead

+father and of Prince Andrew. Involuntarily she thought their thoughts

+and felt their feelings. What they would have said and what they would

+have done she felt bound to say and do. She went into Prince Andrew’s

+study, trying to enter completely into his ideas, and considered her

+position.

+

+The demands of life, which had seemed to her annihilated by her father’s

+death, all at once rose before her with a new, previously unknown force

+and took possession of her.

+

+Agitated and flushed she paced the room, sending now for Michael

+Ivánovich and now for Tíkhon or Dron. Dunyásha, the nurse, and the other

+maids could not say in how far Mademoiselle Bourienne’s statement was

+correct. Alpátych was not at home, he had gone to the police. Neither

+could the architect Michael Ivánovich, who on being sent for came in

+with sleepy eyes, tell Princess Mary anything. With just the same smile

+of agreement with which for fifteen years he had been accustomed to

+answer the old prince without expressing views of his own, he now

+replied to Princess Mary, so that nothing definite could be got from his

+answers. The old valet Tíkhon, with sunken, emaciated face that bore the

+stamp of inconsolable grief, replied: “Yes, Princess” to all Princess

+Mary’s questions and hardly refrained from sobbing as he looked at her.

+

+At length Dron, the village Elder, entered the room and with a deep bow

+to Princess Mary came to a halt by the doorpost.

+

+Princess Mary walked up and down the room and stopped in front of him.

+

+“Drónushka,” she said, regarding as a sure friend this Drónushka who

+always used to bring a special kind of gingerbread from his visit to the

+fair at Vyázma every year and smilingly offer it to her, “Drónushka, now

+since our misfortune...” she began, but could not go on.

+

+“We are all in God’s hands,” said he, with a sigh.

+

+They were silent for a while.

+

+“Drónushka, Alpátych has gone off somewhere and I have no one to turn

+to. Is it true, as they tell me, that I can’t even go away?”

+

+“Why shouldn’t you go away, your excellency? You can go,” said Dron.

+

+“I was told it would be dangerous because of the enemy. Dear friend, I

+can do nothing. I understand nothing. I have nobody! I want to go away

+tonight or early tomorrow morning.”

+

+Dron paused. He looked askance at Princess Mary and said: “There are no

+horses; I told Yákov Alpátych so.”

+

+“Why are there none?” asked the princess.

+

+“It’s all God’s scourge,” said Dron. “What horses we had have been

+taken for the army or have died—this is such a year! It’s not a case of

+feeding horses—we may die of hunger ourselves! As it is, some go three

+days without eating. We’ve nothing, we’ve been ruined.”

+

+Princess Mary listened attentively to what he told her.

+

+“The peasants are ruined? They have no bread?” she asked.

+

+“They’re dying of hunger,” said Dron. “It’s not a case of carting.”

+

+“But why didn’t you tell me, Drónushka? Isn’t it possible to help them?

+I’ll do all I can....”

+

+To Princess Mary it was strange that now, at a moment when such sorrow

+was filling her soul, there could be rich people and poor, and the rich

+could refrain from helping the poor. She had heard vaguely that there

+was such a thing as “landlord’s corn” which was sometimes given to the

+peasants. She also knew that neither her father nor her brother would

+refuse to help the peasants in need, she only feared to make some

+mistake in speaking about the distribution of the grain she wished to

+give. She was glad such cares presented themselves, enabling her

+without scruple to forget her own grief. She began asking Dron about the

+peasants’ needs and what there was in Boguchárovo that belonged to the

+landlord.

+

+“But we have grain belonging to my brother?” she said.

+

+“The landlord’s grain is all safe,” replied Dron proudly. “Our prince

+did not order it to be sold.”

+

+“Give it to the peasants, let them have all they need; I give you leave

+in my brother’s name,” said she.

+

+Dron made no answer but sighed deeply.

+

+“Give them that corn if there is enough of it. Distribute it all. I

+give this order in my brother’s name; and tell them that what is ours is

+theirs. We do not grudge them anything. Tell them so.”

+

+Dron looked intently at the princess while she was speaking.

+

+“Discharge me, little mother, for God’s sake! Order the keys to be taken

+from me,” said he. “I have served twenty-three years and have done no

+wrong. Discharge me, for God’s sake!”

+

+Princess Mary did not understand what he wanted of her or why he was

+asking to be discharged. She replied that she had never doubted his

+devotion and that she was ready to do anything for him and for the

+peasants.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XI

+

+An hour later Dunyásha came to tell the princess that Dron had come, and

+all the peasants had assembled at the barn by the princess’ order and

+wished to have word with their mistress.

+

+“But I never told them to come,” said Princess Mary. “I only told Dron

+to let them have the grain.”

+

+“Only, for God’s sake, Princess dear, have them sent away and don’t go

+out to them. It’s all a trick,” said Dunyásha, “and when Yákov Alpátych

+returns let us get away... and please don’t...”

+

+“What is a trick?” asked Princess Mary in surprise.

+

+“I know it is, only listen to me for God’s sake! Ask nurse too. They say

+they don’t agree to leave Boguchárovo as you ordered.”

+

+“You’re making some mistake. I never ordered them to go away,” said

+Princess Mary. “Call Drónushka.”

+

+Dron came and confirmed Dunyásha’s words; the peasants had come by the

+princess’ order.

+

+“But I never sent for them,” declared the princess. “You must have given

+my message wrong. I only said that you were to give them the grain.”

+

+Dron only sighed in reply.

+

+“If you order it they will go away,” said he.

+

+“No, no. I’ll go out to them,” said Princess Mary, and in spite of

+the nurse’s and Dunyásha’s protests she went out into the porch; Dron,

+Dunyásha, the nurse, and Michael Ivánovich following her.

+

+“They probably think I am offering them the grain to bribe them to

+remain here, while I myself go away leaving them to the mercy of the

+French,” thought Princess Mary. “I will offer them monthly rations and

+housing at our Moscow estate. I am sure Andrew would do even more in

+my place,” she thought as she went out in the twilight toward the crowd

+standing on the pasture by the barn.

+

+The men crowded closer together, stirred, and rapidly took off their

+hats. Princess Mary lowered her eyes and, tripping over her skirt, came

+close up to them. So many different eyes, old and young, were fixed

+on her, and there were so many different faces, that she could not

+distinguish any of them and, feeling that she must speak to them all

+at once, did not know how to do it. But again the sense that she

+represented her father and her brother gave her courage, and she boldly

+began her speech.

+

+“I am very glad you have come,” she said without raising her eyes, and

+feeling her heart beating quickly and violently. “Drónushka tells me

+that the war has ruined you. That is our common misfortune, and I

+shall grudge nothing to help you. I am myself going away because it

+is dangerous here... the enemy is near... because... I am giving you

+everything, my friends, and I beg you to take everything, all our grain,

+so that you may not suffer want! And if you have been told that I am

+giving you the grain to keep you here—that is not true. On the contrary,

+I ask you to go with all your belongings to our estate near Moscow, and

+I promise you I will see to it that there you shall want for nothing.

+You shall be given food and lodging.”

+

+The princess stopped. Sighs were the only sound heard in the crowd.

+

+“I am not doing this on my own account,” she continued, “I do it in the

+name of my dead father, who was a good master to you, and of my brother

+and his son.”

+

+Again she paused. No one broke the silence.

+

+“Ours is a common misfortune and we will share it together. All that is

+mine is yours,” she concluded, scanning the faces before her.

+

+All eyes were gazing at her with one and the same expression. She

+could not fathom whether it was curiosity, devotion, gratitude, or

+apprehension and distrust—but the expression on all the faces was

+identical.

+

+“We are all very thankful for your bounty, but it won’t do for us to

+take the landlord’s grain,” said a voice at the back of the crowd.

+

+“But why not?” asked the princess.

+

+No one replied and Princess Mary, looking round at the crowd, found that

+every eye she met now was immediately dropped.

+

+“But why don’t you want to take it?” she asked again.

+

+No one answered.

+

+The silence began to oppress the princess and she tried to catch

+someone’s eye.

+

+“Why don’t you speak?” she inquired of a very old man who stood just

+in front of her leaning on his stick. “If you think something more is

+wanted, tell me! I will do anything,” said she, catching his eye.

+

+But as if this angered him, he bent his head quite low and muttered:

+

+“Why should we agree? We don’t want the grain.”

+

+“Why should we give up everything? We don’t agree. Don’t agree.... We

+are sorry for you, but we’re not willing. Go away yourself, alone...”

+came from various sides of the crowd.

+

+And again all the faces in that crowd bore an identical expression,

+though now it was certainly not an expression of curiosity or gratitude,

+but of angry resolve.

+

+“But you can’t have understood me,” said Princess Mary with a sad smile.

+“Why don’t you want to go? I promise to house and feed you, while here

+the enemy would ruin you....”

+

+But her voice was drowned by the voices of the crowd.

+

+“We’re not willing. Let them ruin us! We won’t take your grain. We don’t

+agree.”

+

+Again Princess Mary tried to catch someone’s eye, but not a single eye

+in the crowd was turned to her; evidently they were all trying to avoid

+her look. She felt strange and awkward.

+

+“Oh yes, an artful tale! Follow her into slavery! Pull down your houses

+and go into bondage! I dare say! ‘I’ll give you grain, indeed!’ she

+says,” voices in the crowd were heard saying.

+

+With drooping head Princess Mary left the crowd and went back to the

+house. Having repeated her order to Dron to have horses ready for her

+departure next morning, she went to her room and remained alone with her

+own thoughts.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XII

+

+For a long time that night Princess Mary sat by the open window of her

+room hearing the sound of the peasants’ voices that reached her from

+the village, but it was not of them she was thinking. She felt that she

+could not understand them however much she might think about them. She

+thought only of one thing, her sorrow, which, after the break caused

+by cares for the present, seemed already to belong to the past. Now she

+could remember it and weep or pray.

+

+After sunset the wind had dropped. The night was calm and fresh. Toward

+midnight the voices began to subside, a cock crowed, the full moon began

+to show from behind the lime trees, a fresh white dewy mist began to

+rise, and stillness reigned over the village and the house.

+

+Pictures of the near past—her father’s illness and last moments—rose

+one after another to her memory. With mournful pleasure she now lingered

+over these images, repelling with horror only the last one, the

+picture of his death, which she felt she could not contemplate even in

+imagination at this still and mystic hour of night. And these pictures

+presented themselves to her so clearly and in such detail that they

+seemed now present, now past, and now future.

+

+She vividly recalled the moment when he had his first stroke and was

+being dragged along by his armpits through the garden at Bald Hills,

+muttering something with his helpless tongue, twitching his gray

+eyebrows and looking uneasily and timidly at her.

+

+“Even then he wanted to tell me what he told me the day he died,” she

+thought. “He had always thought what he said then.” And she recalled in

+all its detail the night at Bald Hills before he had the last stroke,

+when with a foreboding of disaster she had remained at home against his

+will. She had not slept and had stolen downstairs on tiptoe, and going

+to the door of the conservatory where he slept that night had listened

+at the door. In a suffering and weary voice he was saying something to

+Tíkhon, speaking of the Crimea and its warm nights and of the Empress.

+Evidently he had wanted to talk. “And why didn’t he call me? Why didn’t

+he let me be there instead of Tíkhon?” Princess Mary had thought and

+thought again now. “Now he will never tell anyone what he had in his

+soul. Never will that moment return for him or for me when he might have

+said all he longed to say, and not Tíkhon but I might have heard and

+understood him. Why didn’t I enter the room?” she thought. “Perhaps he

+would then have said to me what he said the day he died. While talking

+to Tíkhon he asked about me twice. He wanted to see me, and I was

+standing close by, outside the door. It was sad and painful for him

+to talk to Tíkhon who did not understand him. I remember how he began

+speaking to him about Lise as if she were alive—he had forgotten she

+was dead—and Tíkhon reminded him that she was no more, and he shouted,

+‘Fool!’ He was greatly depressed. From behind the door I heard how he

+lay down on his bed groaning and loudly exclaimed, ‘My God!’ Why didn’t

+I go in then? What could he have done to me? What could I have lost? And

+perhaps he would then have been comforted and would have said that word

+to me.” And Princess Mary uttered aloud the caressing word he had said

+to her on the day of his death. “Dear-est!” she repeated, and began

+sobbing, with tears that relieved her soul. She now saw his face before

+her. And not the face she had known ever since she could remember and

+had always seen at a distance, but the timid, feeble face she had seen

+for the first time quite closely, with all its wrinkles and details,

+when she stooped near to his mouth to catch what he said.

+

+“Dear-est!” she repeated again.

+

+“What was he thinking when he uttered that word? What is he thinking

+now?” This question suddenly presented itself to her, and in answer she

+saw him before her with the expression that was on his face as he lay

+in his coffin with his chin bound up with a white handkerchief. And the

+horror that had seized her when she touched him and convinced herself

+that that was not he, but something mysterious and horrible, seized her

+again. She tried to think of something else and to pray, but could do

+neither. With wide-open eyes she gazed at the moonlight and the shadows,

+expecting every moment to see his dead face, and she felt that the

+silence brooding over the house and within it held her fast.

+

+“Dunyásha,” she whispered. “Dunyásha!” she screamed wildly, and tearing

+herself out of this silence she ran to the servants’ quarters to meet

+her old nurse and the maidservants who came running toward her.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XIII

+

+On the seventeenth of August Rostóv and Ilyín, accompanied by Lavrúshka

+who had just returned from captivity and by an hussar orderly, left

+their quarters at Yankóvo, ten miles from Boguchárovo, and went for a

+ride—to try a new horse Ilyín had bought and to find out whether there

+was any hay to be had in the villages.

+

+For the last three days Boguchárovo had lain between the two hostile

+armies, so that it was as easy for the Russian rearguard to get to it as

+for the French vanguard; Rostóv, as a careful squadron commander, wished

+to take such provisions as remained at Boguchárovo before the French

+could get them.

+

+Rostóv and Ilyín were in the merriest of moods. On the way to

+Boguchárovo, a princely estate with a dwelling house and farm where

+they hoped to find many domestic serfs and pretty girls, they questioned

+Lavrúshka about Napoleon and laughed at his stories, and raced one

+another to try Ilyín’s horse.

+

+Rostóv had no idea that the village he was entering was the property of

+that very Bolkónski who had been engaged to his sister.

+

+Rostóv and Ilyín gave rein to their horses for a last race along the

+incline before reaching Boguchárovo, and Rostóv, outstripping Ilyín, was

+the first to gallop into the village street.

+

+“You’re first!” cried Ilyín, flushed.

+

+“Yes, always first both on the grassland and here,” answered Rostóv,

+stroking his heated Donéts horse.

+

+“And I’d have won on my Frenchy, your excellency,” said Lavrúshka

+from behind, alluding to his shabby cart horse, “only I didn’t wish to

+mortify you.”

+

+They rode at a footpace to the barn, where a large crowd of peasants was

+standing.

+

+Some of the men bared their heads, others stared at the new arrivals

+without doffing their caps. Two tall old peasants with wrinkled faces

+and scanty beards emerged from the tavern, smiling, staggering, and

+singing some incoherent song, and approached the officers.

+

+“Fine fellows!” said Rostóv laughing. “Is there any hay here?”

+

+“And how like one another,” said Ilyín.

+

+“A mo-o-st me-r-r-y co-o-m-pa...!” sang one of the peasants with a

+blissful smile.

+

+One of the men came out of the crowd and went up to Rostóv.

+

+“Who do you belong to?” he asked.

+

+“The French,” replied Ilyín jestingly, “and here is Napoleon

+himself”—and he pointed to Lavrúshka.

+

+“Then you are Russians?” the peasant asked again.

+

+“And is there a large force of you here?” said another, a short man,

+coming up.

+

+“Very large,” answered Rostóv. “But why have you collected here?” he

+added. “Is it a holiday?”

+

+“The old men have met to talk over the business of the commune,” replied

+the peasant, moving away.

+

+At that moment, on the road leading from the big house, two women and a

+man in a white hat were seen coming toward the officers.

+

+“The one in pink is mine, so keep off!” said Ilyín on seeing Dunyásha

+running resolutely toward him.

+

+“She’ll be ours!” said Lavrúshka to Ilyín, winking.

+

+“What do you want, my pretty?” said Ilyín with a smile.

+

+“The princess ordered me to ask your regiment and your name.”

+

+“This is Count Rostóv, squadron commander, and I am your humble

+servant.”

+

+“Co-o-om-pa-ny!” roared the tipsy peasant with a beatific smile as

+he looked at Ilyín talking to the girl. Following Dunyásha, Alpátych

+advanced to Rostóv, having bared his head while still at a distance.

+

+“May I make bold to trouble your honor?” said he respectfully, but with

+a shade of contempt for the youthfulness of this officer and with a hand

+thrust into his bosom. “My mistress, daughter of General in Chief Prince

+Nicholas Bolkónski who died on the fifteenth of this month, finding

+herself in difficulties owing to the boorishness of these people”—he

+pointed to the peasants—“asks you to come up to the house.... Won’t

+you, please, ride on a little farther,” said Alpátych with a melancholy

+smile, “as it is not convenient in the presence of...?” He pointed to

+the two peasants who kept as close to him as horseflies to a horse.

+

+“Ah!... Alpátych... Ah, Yákov Alpátych... Grand! Forgive us for Christ’s

+sake, eh?” said the peasants, smiling joyfully at him.

+

+Rostóv looked at the tipsy peasants and smiled.

+

+“Or perhaps they amuse your honor?” remarked Alpátych with a staid air,

+as he pointed at the old men with his free hand.

+

+“No, there’s not much to be amused at here,” said Rostóv, and rode on a

+little way. “What’s the matter?” he asked.

+

+“I make bold to inform your honor that the rude peasants here don’t

+wish to let the mistress leave the estate, and threaten to unharness her

+horses, so that though everything has been packed up since morning, her

+excellency cannot get away.”

+

+“Impossible!” exclaimed Rostóv.

+

+“I have the honor to report to you the actual truth,” said Alpátych.

+

+Rostóv dismounted, gave his horse to the orderly, and followed Alpátych

+to the house, questioning him as to the state of affairs. It appeared

+that the princess’ offer of corn to the peasants the previous day, and

+her talk with Dron and at the meeting, had actually had so bad an effect

+that Dron had finally given up the keys and joined the peasants and had

+not appeared when Alpátych sent for him; and that in the morning when

+the princess gave orders to harness for her journey, the peasants had

+come in a large crowd to the barn and sent word that they would not let

+her leave the village: that there was an order not to move, and that

+they would unharness the horses. Alpátych had gone out to admonish them,

+but was told (it was chiefly Karp who did the talking, Dron not showing

+himself in the crowd) that they could not let the princess go, that

+there was an order to the contrary, but that if she stayed they would

+serve her as before and obey her in everything.

+

+At the moment when Rostóv and Ilyín were galloping along the road,

+Princess Mary, despite the dissuasions of Alpátych, her nurse, and the

+maids, had given orders to harness and intended to start, but when the

+cavalrymen were espied they were taken for Frenchmen, the coachman ran

+away, and the women in the house began to wail.

+

+“Father! Benefactor! God has sent you!” exclaimed deeply moved voices as

+Rostóv passed through the anteroom.

+

+Princess Mary was sitting helpless and bewildered in the large sitting

+room, when Rostóv was shown in. She could not grasp who he was and why

+he had come, or what was happening to her. When she saw his Russian

+face, and by his walk and the first words he uttered recognized him as a

+man of her own class, she glanced at him with her deep radiant look and

+began speaking in a voice that faltered and trembled with emotion. This

+meeting immediately struck Rostóv as a romantic event. “A helpless girl

+overwhelmed with grief, left to the mercy of coarse, rioting peasants!

+And what a strange fate sent me here! What gentleness and nobility there

+are in her features and expression!” thought he as he looked at her and

+listened to her timid story.

+

+When she began to tell him that all this had happened the day after her

+father’s funeral, her voice trembled. She turned away, and then, as if

+fearing he might take her words as meant to move him to pity, looked at

+him with an apprehensive glance of inquiry. There were tears in Rostóv’s

+eyes. Princess Mary noticed this and glanced gratefully at him with that

+radiant look which caused the plainness of her face to be forgotten.

+

+“I cannot express, Princess, how glad I am that I happened to ride here

+and am able to show my readiness to serve you,” said Rostóv, rising. “Go

+when you please, and I give you my word of honor that no one shall dare

+to cause you annoyance if only you will allow me to act as your escort.”

+And bowing respectfully, as if to a lady of royal blood, he moved toward

+the door.

+

+Rostóv’s deferential tone seemed to indicate that though he would

+consider himself happy to be acquainted with her, he did not wish to

+take advantage of her misfortunes to intrude upon her.

+

+Princess Mary understood this and appreciated his delicacy.

+

+“I am very, very grateful to you,” she said in French, “but I hope it

+was all a misunderstanding and that no one is to blame for it.” She

+suddenly began to cry.

+

+“Excuse me!” she said.

+

+Rostóv, knitting his brows, left the room with another low bow.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XIV

+

+“Well, is she pretty? Ah, friend—my pink one is delicious; her name is

+Dunyásha....”

+

+But on glancing at Rostóv’s face Ilyín stopped short. He saw that his

+hero and commander was following quite a different train of thought.

+

+Rostóv glanced angrily at Ilyín and without replying strode off with

+rapid steps to the village.

+

+“I’ll show them; I’ll give it to them, the brigands!” said he to

+himself.

+

+Alpátych at a gliding trot, only just managing not to run, kept up with

+him with difficulty.

+

+“What decision have you been pleased to come to?” said he.

+

+Rostóv stopped and, clenching his fists, suddenly and sternly turned on

+Alpátych.

+

+“Decision? What decision? Old dotard!...” cried he. “What have you been

+about? Eh? The peasants are rioting, and you can’t manage them? You’re

+a traitor yourself! I know you. I’ll flay you all alive!...” And as if

+afraid of wasting his store of anger, he left Alpátych and went rapidly

+forward. Alpátych, mastering his offended feelings, kept pace with

+Rostóv at a gliding gait and continued to impart his views. He said

+the peasants were obdurate and that at the present moment it would be

+imprudent to “overresist” them without an armed force, and would it not

+be better first to send for the military?

+

+“I’ll give them armed force... I’ll ‘overresist’ them!” uttered Rostóv

+meaninglessly, breathless with irrational animal fury and the need to

+vent it.

+

+Without considering what he would do he moved unconciously with quick,

+resolute steps toward the crowd. And the nearer he drew to it the more

+Alpátych felt that this unreasonable action might produce good results.

+The peasants in the crowd were similarly impressed when they saw

+Rostóv’s rapid, firm steps and resolute, frowning face.

+

+After the hussars had come to the village and Rostóv had gone to see the

+princess, a certain confusion and dissension had arisen among the crowd.

+Some of the peasants said that these new arrivals were Russians and

+might take it amiss that the mistress was being detained. Dron was of

+this opinion, but as soon as he expressed it Karp and others attacked

+their ex-Elder.

+

+“How many years have you been fattening on the commune?” Karp shouted at

+him. “It’s all one to you! You’ll dig up your pot of money and take

+it away with you.... What does it matter to you whether our homes are

+ruined or not?”

+

+“We’ve been told to keep order, and that no one is to leave their homes

+or take away a single grain, and that’s all about it!” cried another.

+

+“It was your son’s turn to be conscripted, but no fear! You begrudged

+your lump of a son,” a little old man suddenly began attacking Dron—“and

+so they took my Vánka to be shaved for a soldier! But we all have to

+die.”

+

+“To be sure, we all have to die. I’m not against the commune,” said

+Dron.

+

+“That’s it—not against it! You’ve filled your belly....”

+

+The two tall peasants had their say. As soon as Rostóv, followed by

+Ilyín, Lavrúshka, and Alpátych, came up to the crowd, Karp, thrusting

+his fingers into his belt and smiling a little, walked to the front.

+Dron on the contrary retired to the rear and the crowd drew closer

+together.

+

+“Who is your Elder here? Hey?” shouted Rostóv, coming up to the crowd

+with quick steps.

+

+“The Elder? What do you want with him?...” asked Karp.

+

+But before the words were well out of his mouth, his cap flew off and a

+fierce blow jerked his head to one side.

+

+“Caps off, traitors!” shouted Rostóv in a wrathful voice. “Where’s the

+Elder?” he cried furiously.

+

+“The Elder.... He wants the Elder!... Dron Zakhárych, you!” meek and

+flustered voices here and there were heard calling and caps began to

+come off their heads.

+

+“We don’t riot, we’re following the orders,” declared Karp, and at that

+moment several voices began speaking together.

+

+“It’s as the old men have decided—there’s too many of you giving

+orders.”

+

+“Arguing? Mutiny!... Brigands! Traitors!” cried Rostóv unmeaningly in a

+voice not his own, gripping Karp by the collar. “Bind him, bind him!” he

+shouted, though there was no one to bind him but Lavrúshka and Alpátych.

+

+Lavrúshka, however, ran up to Karp and seized him by the arms from

+behind.

+

+“Shall I call up our men from beyond the hill?” he called out.

+

+Alpátych turned to the peasants and ordered two of them by name to come

+and bind Karp. The men obediently came out of the crowd and began taking

+off their belts.

+

+“Where’s the Elder?” demanded Rostóv in a loud voice.

+

+With a pale and frowning face Dron stepped out of the crowd.

+

+“Are you the Elder? Bind him, Lavrúshka!” shouted Rostóv, as if that

+order, too, could not possibly meet with any opposition.

+

+And in fact two more peasants began binding Dron, who took off his own

+belt and handed it to them, as if to aid them.

+

+“And you all listen to me!” said Rostóv to the peasants. “Be off to your

+houses at once, and don’t let one of your voices be heard!”

+

+“Why, we’ve not done any harm! We did it just out of foolishness. It’s

+all nonsense.... I said then that it was not in order,” voices were

+heard bickering with one another.

+

+“There! What did I say?” said Alpátych, coming into his own again. “It’s

+wrong, lads!”

+

+“All our stupidity, Yákov Alpátych,” came the answers, and the crowd

+began at once to disperse through the village.

+

+The two bound men were led off to the master’s house. The two drunken

+peasants followed them.

+

+“Aye, when I look at you!...” said one of them to Karp.

+

+“How can one talk to the masters like that? What were you thinking of,

+you fool?” added the other—“A real fool!”

+

+Two hours later the carts were standing in the courtyard of the

+Boguchárovo house. The peasants were briskly carrying out the

+proprietor’s goods and packing them on the carts, and Dron, liberated at

+Princess Mary’s wish from the cupboard where he had been confined, was

+standing in the yard directing the men.

+

+“Don’t put it in so carelessly,” said one of the peasants, a man with a

+round smiling face, taking a casket from a housemaid. “You know it has

+cost money! How can you chuck it in like that or shove it under the cord

+where it’ll get rubbed? I don’t like that way of doing things. Let it

+all be done properly, according to rule. Look here, put it under the

+bast matting and cover it with hay—that’s the way!”

+

+“Eh, books, books!” said another peasant, bringing out Prince Andrew’s

+library cupboards. “Don’t catch up against it! It’s heavy, lads—solid

+books.”

+

+“Yes, they worked all day and didn’t play!” remarked the tall,

+round-faced peasant gravely, pointing with a significant wink at the

+dictionaries that were on the top.

+

+

+Unwilling to obtrude himself on the princess, Rostóv did not go back to

+the house but remained in the village awaiting her departure. When her

+carriage drove out of the house, he mounted and accompanied her eight

+miles from Boguchárovo to where the road was occupied by our troops. At

+the inn at Yankóvo he respectfully took leave of her, for the first time

+permitting himself to kiss her hand.

+

+“How can you speak so!” he blushingly replied to Princess Mary’s

+expressions of gratitude for her deliverance, as she termed what had

+occurred. “Any police officer would have done as much! If we had had

+only peasants to fight, we should not have let the enemy come so far,”

+said he with a sense of shame and wishing to change the subject. “I

+am only happy to have had the opportunity of making your acquaintance.

+Good-by, Princess. I wish you happiness and consolation and hope to meet

+you again in happier circumstances. If you don’t want to make me blush,

+please don’t thank me!”

+

+But the princess, if she did not again thank him in words, thanked

+him with the whole expression of her face, radiant with gratitude and

+tenderness. She could not believe that there was nothing to thank him

+for. On the contrary, it seemed to her certain that had he not been

+there she would have perished at the hands of the mutineers and of the

+French, and that he had exposed himself to terrible and obvious danger

+to save her, and even more certain was it that he was a man of lofty and

+noble soul, able to understand her position and her sorrow. His kind,

+honest eyes, with the tears rising in them when she herself had begun to

+cry as she spoke of her loss, did not leave her memory.

+

+When she had taken leave of him and remained alone she suddenly felt

+her eyes filling with tears, and then not for the first time the strange

+question presented itself to her: did she love him?

+

+On the rest of the way to Moscow, though the princess’ position was not

+a cheerful one, Dunyásha, who went with her in the carriage, more than

+once noticed that her mistress leaned out of the window and smiled at

+something with an expression of mingled joy and sorrow.

+

+“Well, supposing I do love him?” thought Princess Mary.

+

+Ashamed as she was of acknowledging to herself that she had fallen in

+love with a man who would perhaps never love her, she comforted herself

+with the thought that no one would ever know it and that she would not

+be to blame if, without ever speaking of it to anyone, she continued to

+the end of her life to love the man with whom she had fallen in love for

+the first and last time in her life.

+

+Sometimes when she recalled his looks, his sympathy, and his words,

+happiness did not appear impossible to her. It was at those moments that

+Dunyásha noticed her smiling as she looked out of the carriage window.

+

+“Was it not fate that brought him to Boguchárovo, and at that very

+moment?” thought Princess Mary. “And that caused his sister to refuse my

+brother?” And in all this Princess Mary saw the hand of Providence.

+

+The impression the princess made on Rostóv was a very agreeable one. To

+remember her gave him pleasure, and when his comrades, hearing of his

+adventure at Boguchárovo, rallied him on having gone to look for hay

+and having picked up one of the wealthiest heiresses in Russia, he grew

+angry. It made him angry just because the idea of marrying the gentle

+Princess Mary, who was attractive to him and had an enormous fortune,

+had against his will more than once entered his head. For himself

+personally Nicholas could not wish for a better wife: by marrying her

+he would make the countess his mother happy, would be able to put his

+father’s affairs in order, and would even—he felt it—ensure Princess

+Mary’s happiness.

+

+But Sónya? And his plighted word? That was why Rostóv grew angry when he

+was rallied about Princess Bolkónskaya.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XV

+

+On receiving command of the armies Kutúzov remembered Prince Andrew and

+sent an order for him to report at headquarters.

+

+Prince Andrew arrived at Tsárevo-Zaymíshche on the very day and at the

+very hour that Kutúzov was reviewing the troops for the first time. He

+stopped in the village at the priest’s house in front of which stood the

+commander in chief’s carriage, and he sat down on the bench at the gate

+awaiting his Serene Highness, as everyone now called Kutúzov. From the

+field beyond the village came now sounds of regimental music and now the

+roar of many voices shouting “Hurrah!” to the new commander in chief.

+Two orderlies, a courier and a major-domo, stood near by, some ten paces

+from Prince Andrew, availing themselves of Kutúzov’s absence and of the

+fine weather. A short, swarthy lieutenant colonel of hussars with thick

+mustaches and whiskers rode up to the gate and, glancing at Prince

+Andrew, inquired whether his Serene Highness was putting up there and

+whether he would soon be back.

+

+Prince Andrew replied that he was not on his Serene Highness’ staff

+but was himself a new arrival. The lieutenant colonel turned to a smart

+orderly, who, with the peculiar contempt with which a commander in

+chief’s orderly speaks to officers, replied:

+

+“What? His Serene Highness? I expect he’ll be here soon. What do you

+want?”

+

+The lieutenant colonel of hussars smiled beneath his mustache at the

+orderly’s tone, dismounted, gave his horse to a dispatch runner, and

+approached Bolkónski with a slight bow. Bolkónski made room for him on

+the bench and the lieutenant colonel sat down beside him.

+

+“You’re also waiting for the commander in chief?” said he. “They say he

+weceives evewyone, thank God!... It’s awful with those sausage eaters!

+Ermólov had weason to ask to be pwomoted to be a German! Now p’waps

+Wussians will get a look in. As it was, devil only knows what was

+happening. We kept wetweating and wetweating. Did you take part in the

+campaign?” he asked.

+

+“I had the pleasure,” replied Prince Andrew, “not only of taking part in

+the retreat but of losing in that retreat all I held dear—not to mention

+the estate and home of my birth—my father, who died of grief. I belong

+to the province of Smolénsk.”

+

+“Ah? You’re Pwince Bolkónski? Vewy glad to make your acquaintance! I’m

+Lieutenant Colonel Denísov, better known as ‘Váska,’” said Denísov,

+pressing Prince Andrew’s hand and looking into his face with a

+particularly kindly attention. “Yes, I heard,” said he sympathetically,

+and after a short pause added: “Yes, it’s Scythian warfare. It’s all

+vewy well—only not for those who get it in the neck. So you are Pwince

+Andwew Bolkónski?” He swayed his head. “Vewy pleased, Pwince, to make

+your acquaintance!” he repeated again, smiling sadly, and he again

+pressed Prince Andrew’s hand.

+

+Prince Andrew knew Denísov from what Natásha had told him of her first

+suitor. This memory carried him sadly and sweetly back to those painful

+feelings of which he had not thought lately, but which still found

+place in his soul. Of late he had received so many new and very serious

+impressions—such as the retreat from Smolénsk, his visit to Bald Hills,

+and the recent news of his father’s death—and had experienced so many

+emotions, that for a long time past those memories had not entered his

+mind, and now that they did, they did not act on him with nearly their

+former strength. For Denísov, too, the memories awakened by the name of

+Bolkónski belonged to a distant, romantic past, when after supper and

+after Natásha’s singing he had proposed to a little girl of fifteen

+without realizing what he was doing. He smiled at the recollection of

+that time and of his love for Natásha, and passed at once to what now

+interested him passionately and exclusively. This was a plan of campaign

+he had devised while serving at the outposts during the retreat. He had

+proposed that plan to Barclay de Tolly and now wished to propose it

+to Kutúzov. The plan was based on the fact that the French line

+of operation was too extended, and it proposed that instead of, or

+concurrently with, action on the front to bar the advance of the French,

+we should attack their line of communication. He began explaining his

+plan to Prince Andrew.

+

+“They can’t hold all that line. It’s impossible. I will undertake to

+bweak thwough. Give me five hundwed men and I will bweak the line,

+that’s certain! There’s only one way—guewilla warfare!”

+

+Denísov rose and began gesticulating as he explained his plan to

+Bolkónski. In the midst of his explanation shouts were heard from the

+army, growing more incoherent and more diffused, mingling with music

+and songs and coming from the field where the review was held. Sounds of

+hoofs and shouts were nearing the village.

+

+“He’s coming! He’s coming!” shouted a Cossack standing at the gate.

+

+Bolkónski and Denísov moved to the gate, at which a knot of soldiers

+(a guard of honor) was standing, and they saw Kutúzov coming down the

+street mounted on a rather small sorrel horse. A huge suite of generals

+rode behind him. Barclay was riding almost beside him, and a crowd of

+officers ran after and around them shouting, “Hurrah!”

+

+His adjutants galloped into the yard before him. Kutúzov was impatiently

+urging on his horse, which ambled smoothly under his weight, and he

+raised his hand to his white Horse Guard’s cap with a red band and no

+peak, nodding his head continually. When he came up to the guard of

+honor, a fine set of Grenadiers mostly wearing decorations, who were

+giving him the salute, he looked at them silently and attentively for

+nearly a minute with the steady gaze of a commander and then turned to

+the crowd of generals and officers surrounding him. Suddenly his face

+assumed a subtle expression, he shrugged his shoulders with an air of

+perplexity.

+

+“And with such fine fellows to retreat and retreat! Well, good-by,

+General,” he added, and rode into the yard past Prince Andrew and

+Denísov.

+

+“Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!” shouted those behind him.

+

+Since Prince Andrew had last seen him Kutúzov had grown still more

+corpulent, flaccid, and fat. But the bleached eyeball, the scar, and the

+familiar weariness of his expression were still the same. He was wearing

+the white Horse Guard’s cap and a military overcoat with a whip hanging

+over his shoulder by a thin strap. He sat heavily and swayed limply on

+his brisk little horse.

+

+“Whew... whew... whew!” he whistled just audibly as he rode into the

+yard. His face expressed the relief of relaxed strain felt by a man who

+means to rest after a ceremony. He drew his left foot out of the stirrup

+and, lurching with his whole body and puckering his face with the

+effort, raised it with difficulty onto the saddle, leaned on his knee,

+groaned, and slipped down into the arms of the Cossacks and adjutants

+who stood ready to assist him.

+

+He pulled himself together, looked round, screwing up his eyes, glanced

+at Prince Andrew, and, evidently not recognizing him, moved with his

+waddling gait to the porch. “Whew... whew... whew!” he whistled, and

+again glanced at Prince Andrew. As often occurs with old men, it was

+only after some seconds that the impression produced by Prince Andrew’s

+face linked itself up with Kutúzov’s remembrance of his personality.

+

+“Ah, how do you do, my dear prince? How do you do, my dear boy? Come

+along...” said he, glancing wearily round, and he stepped onto the porch

+which creaked under his weight.

+

+He unbuttoned his coat and sat down on a bench in the porch.

+

+“And how’s your father?”

+

+“I received news of his death, yesterday,” replied Prince Andrew

+abruptly.

+

+Kutúzov looked at him with eyes wide open with dismay and then took off

+his cap and crossed himself:

+

+“May the kingdom of Heaven be his! God’s will be done to us all!” He

+sighed deeply, his whole chest heaving, and was silent for a while. “I

+loved him and respected him, and sympathize with you with all my heart.”

+

+He embraced Prince Andrew, pressing him to his fat breast, and for some

+time did not let him go. When he released him Prince Andrew saw that

+Kutúzov’s flabby lips were trembling and that tears were in his eyes. He

+sighed and pressed on the bench with both hands to raise himself.

+

+“Come! Come with me, we’ll have a talk,” said he.

+

+But at that moment Denísov, no more intimidated by his superiors than by

+the enemy, came with jingling spurs up the steps of the porch, despite

+the angry whispers of the adjutants who tried to stop him. Kutúzov, his

+hands still pressed on the seat, glanced at him glumly. Denísov, having

+given his name, announced that he had to communicate to his Serene

+Highness a matter of great importance for their country’s welfare.

+Kutúzov looked wearily at him and, lifting his hands with a gesture of

+annoyance, folded them across his stomach, repeating the words: “For our

+country’s welfare? Well, what is it? Speak!” Denísov blushed like a

+girl (it was strange to see the color rise in that shaggy, bibulous,

+time-worn face) and boldly began to expound his plan of cutting the

+enemy’s lines of communication between Smolénsk and Vyázma. Denísov came

+from those parts and knew the country well. His plan seemed decidedly

+a good one, especially from the strength of conviction with which he

+spoke. Kutúzov looked down at his own legs, occasionally glancing at the

+door of the adjoining hut as if expecting something unpleasant to emerge

+from it. And from that hut, while Denísov was speaking, a general with a

+portfolio under his arm really did appear.

+

+“What?” said Kutúzov, in the midst of Denísov’s explanations, “are you

+ready so soon?”

+

+“Ready, your Serene Highness,” replied the general.

+

+Kutúzov swayed his head, as much as to say: “How is one man to deal with

+it all?” and again listened to Denísov.

+

+“I give my word of honor as a Wussian officer,” said Denísov, “that I

+can bweak Napoleon’s line of communication!”

+

+“What relation are you to Intendant General Kiríl Andréevich Denísov?”

+asked Kutúzov, interrupting him.

+

+“He is my uncle, your Sewene Highness.”

+

+“Ah, we were friends,” said Kutúzov cheerfully. “All right, all right,

+friend, stay here at the staff and tomorrow we’ll have a talk.”

+

+With a nod to Denísov he turned away and put out his hand for the papers

+Konovnítsyn had brought him.

+

+“Would not your Serene Highness like to come inside?” said the general

+on duty in a discontented voice, “the plans must be examined and several

+papers have to be signed.”

+

+An adjutant came out and announced that everything was in readiness

+within. But Kutúzov evidently did not wish to enter that room till he

+was disengaged. He made a grimace....

+

+“No, tell them to bring a small table out here, my dear boy. I’ll look

+at them here,” said he. “Don’t go away,” he added, turning to Prince

+Andrew, who remained in the porch and listened to the general’s report.

+

+While this was being given, Prince Andrew heard the whisper of a woman’s

+voice and the rustle of a silk dress behind the door. Several times on

+glancing that way he noticed behind that door a plump, rosy, handsome

+woman in a pink dress with a lilac silk kerchief on her head, holding

+a dish and evidently awaiting the entrance of the commander in chief.

+Kutúzov’s adjutant whispered to Prince Andrew that this was the wife of

+the priest whose home it was, and that she intended to offer his Serene

+Highness bread and salt. “Her husband has welcomed his Serene Highness

+with the cross at the church, and she intends to welcome him in the

+house.... She’s very pretty,” added the adjutant with a smile. At

+those words Kutúzov looked round. He was listening to the general’s

+report—which consisted chiefly of a criticism of the position at

+Tsárevo-Zaymíshche—as he had listened to Denísov, and seven years

+previously had listened to the discussion at the Austerlitz council of

+war. He evidently listened only because he had ears which, though there

+was a piece of tow in one of them, could not help hearing; but it

+was evident that nothing the general could say would surprise or even

+interest him, that he knew all that would be said beforehand, and heard

+it all only because he had to, as one has to listen to the chanting of

+a service of prayer. All that Denísov had said was clever and to the

+point. What the general was saying was even more clever and to

+the point, but it was evident that Kutúzov despised knowledge

+and cleverness, and knew of something else that would decide the

+matter—something independent of cleverness and knowledge. Prince

+Andrew watched the commander in chief’s face attentively, and the only

+expression he could see there was one of boredom, curiosity as to the

+meaning of the feminine whispering behind the door, and a desire to

+observe propriety. It was evident that Kutúzov despised cleverness and

+learning and even the patriotic feeling shown by Denísov, but despised

+them not because of his own intellect, feelings, or knowledge—he did not

+try to display any of these—but because of something else. He despised

+them because of his old age and experience of life. The only instruction

+Kutúzov gave of his own accord during that report referred to looting by

+the Russian troops. At the end of the report the general put before

+him for signature a paper relating to the recovery of payment from army

+commanders for green oats mown down by the soldiers, when landowners

+lodged petitions for compensation.

+

+After hearing the matter, Kutúzov smacked his lips together and shook

+his head.

+

+“Into the stove... into the fire with it! I tell you once for all, my

+dear fellow,” said he, “into the fire with all such things! Let them cut

+the crops and burn wood to their hearts’ content. I don’t order it

+or allow it, but I don’t exact compensation either. One can’t get on

+without it. ‘When wood is chopped the chips will fly.’” He looked at the

+paper again. “Oh, this German precision!” he muttered, shaking his head.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XVI

+

+“Well, that’s all!” said Kutúzov as he signed the last of the documents,

+and rising heavily and smoothing out the folds in his fat white neck he

+moved toward the door with a more cheerful expression.

+

+The priest’s wife, flushing rosy red, caught up the dish she had after

+all not managed to present at the right moment, though she had so long

+been preparing for it, and with a low bow offered it to Kutúzov.

+

+He screwed up his eyes, smiled, lifted her chin with his hand, and said:

+

+“Ah, what a beauty! Thank you, sweetheart!”

+

+He took some gold pieces from his trouser pocket and put them on the

+dish for her. “Well, my dear, and how are we getting on?” he asked,

+moving to the door of the room assigned to him. The priest’s wife

+smiled, and with dimples in her rosy cheeks followed him into the room.

+The adjutant came out to the porch and asked Prince Andrew to lunch with

+him. Half an hour later Prince Andrew was again called to Kutúzov.

+He found him reclining in an armchair, still in the same unbuttoned

+overcoat. He had in his hand a French book which he closed as Prince

+Andrew entered, marking the place with a knife. Prince Andrew saw by the

+cover that it was Les Chevaliers du Cygne by Madame de Genlis.

+

+“Well, sit down, sit down here. Let’s have a talk,” said Kutúzov. “It’s

+sad, very sad. But remember, my dear fellow, that I am a father to you,

+a second father....”

+

+Prince Andrew told Kutúzov all he knew of his father’s death, and what

+he had seen at Bald Hills when he passed through it.

+

+“What... what they have brought us to!” Kutúzov suddenly cried in an

+agitated voice, evidently picturing vividly to himself from Prince

+Andrew’s story the condition Russia was in. “But give me time, give me

+time!” he said with a grim look, evidently not wishing to continue this

+agitating conversation, and added: “I sent for you to keep you with me.”

+

+“I thank your Serene Highness, but I fear I am no longer fit for the

+staff,” replied Prince Andrew with a smile which Kutúzov noticed.

+

+Kutúzov glanced inquiringly at him.

+

+“But above all,” added Prince Andrew, “I have grown used to my regiment,

+am fond of the officers, and I fancy the men also like me. I should be

+sorry to leave the regiment. If I decline the honor of being with you,

+believe me...”

+

+A shrewd, kindly, yet subtly derisive expression lit up Kutúzov’s podgy

+face. He cut Bolkónski short.

+

+“I am sorry, for I need you. But you’re right, you’re right! It’s not

+here that men are needed. Advisers are always plentiful, but men are

+not. The regiments would not be what they are if the would-be advisers

+served there as you do. I remember you at Austerlitz.... I remember,

+yes, I remember you with the standard!” said Kutúzov, and a flush of

+pleasure suffused Prince Andrew’s face at this recollection.

+

+Taking his hand and drawing him downwards, Kutúzov offered his cheek to

+be kissed, and again Prince Andrew noticed tears in the old man’s eyes.

+Though Prince Andrew knew that Kutúzov’s tears came easily, and that he

+was particularly tender to and considerate of him from a wish to

+show sympathy with his loss, yet this reminder of Austerlitz was both

+pleasant and flattering to him.

+

+“Go your way and God be with you. I know your path is the path of

+honor!” He paused. “I missed you at Bucharest, but I needed someone to

+send.” And changing the subject, Kutúzov began to speak of the Turkish

+war and the peace that had been concluded. “Yes, I have been much

+blamed,” he said, “both for that war and the peace... but everything

+came at the right time. Tout vient à point à celui qui sait attendre. *

+And there were as many advisers there as here...” he went on, returning

+to the subject of “advisers” which evidently occupied him. “Ah, those

+advisers!” said he. “If we had listened to them all we should not have

+made peace with Turkey and should not have been through with that war.

+Everything in haste, but more haste, less speed. Kámenski would have

+been lost if he had not died. He stormed fortresses with thirty thousand

+men. It is not difficult to capture a fortress but it is difficult to

+win a campaign. For that, not storming and attacking but patience and

+time are wanted. Kámenski sent soldiers to Rustchuk, but I only employed

+these two things and took more fortresses than Kámenski and made them

+Turks eat horseflesh!” He swayed his head. “And the French shall too,

+believe me,” he went on, growing warmer and beating his chest, “I’ll

+make them eat horseflesh!” And tears again dimmed his eyes.

+

+    * “Everything comes in time to him who knows how to wait.”

+

+

+“But shan’t we have to accept battle?” remarked Prince Andrew.

+

+“We shall if everybody wants it; it can’t be helped.... But believe

+me, my dear boy, there is nothing stronger than those two: patience and

+time, they will do it all. But the advisers n’entendent pas de cette

+oreille, voilà le mal. * Some want a thing—others don’t. What’s one to

+do?” he asked, evidently expecting an answer. “Well, what do you want

+us to do?” he repeated and his eye shone with a deep, shrewd look.

+“I’ll tell you what to do,” he continued, as Prince Andrew still did not

+reply: “I will tell you what to do, and what I do. Dans le doute, mon

+cher,” he paused, “abstiens-toi” *(2)—he articulated the French proverb

+deliberately.

+

+     * “Don’t see it that way, that’s the trouble.”

+

+     * (2) “When in doubt, my dear fellow, do nothing.”

+

+

+“Well, good-by, my dear fellow; remember that with all my heart I share

+your sorrow, and that for you I am not a Serene Highness, nor a prince,

+nor a commander in chief, but a father! If you want anything come

+straight to me. Good-by, my dear boy.”

+

+Again he embraced and kissed Prince Andrew, but before the latter

+had left the room Kutúzov gave a sigh of relief and went on with his

+unfinished novel, Les Chevaliers du Cygne by Madame de Genlis.

+

+Prince Andrew could not have explained how or why it was, but after that

+interview with Kutúzov he went back to his regiment reassured as to

+the general course of affairs and as to the man to whom it had been

+entrusted. The more he realized the absence of all personal motive in

+that old man—in whom there seemed to remain only the habit of passions,

+and in place of an intellect (grouping events and drawing conclusions)

+only the capacity calmly to contemplate the course of events—the more

+reassured he was that everything would be as it should. “He will not

+bring in any plan of his own. He will not devise or undertake

+anything,” thought Prince Andrew, “but he will hear everything, remember

+everything, and put everything in its place. He will not hinder

+anything useful nor allow anything harmful. He understands that there is

+something stronger and more important than his own will—the inevitable

+course of events, and he can see them and grasp their significance,

+and seeing that significance can refrain from meddling and renounce his

+personal wish directed to something else. And above all,” thought Prince

+Andrew, “one believes in him because he’s Russian, despite the novel

+by Genlis and the French proverbs, and because his voice shook when he

+said: ‘What they have brought us to!’ and had a sob in it when he said

+he would ‘make them eat horseflesh!’”

+

+On such feelings, more or less dimly shared by all, the unanimity and

+general approval were founded with which, despite court influences, the

+popular choice of Kutúzov as commander in chief was received.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XVII

+

+After the Emperor had left Moscow, life flowed on there in its usual

+course, and its course was so very usual that it was difficult to

+remember the recent days of patriotic elation and ardor, hard to believe

+that Russia was really in danger and that the members of the English

+Club were also sons of the Fatherland ready to sacrifice everything

+for it. The one thing that recalled the patriotic fervor everyone had

+displayed during the Emperor’s stay was the call for contributions of

+men and money, a necessity that as soon as the promises had been made

+assumed a legal, official form and became unavoidable.

+

+With the enemy’s approach to Moscow, the Moscovites’ view of their

+situation did not grow more serious but on the contrary became even

+more frivolous, as always happens with people who see a great danger

+approaching. At the approach of danger there are always two voices that

+speak with equal power in the human soul: one very reasonably tells a

+man to consider the nature of the danger and the means of escaping it;

+the other, still more reasonably, says that it is too depressing and

+painful to think of the danger, since it is not in man’s power to

+foresee everything and avert the general course of events, and it is

+therefore better to disregard what is painful till it comes, and to

+think about what is pleasant. In solitude a man generally listens to

+the first voice, but in society to the second. So it was now with the

+inhabitants of Moscow. It was long since people had been as gay in

+Moscow as that year.

+

+Rostopchín’s broadsheets, headed by woodcuts of a drink shop, a potman,

+and a Moscow burgher called Karpúshka Chigírin, “who—having been a

+militiaman and having had rather too much at the pub—heard that Napoleon

+wished to come to Moscow, grew angry, abused the French in very bad

+language, came out of the drink shop, and, under the sign of the

+eagle, began to address the assembled people,” were read and discussed,

+together with the latest of Vasíli Lvóvich Púshkin’s bouts rimés.

+

+In the corner room at the Club, members gathered to read these

+broadsheets, and some liked the way Karpúshka jeered at the French,

+saying: “They will swell up with Russian cabbage, burst with our

+buckwheat porridge, and choke themselves with cabbage soup. They are all

+dwarfs and one peasant woman will toss three of them with a hayfork.”

+Others did not like that tone and said it was stupid and vulgar. It was

+said that Rostopchín had expelled all Frenchmen and even all foreigners

+from Moscow, and that there had been some spies and agents of Napoleon

+among them; but this was told chiefly to introduce Rostopchín’s witty

+remark on that occasion. The foreigners were deported to Nízhni by

+boat, and Rostopchín had said to them in French: “Rentrez en vous-mêmes;

+entrez dans la barque, et n’en faites pas une barque de Charon.” * There

+was talk of all the government offices having been already removed from

+Moscow, and to this Shinshín’s witticism was added—that for that alone

+Moscow ought to be grateful to Napoleon. It was said that Mamónov’s

+regiment would cost him eight hundred thousand rubles, and that Bezúkhov

+had spent even more on his, but that the best thing about Bezúkhov’s

+action was that he himself was going to don a uniform and ride at the

+head of his regiment without charging anything for the show.

+

+     * “Think it over; get into the barque, and take care not to

+     make it a barque of Charon.”

+

+

+“You don’t spare anyone,” said Julie Drubetskáya as she collected

+and pressed together a bunch of raveled lint with her thin, beringed

+fingers.

+

+Julie was preparing to leave Moscow next day and was giving a farewell

+soiree.

+

+“Bezúkhov est ridicule, but he is so kind and good-natured. What

+pleasure is there to be so caustique?”

+

+“A forfeit!” cried a young man in militia uniform whom Julie called “mon

+chevalier,” and who was going with her to Nízhni.

+

+In Julie’s set, as in many other circles in Moscow, it had been agreed

+that they would speak nothing but Russian and that those who made a

+slip and spoke French should pay fines to the Committee of Voluntary

+Contributions.

+

+“Another forfeit for a Gallicism,” said a Russian writer who was

+present. “‘What pleasure is there to be’ is not Russian!”

+

+“You spare no one,” continued Julie to the young man without heeding the

+author’s remark.

+

+“For caustique—I am guilty and will pay, and I am prepared to pay again

+for the pleasure of telling you the truth. For Gallicisms I won’t be

+responsible,” she remarked, turning to the author: “I have neither the

+money nor the time, like Prince Galítsyn, to engage a master to teach me

+Russian!”

+

+“Ah, here he is!” she added. “Quand on... No, no,” she said to the

+militia officer, “you won’t catch me. Speak of the sun and you see its

+rays!” and she smiled amiably at Pierre. “We were just talking of you,”

+she said with the facility in lying natural to a society woman. “We were

+saying that your regiment would be sure to be better than Mamónov’s.”

+

+“Oh, don’t talk to me of my regiment,” replied Pierre, kissing his

+hostess’ hand and taking a seat beside her. “I am so sick of it.”

+

+“You will, of course, command it yourself?” said Julie, directing a sly,

+sarcastic glance toward the militia officer.

+

+The latter in Pierre’s presence had ceased to be caustic, and his face

+expressed perplexity as to what Julie’s smile might mean. In spite of

+his absent-mindedness and good nature, Pierre’s personality immediately

+checked any attempt to ridicule him to his face.

+

+“No,” said Pierre, with a laughing glance at his big, stout body. “I

+should make too good a target for the French, besides I am afraid I

+should hardly be able to climb onto a horse.”

+

+Among those whom Julie’s guests happened to choose to gossip about were

+the Rostóvs.

+

+“I hear that their affairs are in a very bad way,” said Julie. “And he

+is so unreasonable, the count himself I mean. The Razumóvskis wanted

+to buy his house and his estate near Moscow, but it drags on and on. He

+asks too much.”

+

+“No, I think the sale will come off in a few days,” said someone.

+“Though it is madness to buy anything in Moscow now.”

+

+“Why?” asked Julie. “You don’t think Moscow is in danger?”

+

+“Then why are you leaving?”

+

+“I? What a question! I am going because... well, because everyone is

+going: and besides—I am not Joan of Arc or an Amazon.”

+

+“Well, of course, of course! Let me have some more strips of linen.”

+

+“If he manages the business properly he will be able to pay off all his

+debts,” said the militia officer, speaking of Rostóv.

+

+“A kindly old man but not up to much. And why do they stay on so long in

+Moscow? They meant to leave for the country long ago. Natalie is quite

+well again now, isn’t she?” Julie asked Pierre with a knowing smile.

+

+“They are waiting for their younger son,” Pierre replied. “He joined

+Obolénski’s Cossacks and went to Bélaya Tsérkov where the regiment is

+being formed. But now they have had him transferred to my regiment and

+are expecting him every day. The count wanted to leave long ago, but the

+countess won’t on any account leave Moscow till her son returns.”

+

+“I met them the day before yesterday at the Arkhárovs’. Natalie has

+recovered her looks and is brighter. She sang a song. How easily some

+people get over everything!”

+

+“Get over what?” inquired Pierre, looking displeased.

+

+Julie smiled.

+

+“You know, Count, such knights as you are only found in Madame de

+Souza’s novels.”

+

+“What knights? What do you mean?” demanded Pierre, blushing.

+

+“Oh, come, my dear count! C’est la fable de tout Moscou. Je vous admire,

+ma parole d’honneur!” *

+

+    * “It is the talk of all Moscow. My word, I admire you!”

+

+

+“Forfeit, forfeit!” cried the militia officer.

+

+“All right, one can’t talk—how tiresome!”

+

+“What is ‘the talk of all Moscow’?” Pierre asked angrily, rising to his

+feet.

+

+“Come now, Count, you know!”

+

+“I don’t know anything about it,” said Pierre.

+

+“I know you were friendly with Natalie, and so... but I was always more

+friendly with Véra—that dear Véra.”

+

+“No, madame!” Pierre continued in a tone of displeasure, “I have not

+taken on myself the role of Natalie Rostóva’s knight at all, and have

+not been to their house for nearly a month. But I cannot understand the

+cruelty...”

+

+“Qui s’excuse s’accuse,” * said Julie, smiling and waving the lint

+triumphantly, and to have the last word she promptly changed the

+subject. “Do you know what I heard today? Poor Mary Bolkónskaya arrived

+in Moscow yesterday. Do you know that she has lost her father?”

+

+    * “Who excuses himself, accuses himself.”

+

+

+“Really? Where is she? I should like very much to see her,” said Pierre.

+

+“I spent the evening with her yesterday. She is going to their estate

+near Moscow either today or tomorrow morning, with her nephew.”

+

+“Well, and how is she?” asked Pierre.

+

+“She is well, but sad. But do you know who rescued her? It is quite a

+romance. Nicholas Rostóv! She was surrounded, and they wanted to kill

+her and had wounded some of her people. He rushed in and saved her....”

+

+“Another romance,” said the militia officer. “Really, this general

+flight has been arranged to get all the old maids married off. Catiche

+is one and Princess Bolkónskaya another.”

+

+“Do you know, I really believe she is un petit peu amoureuse du jeune

+homme.” *

+

+    * “A little bit in love with the young man.”

+

+

+“Forfeit, forfeit, forfeit!”

+

+“But how could one say that in Russian?”

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XVIII

+

+When Pierre returned home he was handed two of Rostopchín’s broadsheets

+that had been brought that day.

+

+The first declared that the report that Count Rostopchín had forbidden

+people to leave Moscow was false; on the contrary he was glad that

+ladies and tradesmen’s wives were leaving the city. “There will be less

+panic and less gossip,” ran the broadsheet “but I will stake my life on

+it that that scoundrel will not enter Moscow.” These words showed Pierre

+clearly for the first time that the French would enter Moscow. The

+second broadsheet stated that our headquarters were at Vyázma, that

+Count Wittgenstein had defeated the French, but that as many of the

+inhabitants of Moscow wished to be armed, weapons were ready for them

+at the arsenal: sabers, pistols, and muskets which could be had at a low

+price. The tone of the proclamation was not as jocose as in the former

+Chigírin talks. Pierre pondered over these broadsheets. Evidently the

+terrible stormcloud he had desired with the whole strength of his soul

+but which yet aroused involuntary horror in him was drawing near.

+

+“Shall I join the army and enter the service, or wait?” he asked himself

+for the hundredth time. He took a pack of cards that lay on the table

+and began to lay them out for a game of patience.

+

+“If this patience comes out,” he said to himself after shuffling the

+cards, holding them in his hand, and lifting his head, “if it comes out,

+it means... what does it mean?”

+

+He had not decided what it should mean when he heard the voice of the

+eldest princess at the door asking whether she might come in.

+

+“Then it will mean that I must go to the army,” said Pierre to himself.

+“Come in, come in!” he added to the princess.

+

+Only the eldest princess, the one with the stony face and long waist,

+was still living in Pierre’s house. The two younger ones had both

+married.

+

+“Excuse my coming to you, cousin,” she said in a reproachful and

+agitated voice. “You know some decision must be come to. What is going

+to happen? Everyone has left Moscow and the people are rioting. How is

+it that we are staying on?”

+

+“On the contrary, things seem satisfactory, ma cousine,” said Pierre

+in the bantering tone he habitually adopted toward her, always feeling

+uncomfortable in the role of her benefactor.

+

+“Satisfactory, indeed! Very satisfactory! Barbara Ivánovna told me today

+how our troops are distinguishing themselves. It certainly does them

+credit! And the people too are quite mutinous—they no longer obey,

+even my maid has taken to being rude. At this rate they will soon begin

+beating us. One can’t walk in the streets. But, above all, the French

+will be here any day now, so what are we waiting for? I ask just one

+thing of you, cousin,” she went on, “arrange for me to be taken to

+Petersburg. Whatever I may be, I can’t live under Bonaparte’s rule.”

+

+“Oh, come, ma cousine! Where do you get your information from? On the

+contrary...”

+

+“I won’t submit to your Napoleon! Others may if they please.... If you

+don’t want to do this...”

+

+“But I will, I’ll give the order at once.”

+

+The princess was apparently vexed at not having anyone to be angry with.

+Muttering to herself, she sat down on a chair.

+

+“But you have been misinformed,” said Pierre. “Everything is quiet in

+the city and there is not the slightest danger. See! I’ve just been

+reading...” He showed her the broadsheet. “Count Rostopchín writes that

+he will stake his life on it that the enemy will not enter Moscow.”

+

+“Oh, that count of yours!” said the princess malevolently. “He is a

+hypocrite, a rascal who has himself roused the people to riot. Didn’t

+he write in those idiotic broadsheets that anyone, ‘whoever it might be,

+should be dragged to the lockup by his hair’? (How silly!) ‘And honor

+and glory to whoever captures him,’ he says. This is what his cajolery

+has brought us to! Barbara Ivánovna told me the mob near killed her

+because she said something in French.”

+

+“Oh, but it’s so... You take everything so to heart,” said Pierre, and

+began laying out his cards for patience.

+

+Although that patience did come out, Pierre did not join the army,

+but remained in deserted Moscow ever in the same state of agitation,

+irresolution, and alarm, yet at the same time joyfully expecting

+something terrible.

+

+Next day toward evening the princess set off, and Pierre’s head steward

+came to inform him that the money needed for the equipment of his

+regiment could not be found without selling one of the estates. In

+general the head steward made out to Pierre that his project of raising

+a regiment would ruin him. Pierre listened to him, scarcely able to

+repress a smile.

+

+“Well then, sell it,” said he. “What’s to be done? I can’t draw back

+now!”

+

+The worse everything became, especially his own affairs, the better

+was Pierre pleased and the more evident was it that the catastrophe he

+expected was approaching. Hardly anyone he knew was left in town. Julie

+had gone, and so had Princess Mary. Of his intimate friends only the

+Rostóvs remained, but he did not go to see them.

+

+To distract his thoughts he drove that day to the village of Vorontsóvo

+to see the great balloon Leppich was constructing to destroy the foe,

+and a trial balloon that was to go up next day. The balloon was not yet

+ready, but Pierre learned that it was being constructed by the Emperor’s

+desire. The Emperor had written to Count Rostopchín as follows:

+

+As soon as Leppich is ready, get together a crew of reliable and

+intelligent men for his car and send a courier to General Kutúzov to let

+him know. I have informed him of the matter.

+

+Please impress upon Leppich to be very careful where he descends for

+the first time, that he may not make a mistake and fall into the enemy’s

+hands. It is essential for him to combine his movements with those of

+the commander in chief.

+

+

+On his way home from Vorontsóvo, as he was passing the Bolótnoe Place

+Pierre, seeing a large crowd round the Lóbnoe Place, stopped and got out

+of his trap. A French cook accused of being a spy was being flogged. The

+flogging was only just over, and the executioner was releasing from the

+flogging bench a stout man with red whiskers, in blue stockings and

+a green jacket, who was moaning piteously. Another criminal, thin and

+pale, stood near. Judging by their faces they were both Frenchmen. With

+a frightened and suffering look resembling that on the thin Frenchman’s

+face, Pierre pushed his way in through the crowd.

+

+“What is it? Who is it? What is it for?” he kept asking.

+

+But the attention of the crowd—officials, burghers, shopkeepers,

+peasants, and women in cloaks and in pelisses—was so eagerly centered on

+what was passing in Lóbnoe Place that no one answered him. The stout man

+rose, frowned, shrugged his shoulders, and evidently trying to appear

+firm began to pull on his jacket without looking about him, but suddenly

+his lips trembled and he began to cry, in the way full-blooded grown-up

+men cry, though angry with himself for doing so. In the crowd people

+began talking loudly, to stifle their feelings of pity as it seemed to

+Pierre.

+

+“He’s cook to some prince.”

+

+“Eh, mounseer, Russian sauce seems to be sour to a Frenchman... sets his

+teeth on edge!” said a wrinkled clerk who was standing behind Pierre,

+when the Frenchman began to cry.

+

+The clerk glanced round, evidently hoping that his joke would be

+appreciated. Some people began to laugh, others continued to watch in

+dismay the executioner who was undressing the other man.

+

+Pierre choked, his face puckered, and he turned hastily away, went back

+to his trap muttering something to himself as he went, and took his

+seat. As they drove along he shuddered and exclaimed several times so

+audibly that the coachman asked him:

+

+“What is your pleasure?”

+

+“Where are you going?” shouted Pierre to the man, who was driving to

+Lubyánka Street.

+

+“To the Governor’s, as you ordered,” answered the coachman.

+

+“Fool! Idiot!” shouted Pierre, abusing his coachman—a thing he rarely

+did. “Home, I told you! And drive faster, blockhead!” “I must get away

+this very day,” he murmured to himself.

+

+At the sight of the tortured Frenchman and the crowd surrounding the

+Lóbnoe Place, Pierre had so definitely made up his mind that he could no

+longer remain in Moscow and would leave for the army that very day that

+it seemed to him that either he had told the coachman this or that the

+man ought to have known it for himself.

+

+On reaching home Pierre gave orders to Evstáfey—his head coachman who

+knew everything, could do anything, and was known to all Moscow—that

+he would leave that night for the army at Mozháysk, and that his saddle

+horses should be sent there. This could not all be arranged that day,

+so on Evstáfey’s representation Pierre had to put off his departure till

+next day to allow time for the relay horses to be sent on in advance.

+

+On the twenty-fourth the weather cleared up after a spell of rain, and

+after dinner Pierre left Moscow. When changing horses that night

+in Perkhúshkovo, he learned that there had been a great battle that

+evening. (This was the battle of Shevárdino.) He was told that there in

+Perkhúshkovo the earth trembled from the firing, but nobody could answer

+his questions as to who had won. At dawn next day Pierre was approaching

+Mozháysk.

+

+Every house in Mozháysk had soldiers quartered in it, and at the hostel

+where Pierre was met by his groom and coachman there was no room to be

+had. It was full of officers.

+

+Everywhere in Mozháysk and beyond it, troops were stationed or on the

+march. Cossacks, foot and horse soldiers, wagons, caissons, and cannon

+were everywhere. Pierre pushed forward as fast as he could, and the

+farther he left Moscow behind and the deeper he plunged into that sea

+of troops the more was he overcome by restless agitation and a new and

+joyful feeling he had not experienced before. It was a feeling akin

+to what he had felt at the Slobóda Palace during the Emperor’s visit—a

+sense of the necessity of undertaking something and sacrificing

+something. He now experienced a glad consciousness that everything that

+constitutes men’s happiness—the comforts of life, wealth, even

+life itself—is rubbish it is pleasant to throw away, compared with

+something... With what? Pierre could not say, and he did not try to

+determine for whom and for what he felt such particular delight in

+sacrificing everything. He was not occupied with the question of what to

+sacrifice for; the fact of sacrificing in itself afforded him a new and

+joyous sensation.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XIX

+

+On the twenty-fourth of August the battle of the Shevárdino Redoubt was

+fought, on the twenty-fifth not a shot was fired by either side, and on

+the twenty-sixth the battle of Borodinó itself took place.

+

+Why and how were the battles of Shevárdino and Borodinó given and

+accepted? Why was the battle of Borodinó fought? There was not the least

+sense in it for either the French or the Russians. Its immediate result

+for the Russians was, and was bound to be, that we were brought nearer

+to the destruction of Moscow—which we feared more than anything in

+the world; and for the French its immediate result was that they were

+brought nearer to the destruction of their whole army—which they feared

+more than anything in the world. What the result must be was quite

+obvious, and yet Napoleon offered and Kutúzov accepted that battle.

+

+If the commanders had been guided by reason, it would seem that it must

+have been obvious to Napoleon that by advancing thirteen hundred miles

+and giving battle with a probability of losing a quarter of his army,

+he was advancing to certain destruction, and it must have been equally

+clear to Kutúzov that by accepting battle and risking the loss of a

+quarter of his army he would certainly lose Moscow. For Kutúzov this was

+mathematically clear, as it is that if when playing draughts I have one

+man less and go on exchanging, I shall certainly lose, and therefore

+should not exchange. When my opponent has sixteen men and I have

+fourteen, I am only one eighth weaker than he, but when I have exchanged

+thirteen more men he will be three times as strong as I am.

+

+Before the battle of Borodinó our strength in proportion to the French

+was about as five to six, but after that battle it was little more than

+one to two: previously we had a hundred thousand against a hundred and

+twenty thousand; afterwards little more than fifty thousand against a

+hundred thousand. Yet the shrewd and experienced Kutúzov accepted the

+battle, while Napoleon, who was said to be a commander of genius,

+gave it, losing a quarter of his army and lengthening his lines of

+communication still more. If it is said that he expected to end the

+campaign by occupying Moscow as he had ended a previous campaign by

+occupying Vienna, there is much evidence to the contrary. Napoleon’s

+historians themselves tell us that from Smolénsk onwards he wished

+to stop, knew the danger of his extended position, and knew that the

+occupation of Moscow would not be the end of the campaign, for he had

+seen at Smolénsk the state in which Russian towns were left to him, and

+had not received a single reply to his repeated announcements of his

+wish to negotiate.

+

+In giving and accepting battle at Borodinó, Kutúzov acted involuntarily

+and irrationally. But later on, to fit what had occurred, the historians

+provided cunningly devised evidence of the foresight and genius of the

+generals who, of all the blind tools of history were the most enslaved

+and involuntary.

+

+The ancients have left us model heroic poems in which the heroes furnish

+the whole interest of the story, and we are still unable to accustom

+ourselves to the fact that for our epoch histories of that kind are

+meaningless.

+

+On the other question, how the battle of Borodinó and the preceding

+battle of Shevárdino were fought, there also exists a definite and

+well-known, but quite false, conception. All the historians describe the

+affair as follows:

+

+The Russian army, they say, in its retreat from Smolénsk sought out

+for itself the best position for a general engagement and found such a

+position at Borodinó.

+

+The Russians, they say, fortified this position in advance on the left

+of the highroad (from Moscow to Smolénsk) and almost at a right angle

+to it, from Borodinó to Utítsa, at the very place where the battle was

+fought.

+

+In front of this position, they say, a fortified outpost was set up on

+the Shevárdino mound to observe the enemy. On the twenty-fourth, we

+are told, Napoleon attacked this advanced post and took it, and, on the

+twenty-sixth, attacked the whole Russian army, which was in position on

+the field of Borodinó.

+

+So the histories say, and it is all quite wrong, as anyone who cares to

+look into the matter can easily convince himself.

+

+The Russians did not seek out the best position but, on the contrary,

+during the retreat passed many positions better than Borodinó. They did

+not stop at any one of these positions because Kutúzov did not wish to

+occupy a position he had not himself chosen, because the popular demand

+for a battle had not yet expressed itself strongly enough, and because

+Milorádovich had not yet arrived with the militia, and for many other

+reasons. The fact is that other positions they had passed were stronger,

+and that the position at Borodinó (the one where the battle was fought),

+far from being strong, was no more a position than any other spot one

+might find in the Russian Empire by sticking a pin into the map at

+hazard.

+

+Not only did the Russians not fortify the position on the field of

+Borodinó to the left of, and at a right angle to, the highroad (that

+is, the position on which the battle took place), but never till the

+twenty-fifth of August, 1812, did they think that a battle might be

+fought there. This was shown first by the fact that there were no

+entrenchments there by the twenty fifth and that those begun on the

+twenty-fifth and twenty-sixth were not completed, and secondly, by the

+position of the Shevárdino Redoubt. That redoubt was quite senseless

+in front of the position where the battle was accepted. Why was it

+more strongly fortified than any other post? And why were all efforts

+exhausted and six thousand men sacrificed to defend it till late at

+night on the twenty-fourth? A Cossack patrol would have sufficed to

+observe the enemy. Thirdly, as proof that the position on which the

+battle was fought had not been foreseen and that the Shevárdino Redoubt

+was not an advanced post of that position, we have the fact that up to

+the twenty-fifth, Barclay de Tolly and Bagratión were convinced that the

+Shevárdino Redoubt was the left flank of the position, and that Kutúzov

+himself in his report, written in hot haste after the battle, speaks of

+the Shevárdino Redoubt as the left flank of the position. It was much

+later, when reports on the battle of Borodinó were written at leisure,

+that the incorrect and extraordinary statement was invented (probably to

+justify the mistakes of a commander in chief who had to be represented

+as infallible) that the Shevárdino Redoubt was an advanced post—whereas

+in reality it was simply a fortified point on the left flank—and that

+the battle of Borodinó was fought by us on an entrenched position

+previously selected, whereas it was fought on a quite unexpected spot

+which was almost unentrenched.

+

+The case was evidently this: a position was selected along the river

+Kolochá—which crosses the highroad not at a right angle but at an acute

+angle—so that the left flank was at Shevárdino, the right flank near the

+village of Nóvoe, and the center at Borodinó at the confluence of the

+rivers Kolochá and Vóyna.

+

+To anyone who looks at the field of Borodinó without thinking of how

+the battle was actually fought, this position, protected by the river

+Kolochá, presents itself as obvious for an army whose object was to

+prevent an enemy from advancing along the Smolénsk road to Moscow.

+

+Napoleon, riding to Valúevo on the twenty-fourth, did not see (as the

+history books say he did) the position of the Russians from Utítsa

+to Borodinó (he could not have seen that position because it did not

+exist), nor did he see an advanced post of the Russian army, but while

+pursuing the Russian rearguard he came upon the left flank of the

+Russian position—at the Shevárdino Redoubt—and unexpectedly for the

+Russians moved his army across the Kolochá. And the Russians, not having

+time to begin a general engagement, withdrew their left wing from the

+position they had intended to occupy and took up a new position which

+had not been foreseen and was not fortified. By crossing to the other

+side of the Kolochá to the left of the highroad, Napoleon shifted the

+whole forthcoming battle from right to left (looking from the Russian

+side) and transferred it to the plain between Utítsa, Semënovsk, and

+Borodinó—a plain no more advantageous as a position than any other plain

+in Russia—and there the whole battle of the twenty-sixth of August took

+place.

+

+Had Napoleon not ridden out on the evening of the twenty-fourth to the

+Kolochá, and had he not then ordered an immediate attack on the redoubt

+but had begun the attack next morning, no one would have doubted that

+the Shevárdino Redoubt was the left flank of our position, and the

+battle would have taken place where we expected it. In that case

+we should probably have defended the Shevárdino Redoubt—our left

+flank—still more obstinately. We should have attacked Napoleon in the

+center or on the right, and the engagement would have taken place on the

+twenty-fifth, in the position we intended and had fortified. But as the

+attack on our left flank took place in the evening after the retreat of

+our rear guard (that is, immediately after the fight at Gridnëva), and

+as the Russian commanders did not wish, or were not in time, to begin a

+general engagement then on the evening of the twenty-fourth, the first

+and chief action of the battle of Borodinó was already lost on the

+twenty-fourth, and obviously led to the loss of the one fought on the

+twenty-sixth.

+

+After the loss of the Shevárdino Redoubt, we found ourselves on the

+morning of the twenty-fifth without a position for our left flank, and

+were forced to bend it back and hastily entrench it where it chanced to

+be.

+

+Not only was the Russian army on the twenty-sixth defended by weak,

+unfinished entrenchments, but the disadvantage of that position was

+increased by the fact that the Russian commanders—not having fully

+realized what had happened, namely the loss of our position on the left

+flank and the shifting of the whole field of the forthcoming battle from

+right to left—maintained their extended position from the village of

+Nóvoe to Utítsa, and consequently had to move their forces from right to

+left during the battle. So it happened that throughout the whole battle

+the Russians opposed the entire French army launched against our left

+flank with but half as many men. (Poniatowski’s action against Utítsa,

+and Uvárov’s on the right flank against the French, were actions

+distinct from the main course of the battle.) So the battle of Borodinó

+did not take place at all as (in an effort to conceal our commanders’

+mistakes even at the cost of diminishing the glory due to the Russian

+army and people) it has been described. The battle of Borodinó was not

+fought on a chosen and entrenched position with forces only slightly

+weaker than those of the enemy, but, as a result of the loss of the

+Shevárdino Redoubt, the Russians fought the battle of Borodinó on an

+open and almost unentrenched position, with forces only half as numerous

+as the French; that is to say, under conditions in which it was not

+merely unthinkable to fight for ten hours and secure an indecisive

+result, but unthinkable to keep an army even from complete

+disintegration and flight.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XX

+

+On the morning of the twenty-fifth Pierre was leaving Mozháysk. At the

+descent of the high steep hill, down which a winding road led out of the

+town past the cathedral on the right, where a service was being held and

+the bells were ringing, Pierre got out of his vehicle and proceeded on

+foot. Behind him a cavalry regiment was coming down the hill preceded by

+its singers. Coming up toward him was a train of carts carrying men who

+had been wounded in the engagement the day before. The peasant drivers,

+shouting and lashing their horses, kept crossing from side to side. The

+carts, in each of which three or four wounded soldiers were lying

+or sitting, jolted over the stones that had been thrown on the steep

+incline to make it something like a road. The wounded, bandaged with

+rags, with pale cheeks, compressed lips, and knitted brows, held on to

+the sides of the carts as they were jolted against one another. Almost

+all of them stared with naïve, childlike curiosity at Pierre’s white hat

+and green swallow-tail coat.

+

+Pierre’s coachman shouted angrily at the convoy of wounded to keep to

+one side of the road. The cavalry regiment, as it descended the hill

+with its singers, surrounded Pierre’s carriage and blocked the road.

+Pierre stopped, being pressed against the side of the cutting in which

+the road ran. The sunshine from behind the hill did not penetrate into

+the cutting and there it was cold and damp, but above Pierre’s head was

+the bright August sunshine and the bells sounded merrily. One of the

+carts with wounded stopped by the side of the road close to Pierre. The

+driver in his bast shoes ran panting up to it, placed a stone under one

+of its tireless hind wheels, and began arranging the breech-band on his

+little horse.

+

+One of the wounded, an old soldier with a bandaged arm who was following

+the cart on foot, caught hold of it with his sound hand and turned to

+look at Pierre.

+

+“I say, fellow countryman! Will they set us down here or take us on to

+Moscow?” he asked.

+

+Pierre was so deep in thought that he did not hear the question. He was

+looking now at the cavalry regiment that had met the convoy of wounded,

+now at the cart by which he was standing, in which two wounded men

+were sitting and one was lying. One of those sitting up in the cart had

+probably been wounded in the cheek. His whole head was wrapped in rags

+and one cheek was swollen to the size of a baby’s head. His nose

+and mouth were twisted to one side. This soldier was looking at the

+cathedral and crossing himself. Another, a young lad, a fair-haired

+recruit as white as though there was no blood in his thin face, looked

+at Pierre kindly, with a fixed smile. The third lay prone so that his

+face was not visible. The cavalry singers were passing close by:

+

+   Ah lost, quite lost... is my head so keen,

+   Living in a foreign land...

+

+they sang their soldiers’ dance song.

+

+As if responding to them but with a different sort of merriment, the

+metallic sound of the bells reverberated high above and the hot rays of

+the sun bathed the top of the opposite slope with yet another sort of

+merriment. But beneath the slope, by the cart with the wounded near the

+panting little nag where Pierre stood, it was damp, somber, and sad.

+

+The soldier with the swollen cheek looked angrily at the cavalry

+singers.

+

+“Oh, the coxcombs!” he muttered reproachfully.

+

+“It’s not the soldiers only, but I’ve seen peasants today, too....

+The peasants—even they have to go,” said the soldier behind the cart,

+addressing Pierre with a sad smile. “No distinctions made nowadays....

+They want the whole nation to fall on them—in a word, it’s Moscow! They

+want to make an end of it.”

+

+In spite of the obscurity of the soldier’s words Pierre understood what

+he wanted to say and nodded approval.

+

+The road was clear again; Pierre descended the hill and drove on.

+

+He kept looking to either side of the road for familiar faces, but only

+saw everywhere the unfamiliar faces of various military men of different

+branches of the service, who all looked with astonishment at his white

+hat and green tail coat.

+

+Having gone nearly three miles he at last met an acquaintance and

+eagerly addressed him. This was one of the head army doctors. He was

+driving toward Pierre in a covered gig, sitting beside a young surgeon,

+and on recognizing Pierre he told the Cossack who occupied the driver’s

+seat to pull up.

+

+“Count! Your excellency, how come you to be here?” asked the doctor.

+

+“Well, you know, I wanted to see...”

+

+“Yes, yes, there will be something to see....”

+

+Pierre got out and talked to the doctor, explaining his intention of

+taking part in a battle.

+

+The doctor advised him to apply direct to Kutúzov.

+

+“Why should you be God knows where out of sight, during the battle?” he

+said, exchanging glances with his young companion. “Anyhow his Serene

+Highness knows you and will receive you graciously. That’s what you must

+do.”

+

+The doctor seemed tired and in a hurry.

+

+“You think so?... Ah, I also wanted to ask you where our position is

+exactly?” said Pierre.

+

+“The position?” repeated the doctor. “Well, that’s not my line. Drive

+past Tatárinova, a lot of digging is going on there. Go up the hillock

+and you’ll see.”

+

+“Can one see from there?... If you would...”

+

+But the doctor interrupted him and moved toward his gig.

+

+“I would go with you but on my honor I’m up to here”—and he pointed to

+his throat. “I’m galloping to the commander of the corps. How do matters

+stand?... You know, Count, there’ll be a battle tomorrow. Out of an army

+of a hundred thousand we must expect at least twenty thousand wounded,

+and we haven’t stretchers, or bunks, or dressers, or doctors enough for

+six thousand. We have ten thousand carts, but we need other things as

+well—we must manage as best we can!”

+

+The strange thought that of the thousands of men, young and old, who

+had stared with merry surprise at his hat (perhaps the very men he had

+noticed), twenty thousand were inevitably doomed to wounds and death

+amazed Pierre.

+

+“They may die tomorrow; why are they thinking of anything but death?”

+And by some latent sequence of thought the descent of the Mozháysk hill,

+the carts with the wounded, the ringing bells, the slanting rays of the

+sun, and the songs of the cavalrymen vividly recurred to his mind.

+

+“The cavalry ride to battle and meet the wounded and do not for a moment

+think of what awaits them, but pass by, winking at the wounded. Yet from

+among these men twenty thousand are doomed to die, and they wonder at my

+hat! Strange!” thought Pierre, continuing his way to Tatárinova.

+

+In front of a landowner’s house to the left of the road stood carriages,

+wagons, and crowds of orderlies and sentinels. The commander in chief

+was putting up there, but just when Pierre arrived he was not in and

+hardly any of the staff were there—they had gone to the church service.

+Pierre drove on toward Górki.

+

+When he had ascended the hill and reached the little village street, he

+saw for the first time peasant militiamen in their white shirts and with

+crosses on their caps, who, talking and laughing loudly, animated and

+perspiring, were at work on a huge knoll overgrown with grass to the

+right of the road.

+

+Some of them were digging, others were wheeling barrowloads of earth

+along planks, while others stood about doing nothing.

+

+Two officers were standing on the knoll, directing the men. On seeing

+these peasants, who were evidently still amused by the novelty of their

+position as soldiers, Pierre once more thought of the wounded men at

+Mozháysk and understood what the soldier had meant when he said: “They

+want the whole nation to fall on them.” The sight of these bearded

+peasants at work on the battlefield, with their queer, clumsy boots

+and perspiring necks, and their shirts opening from the left toward

+the middle, unfastened, exposing their sunburned collarbones, impressed

+Pierre more strongly with the solemnity and importance of the moment

+than anything he had yet seen or heard.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XXI

+

+Pierre stepped out of his carriage and, passing the toiling militiamen,

+ascended the knoll from which, according to the doctor, the battlefield

+could be seen.

+

+It was about eleven o’clock. The sun shone somewhat to the left and

+behind him and brightly lit up the enormous panorama which, rising like

+an amphitheater, extended before him in the clear rarefied atmosphere.

+

+From above on the left, bisecting that amphitheater, wound the Smolénsk

+highroad, passing through a village with a white church some five

+hundred paces in front of the knoll and below it. This was Borodinó.

+Below the village the road crossed the river by a bridge and, winding

+down and up, rose higher and higher to the village of Valúevo visible

+about four miles away, where Napoleon was then stationed. Beyond Valúevo

+the road disappeared into a yellowing forest on the horizon. Far in

+the distance in that birch and fir forest to the right of the road, the

+cross and belfry of the Kolochá Monastery gleamed in the sun. Here and

+there over the whole of that blue expanse, to right and left of the

+forest and the road, smoking campfires could be seen and indefinite

+masses of troops—ours and the enemy’s. The ground to the right—along the

+course of the Kolochá and Moskvá rivers—was broken and hilly. Between

+the hollows the villages of Bezúbova and Zakhárino showed in the

+distance. On the left the ground was more level; there were fields of

+grain, and the smoking ruins of Semënovsk, which had been burned down,

+could be seen.

+

+All that Pierre saw was so indefinite that neither the left nor the

+right side of the field fully satisfied his expectations. Nowhere

+could he see the battlefield he had expected to find, but only fields,

+meadows, troops, woods, the smoke of campfires, villages, mounds, and

+streams; and try as he would he could descry no military “position” in

+this place which teemed with life, nor could he even distinguish our

+troops from the enemy’s.

+

+“I must ask someone who knows,” he thought, and addressed an officer who

+was looking with curiosity at his huge unmilitary figure.

+

+“May I ask you,” said Pierre, “what village that is in front?”

+

+“Búrdino, isn’t it?” said the officer, turning to his companion.

+

+“Borodinó,” the other corrected him.

+

+The officer, evidently glad of an opportunity for a talk, moved up to

+Pierre.

+

+“Are those our men there?” Pierre inquired.

+

+“Yes, and there, further on, are the French,” said the officer. “There

+they are, there... you can see them.”

+

+“Where? Where?” asked Pierre.

+

+“One can see them with the naked eye... Why, there!”

+

+The officer pointed with his hand to the smoke visible on the left

+beyond the river, and the same stern and serious expression that Pierre

+had noticed on many of the faces he had met came into his face.

+

+“Ah, those are the French! And over there?...” Pierre pointed to a knoll

+on the left, near which some troops could be seen.

+

+“Those are ours.”

+

+“Ah, ours! And there?...” Pierre pointed to another knoll in the

+distance with a big tree on it, near a village that lay in a hollow

+where also some campfires were smoking and something black was visible.

+

+“That’s his again,” said the officer. (It was the Shevárdino Redoubt.)

+“It was ours yesterday, but now it is his.”

+

+“Then how about our position?”

+

+“Our position?” replied the officer with a smile of satisfaction. “I

+can tell you quite clearly, because I constructed nearly all our

+entrenchments. There, you see? There’s our center, at Borodinó, just

+there,” and he pointed to the village in front of them with the white

+church. “That’s where one crosses the Kolochá. You see down there where

+the rows of hay are lying in the hollow, there’s the bridge. That’s our

+center. Our right flank is over there”—he pointed sharply to the right,

+far away in the broken ground—“That’s where the Moskvá River is, and

+we have thrown up three redoubts there, very strong ones. The left

+flank...” here the officer paused. “Well, you see, that’s difficult to

+explain.... Yesterday our left flank was there at Shevárdino, you see,

+where the oak is, but now we have withdrawn our left wing—now it is over

+there, do you see that village and the smoke? That’s Semënovsk, yes,

+there,” he pointed to Raévski’s knoll. “But the battle will hardly

+be there. His having moved his troops there is only a ruse; he will

+probably pass round to the right of the Moskvá. But wherever it may be,

+many a man will be missing tomorrow!” he remarked.

+

+An elderly sergeant who had approached the officer while he was giving

+these explanations had waited in silence for him to finish speaking, but

+at this point, evidently not liking the officer’s remark, interrupted

+him.

+

+“Gabions must be sent for,” said he sternly.

+

+The officer appeared abashed, as though he understood that one might

+think of how many men would be missing tomorrow but ought not to speak

+of it.

+

+“Well, send number three company again,” the officer replied hurriedly.

+

+“And you, are you one of the doctors?”

+

+“No, I’ve come on my own,” answered Pierre, and he went down the hill

+again, passing the militiamen.

+

+“Oh, those damned fellows!” muttered the officer who followed him,

+holding his nose as he ran past the men at work.

+

+“There they are... bringing her, coming... There they are... They’ll be

+here in a minute...” voices were suddenly heard saying; and officers,

+soldiers, and militiamen began running forward along the road.

+

+A church procession was coming up the hill from Borodinó. First along

+the dusty road came the infantry in ranks, bareheaded and with arms

+reversed. From behind them came the sound of church singing.

+

+Soldiers and militiamen ran bareheaded past Pierre toward the

+procession.

+

+“They are bringing her, our Protectress!... The Iberian Mother of God!”

+someone cried.

+

+“The Smolénsk Mother of God,” another corrected him.

+

+The militiamen, both those who had been in the village and those who had

+been at work on the battery, threw down their spades and ran to meet the

+church procession. Following the battalion that marched along the dusty

+road came priests in their vestments—one little old man in a hood with

+attendants and singers. Behind them soldiers and officers bore a large,

+dark-faced icon with an embossed metal cover. This was the icon that had

+been brought from Smolénsk and had since accompanied the army. Behind,

+before, and on both sides, crowds of militiamen with bared heads walked,

+ran, and bowed to the ground.

+

+At the summit of the hill they stopped with the icon; the men who had

+been holding it up by the linen bands attached to it were relieved by

+others, the chanters relit their censers, and service began. The hot

+rays of the sun beat down vertically and a fresh soft wind played with

+the hair of the bared heads and with the ribbons decorating the icon.

+The singing did not sound loud under the open sky. An immense crowd

+of bareheaded officers, soldiers, and militiamen surrounded the icon.

+Behind the priest and a chanter stood the notabilities on a spot

+reserved for them. A bald general with a St. George’s Cross on his neck

+stood just behind the priest’s back, and without crossing himself (he

+was evidently a German) patiently awaited the end of the service, which

+he considered it necessary to hear to the end, probably to arouse the

+patriotism of the Russian people. Another general stood in a martial

+pose, crossing himself by shaking his hand in front of his chest

+while looking about him. Standing among the crowd of peasants, Pierre

+recognized several acquaintances among these notables, but did not

+look at them—his whole attention was absorbed in watching the serious

+expression on the faces of the crowd of soldiers and militiamen who were

+all gazing eagerly at the icon. As soon as the tired chanters, who were

+singing the service for the twentieth time that day, began lazily and

+mechanically to sing: “Save from calamity Thy servants, O Mother of

+God,” and the priest and deacon chimed in: “For to Thee under God we all

+flee as to an inviolable bulwark and protection,” there again kindled in

+all those faces the same expression of consciousness of the solemnity

+of the impending moment that Pierre had seen on the faces at the foot of

+the hill at Mozháysk and momentarily on many and many faces he had met

+that morning; and heads were bowed more frequently and hair tossed back,

+and sighs and the sound men made as they crossed themselves were heard.

+

+The crowd round the icon suddenly parted and pressed against Pierre.

+Someone, a very important personage judging by the haste with which way

+was made for him, was approaching the icon.

+

+It was Kutúzov, who had been riding round the position and on his way

+back to Tatárinova had stopped where the service was being held. Pierre

+recognized him at once by his peculiar figure, which distinguished him

+from everybody else.

+

+With a long overcoat on his exceedingly stout, round-shouldered body,

+with uncovered white head and puffy face showing the white ball of the

+eye he had lost, Kutúzov walked with plunging, swaying gait into

+the crowd and stopped behind the priest. He crossed himself with an

+accustomed movement, bent till he touched the ground with his hand, and

+bowed his white head with a deep sigh. Behind Kutúzov was Bennigsen and

+the suite. Despite the presence of the commander in chief, who attracted

+the attention of all the superior officers, the militiamen and soldiers

+continued their prayers without looking at him.

+

+When the service was over, Kutúzov stepped up to the icon, sank heavily

+to his knees, bowed to the ground, and for a long time tried vainly to

+rise, but could not do so on account of his weakness and weight. His

+white head twitched with the effort. At last he rose, kissed the icon as

+a child does with naïvely pouting lips, and again bowed till he touched

+the ground with his hand. The other generals followed his example,

+then the officers, and after them with excited faces, pressing on one

+another, crowding, panting, and pushing, scrambled the soldiers and

+militiamen.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XXII

+

+Staggering amid the crush, Pierre looked about him.

+

+“Count Peter Kirílovich! How did you get here?” said a voice.

+

+Pierre looked round. Borís Drubetskóy, brushing his knees with his hand

+(he had probably soiled them when he, too, had knelt before the icon),

+came up to him smiling. Borís was elegantly dressed, with a slightly

+martial touch appropriate to a campaign. He wore a long coat and like

+Kutúzov had a whip slung across his shoulder.

+

+Meanwhile Kutúzov had reached the village and seated himself in the

+shade of the nearest house, on a bench which one Cossack had run

+to fetch and another had hastily covered with a rug. An immense and

+brilliant suite surrounded him.

+

+The icon was carried further, accompanied by the throng. Pierre stopped

+some thirty paces from Kutúzov, talking to Borís.

+

+He explained his wish to be present at the battle and to see the

+position.

+

+“This is what you must do,” said Borís. “I will do the honors of the

+camp to you. You will see everything best from where Count Bennigsen

+will be. I am in attendance on him, you know; I’ll mention it to him.

+But if you want to ride round the position, come along with us. We are

+just going to the left flank. Then when we get back, do spend the night

+with me and we’ll arrange a game of cards. Of course you know Dmítri

+Sergéevich? Those are his quarters,” and he pointed to the third house

+in the village of Górki.

+

+“But I should like to see the right flank. They say it’s very strong,”

+said Pierre. “I should like to start from the Moskvá River and ride

+round the whole position.”

+

+“Well, you can do that later, but the chief thing is the left flank.”

+

+“Yes, yes. But where is Prince Bolkónski’s regiment? Can you point it

+out to me?”

+

+“Prince Andrew’s? We shall pass it and I’ll take you to him.”

+

+“What about the left flank?” asked Pierre

+

+“To tell you the truth, between ourselves, God only knows what state our

+left flank is in,” said Borís confidentially lowering his voice. “It is

+not at all what Count Bennigsen intended. He meant to fortify that knoll

+quite differently, but...” Borís shrugged his shoulders, “his Serene

+Highness would not have it, or someone persuaded him. You see...” but

+Borís did not finish, for at that moment Kaysárov, Kutúzov’s adjutant,

+came up to Pierre. “Ah, Kaysárov!” said Borís, addressing him with an

+unembarrassed smile, “I was just trying to explain our position to

+the count. It is amazing how his Serene Highness could so foresee the

+intentions of the French!”

+

+“You mean the left flank?” asked Kaysárov.

+

+“Yes, exactly; the left flank is now extremely strong.”

+

+Though Kutúzov had dismissed all unnecessary men from the staff, Borís

+had contrived to remain at headquarters after the changes. He had

+established himself with Count Bennigsen, who, like all on whom Borís

+had been in attendance, considered young Prince Drubetskóy an invaluable

+man.

+

+In the higher command there were two sharply defined parties: Kutúzov’s

+party and that of Bennigsen, the chief of staff. Borís belonged to the

+latter and no one else, while showing servile respect to Kutúzov, could

+so create an impression that the old fellow was not much good and that

+Bennigsen managed everything. Now the decisive moment of battle had come

+when Kutúzov would be destroyed and the power pass to Bennigsen, or even

+if Kutúzov won the battle it would be felt that everything was done by

+Bennigsen. In any case many great rewards would have to be given for

+tomorrow’s action, and new men would come to the front. So Borís was

+full of nervous vivacity all day.

+

+After Kaysárov, others whom Pierre knew came up to him, and he had not

+time to reply to all the questions about Moscow that were showered upon

+him, or to listen to all that was told him. The faces all expressed

+animation and apprehension, but it seemed to Pierre that the cause of

+the excitement shown in some of these faces lay chiefly in questions

+of personal success; his mind, however, was occupied by the different

+expression he saw on other faces—an expression that spoke not of

+personal matters but of the universal questions of life and death.

+Kutúzov noticed Pierre’s figure and the group gathered round him.

+

+“Call him to me,” said Kutúzov.

+

+An adjutant told Pierre of his Serene Highness’ wish, and Pierre went

+toward Kutúzov’s bench. But a militiaman got there before him. It was

+Dólokhov.

+

+“How did that fellow get here?” asked Pierre.

+

+“He’s a creature that wriggles in anywhere!” was the answer. “He

+has been degraded, you know. Now he wants to bob up again. He’s been

+proposing some scheme or other and has crawled into the enemy’s picket

+line at night.... He’s a brave fellow.”

+

+Pierre took off his hat and bowed respectfully to Kutúzov.

+

+“I concluded that if I reported to your Serene Highness you might send

+me away or say that you knew what I was reporting, but then I shouldn’t

+lose anything...” Dólokhov was saying.

+

+“Yes, yes.”

+

+“But if I were right, I should be rendering a service to my Fatherland

+for which I am ready to die.”

+

+“Yes, yes.”

+

+“And should your Serene Highness require a man who will not spare his

+skin, please think of me.... Perhaps I may prove useful to your Serene

+Highness.”

+

+“Yes... Yes...” Kutúzov repeated, his laughing eye narrowing more and

+more as he looked at Pierre.

+

+Just then Borís, with his courtierlike adroitness, stepped up to

+Pierre’s side near Kutúzov and in a most natural manner, without

+raising his voice, said to Pierre, as though continuing an interrupted

+conversation:

+

+“The militia have put on clean white shirts to be ready to die. What

+heroism, Count!”

+

+Borís evidently said this to Pierre in order to be overheard by his

+Serene Highness. He knew Kutúzov’s attention would be caught by those

+words, and so it was.

+

+“What are you saying about the militia?” he asked Borís.

+

+“Preparing for tomorrow, your Serene Highness—for death—they have put on

+clean shirts.”

+

+“Ah... a wonderful, a matchless people!” said Kutúzov; and he closed his

+eyes and swayed his head. “A matchless people!” he repeated with a sigh.

+

+“So you want to smell gunpowder?” he said to Pierre. “Yes, it’s a

+pleasant smell. I have the honor to be one of your wife’s adorers. Is

+she well? My quarters are at your service.”

+

+And as often happens with old people, Kutúzov began looking about

+absent-mindedly as if forgetting all he wanted to say or do.

+

+Then, evidently remembering what he wanted, he beckoned to Andrew

+Kaysárov, his adjutant’s brother.

+

+“Those verses... those verses of Márin’s... how do they go, eh? Those he

+wrote about Gerákov: ‘Lectures for the corps inditing’... Recite them,

+recite them!” said he, evidently preparing to laugh.

+

+Kaysárov recited.... Kutúzov smilingly nodded his head to the rhythm of

+the verses.

+

+When Pierre had left Kutúzov, Dólokhov came up to him and took his hand.

+

+“I am very glad to meet you here, Count,” he said aloud, regardless

+of the presence of strangers and in a particularly resolute and solemn

+tone. “On the eve of a day when God alone knows who of us is fated to

+survive, I am glad of this opportunity to tell you that I regret the

+misunderstandings that occurred between us and should wish you not to

+have any ill feeling for me. I beg you to forgive me.”

+

+Pierre looked at Dólokhov with a smile, not knowing what to say to him.

+With tears in his eyes Dólokhov embraced Pierre and kissed him.

+

+Borís said a few words to his general, and Count Bennigsen turned to

+Pierre and proposed that he should ride with him along the line.

+

+“It will interest you,” said he.

+

+“Yes, very much,” replied Pierre.

+

+Half an hour later Kutúzov left for Tatárinova, and Bennigsen and his

+suite, with Pierre among them, set out on their ride along the line.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XXIII

+

+From Górki, Bennigsen descended the highroad to the bridge which, when

+they had looked at it from the hill, the officer had pointed out as

+being the center of our position and where rows of fragrant new-mown hay

+lay by the riverside. They rode across that bridge into the village of

+Borodinó and thence turned to the left, passing an enormous number of

+troops and guns, and came to a high knoll where militiamen were digging.

+This was the redoubt, as yet unnamed, which afterwards became known as

+the Raévski Redoubt, or the Knoll Battery, but Pierre paid no special

+attention to it. He did not know that it would become more memorable to

+him than any other spot on the plain of Borodinó.

+

+They then crossed the hollow to Semënovsk, where the soldiers were

+dragging away the last logs from the huts and barns. Then they rode

+downhill and uphill, across a ryefield trodden and beaten down as if by

+hail, following a track freshly made by the artillery over the furrows

+of the plowed land, and reached some flèches * which were still being

+dug.

+

+    * A kind of entrenchment.

+

+At the flèches Bennigsen stopped and began looking at the Shevárdino

+Redoubt opposite, which had been ours the day before and where several

+horsemen could be descried. The officers said that either Napoleon or

+Murat was there, and they all gazed eagerly at this little group of

+horsemen. Pierre also looked at them, trying to guess which of the

+scarcely discernible figures was Napoleon. At last those mounted men

+rode away from the mound and disappeared.

+

+Bennigsen spoke to a general who approached him, and began explaining

+the whole position of our troops. Pierre listened to him, straining each

+faculty to understand the essential points of the impending battle, but

+was mortified to feel that his mental capacity was inadequate for the

+task. He could make nothing of it. Bennigsen stopped speaking and,

+noticing that Pierre was listening, suddenly said to him:

+

+“I don’t think this interests you?”

+

+“On the contrary it’s very interesting!” replied Pierre not quite

+truthfully.

+

+From the flèches they rode still farther to the left, along a road

+winding through a thick, low-growing birch wood. In the middle of the

+wood a brown hare with white feet sprang out and, scared by the tramp of

+the many horses, grew so confused that it leaped along the road in front

+of them for some time, arousing general attention and laughter, and only

+when several voices shouted at it did it dart to one side and disappear

+in the thicket. After going through the wood for about a mile and a half

+they came out on a glade where troops of Túchkov’s corps were stationed

+to defend the left flank.

+

+Here, at the extreme left flank, Bennigsen talked a great deal and with

+much heat, and, as it seemed to Pierre, gave orders of great military

+importance. In front of Túchkov’s troops was some high ground not

+occupied by troops. Bennigsen loudly criticized this mistake, saying

+that it was madness to leave a height which commanded the country around

+unoccupied and to place troops below it. Some of the generals expressed

+the same opinion. One in particular declared with martial heat that they

+were put there to be slaughtered. Bennigsen on his own authority ordered

+the troops to occupy the high ground. This disposition on the left flank

+increased Pierre’s doubt of his own capacity to understand military

+matters. Listening to Bennigsen and the generals criticizing the

+position of the troops behind the hill, he quite understood them and

+shared their opinion, but for that very reason he could not understand

+how the man who put them there behind the hill could have made so gross

+and palpable a blunder.

+

+Pierre did not know that these troops were not, as Bennigsen supposed,

+put there to defend the position, but were in a concealed position as

+an ambush, that they should not be seen and might be able to strike an

+approaching enemy unexpectedly. Bennigsen did not know this and moved

+the troops forward according to his own ideas without mentioning the

+matter to the commander in chief.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XXIV

+

+On that bright evening of August 25, Prince Andrew lay leaning on his

+elbow in a broken-down shed in the village of Knyazkóvo at the further

+end of his regiment’s encampment. Through a gap in the broken wall he

+could see, beside the wooden fence, a row of thirty-year-old birches

+with their lower branches lopped off, a field on which shocks of

+oats were standing, and some bushes near which rose the smoke of

+campfires—the soldiers’ kitchens.

+

+Narrow and burdensome and useless to anyone as his life now seemed to

+him, Prince Andrew on the eve of battle felt agitated and irritable as

+he had done seven years before at Austerlitz.

+

+He had received and given the orders for next day’s battle and had

+nothing more to do. But his thoughts—the simplest, clearest, and

+therefore most terrible thoughts—would give him no peace. He knew that

+tomorrow’s battle would be the most terrible of all he had taken

+part in, and for the first time in his life the possibility of death

+presented itself to him—not in relation to any worldly matter or with

+reference to its effect on others, but simply in relation to himself, to

+his own soul—vividly, plainly, terribly, and almost as a certainty. And

+from the height of this perception all that had previously tormented and

+preoccupied him suddenly became illumined by a cold white light without

+shadows, without perspective, without distinction of outline. All life

+appeared to him like magic-lantern pictures at which he had long been

+gazing by artificial light through a glass. Now he suddenly saw those

+badly daubed pictures in clear daylight and without a glass. “Yes,

+yes! There they are, those false images that agitated, enraptured,

+and tormented me,” said he to himself, passing in review the principal

+pictures of the magic lantern of life and regarding them now in the cold

+white daylight of his clear perception of death. “There they are, those

+rudely painted figures that once seemed splendid and mysterious.

+Glory, the good of society, love of a woman, the Fatherland itself—how

+important these pictures appeared to me, with what profound meaning they

+seemed to be filled! And it is all so simple, pale, and crude in the

+cold white light of this morning which I feel is dawning for me.” The

+three great sorrows of his life held his attention in particular: his

+love for a woman, his father’s death, and the French invasion which had

+overrun half Russia. “Love... that little girl who seemed to me brimming

+over with mystic forces! Yes, indeed, I loved her. I made romantic plans

+of love and happiness with her! Oh, what a boy I was!” he said aloud

+bitterly. “Ah me! I believed in some ideal love which was to keep her

+faithful to me for the whole year of my absence! Like the gentle dove

+in the fable she was to pine apart from me.... But it was much simpler

+really.... It was all very simple and horrible.”

+

+“When my father built Bald Hills he thought the place was his: his

+land, his air, his peasants. But Napoleon came and swept him aside,

+unconscious of his existence, as he might brush a chip from his path,

+and his Bald Hills and his whole life fell to pieces. Princess Mary says

+it is a trial sent from above. What is the trial for, when he is not

+here and will never return? He is not here! For whom then is the trial

+intended? The Fatherland, the destruction of Moscow! And tomorrow I

+shall be killed, perhaps not even by a Frenchman but by one of our own

+men, by a soldier discharging a musket close to my ear as one of them

+did yesterday, and the French will come and take me by head and heels

+and fling me into a hole that I may not stink under their noses, and new

+conditions of life will arise, which will seem quite ordinary to others

+and about which I shall know nothing. I shall not exist....”

+

+He looked at the row of birches shining in the sunshine, with their

+motionless green and yellow foliage and white bark. “To die... to be

+killed tomorrow... That I should not exist... That all this should still

+be, but no me....”

+

+And the birches with their light and shade, the curly clouds, the

+smoke of the campfires, and all that was around him changed and seemed

+terrible and menacing. A cold shiver ran down his spine. He rose

+quickly, went out of the shed, and began to walk about.

+

+After he had returned, voices were heard outside the shed. “Who’s that?”

+he cried.

+

+The red-nosed Captain Timókhin, formerly Dólokhov’s squadron commander,

+but now from lack of officers a battalion commander, shyly entered the

+shed followed by an adjutant and the regimental paymaster.

+

+Prince Andrew rose hastily, listened to the business they had come

+about, gave them some further instructions, and was about to dismiss

+them when he heard a familiar, lisping, voice behind the shed.

+

+“Devil take it!” said the voice of a man stumbling over something.

+

+Prince Andrew looked out of the shed and saw Pierre, who had tripped

+over a pole on the ground and had nearly fallen, coming his way. It was

+unpleasant to Prince Andrew to meet people of his own set in general,

+and Pierre especially, for he reminded him of all the painful moments of

+his last visit to Moscow.

+

+“You? What a surprise!” said he. “What brings you here? This is

+unexpected!”

+

+As he said this his eyes and face expressed more than coldness—they

+expressed hostility, which Pierre noticed at once. He had approached

+the shed full of animation, but on seeing Prince Andrew’s face he felt

+constrained and ill at ease.

+

+“I have come... simply... you know... come... it interests me,” said

+Pierre, who had so often that day senselessly repeated that word

+“interesting.” “I wish to see the battle.”

+

+“Oh yes, and what do the Masonic brothers say about war? How would they

+stop it?” said Prince Andrew sarcastically. “Well, and how’s Moscow? And

+my people? Have they reached Moscow at last?” he asked seriously.

+

+“Yes, they have. Julie Drubetskáya told me so. I went to see them, but

+missed them. They have gone to your estate near Moscow.”

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XXV

+

+The officers were about to take leave, but Prince Andrew, apparently

+reluctant to be left alone with his friend, asked them to stay and have

+tea. Seats were brought in and so was the tea. The officers gazed with

+surprise at Pierre’s huge stout figure and listened to his talk of

+Moscow and the position of our army, round which he had ridden. Prince

+Andrew remained silent, and his expression was so forbidding that Pierre

+addressed his remarks chiefly to the good-natured battalion commander.

+

+“So you understand the whole position of our troops?” Prince Andrew

+interrupted him.

+

+“Yes—that is, how do you mean?” said Pierre. “Not being a military man

+I can’t say I have understood it fully, but I understand the general

+position.”

+

+“Well, then, you know more than anyone else, be it who it may,” said

+Prince Andrew.

+

+“Oh!” said Pierre, looking over his spectacles in perplexity at Prince

+Andrew. “Well, and what do you think of Kutúzov’s appointment?” he

+asked.

+

+“I was very glad of his appointment, that’s all I know,” replied Prince

+Andrew.

+

+“And tell me your opinion of Barclay de Tolly. In Moscow they are saying

+heaven knows what about him.... What do you think of him?”

+

+“Ask them,” replied Prince Andrew, indicating the officers.

+

+Pierre looked at Timókhin with the condescendingly interrogative smile

+with which everybody involuntarily addressed that officer.

+

+“We see light again, since his Serenity has been appointed, your

+excellency,” said Timókhin timidly, and continually turning to glance at

+his colonel.

+

+“Why so?” asked Pierre.

+

+“Well, to mention only firewood and fodder, let me inform you. Why, when

+we were retreating from Sventsyáni we dare not touch a stick or a wisp

+of hay or anything. You see, we were going away, so he would get it all;

+wasn’t it so, your excellency?” and again Timókhin turned to the prince.

+“But we daren’t. In our regiment two officers were court-martialed for

+that kind of thing. But when his Serenity took command everything became

+straightforward. Now we see light....”

+

+“Then why was it forbidden?”

+

+Timókhin looked about in confusion, not knowing what or how to answer

+such a question. Pierre put the same question to Prince Andrew.

+

+“Why, so as not to lay waste the country we were abandoning to the

+enemy,” said Prince Andrew with venomous irony. “It is very sound:

+one can’t permit the land to be pillaged and accustom the troops to

+marauding. At Smolénsk too he judged correctly that the French might

+outflank us, as they had larger forces. But he could not understand

+this,” cried Prince Andrew in a shrill voice that seemed to escape him

+involuntarily: “he could not understand that there, for the first time,

+we were fighting for Russian soil, and that there was a spirit in the

+men such as I had never seen before, that we had held the French for

+two days, and that that success had increased our strength tenfold. He

+ordered us to retreat, and all our efforts and losses went for nothing.

+He had no thought of betraying us, he tried to do the best he could,

+he thought out everything, and that is why he is unsuitable. He is

+unsuitable now, just because he plans out everything very thoroughly and

+accurately as every German has to. How can I explain?... Well, say your

+father has a German valet, and he is a splendid valet and satisfies your

+father’s requirements better than you could, then it’s all right to let

+him serve. But if your father is mortally sick you’ll send the valet

+away and attend to your father with your own unpracticed, awkward hands,

+and will soothe him better than a skilled man who is a stranger could.

+So it has been with Barclay. While Russia was well, a foreigner could

+serve her and be a splendid minister; but as soon as she is in danger

+she needs one of her own kin. But in your Club they have been making him

+out a traitor! They slander him as a traitor, and the only result will

+be that afterwards, ashamed of their false accusations, they will make

+him out a hero or a genius instead of a traitor, and that will be still

+more unjust. He is an honest and very punctilious German.”

+

+“And they say he’s a skillful commander,” rejoined Pierre.

+

+“I don’t understand what is meant by ‘a skillful commander,’” replied

+Prince Andrew ironically.

+

+“A skillful commander?” replied Pierre. “Why, one who foresees all

+contingencies... and foresees the adversary’s intentions.”

+

+“But that’s impossible,” said Prince Andrew as if it were a matter

+settled long ago.

+

+Pierre looked at him in surprise.

+

+“And yet they say that war is like a game of chess?” he remarked.

+

+“Yes,” replied Prince Andrew, “but with this little difference, that

+in chess you may think over each move as long as you please and are not

+limited for time, and with this difference too, that a knight is always

+stronger than a pawn, and two pawns are always stronger than one, while

+in war a battalion is sometimes stronger than a division and sometimes

+weaker than a company. The relative strength of bodies of troops can

+never be known to anyone. Believe me,” he went on, “if things

+depended on arrangements made by the staff, I should be there making

+arrangements, but instead of that I have the honor to serve here in

+the regiment with these gentlemen, and I consider that on us tomorrow’s

+battle will depend and not on those others.... Success never depends,

+and never will depend, on position, or equipment, or even on numbers,

+and least of all on position.”

+

+“But on what then?”

+

+“On the feeling that is in me and in him,” he pointed to Timókhin, “and

+in each soldier.”

+

+Prince Andrew glanced at Timókhin, who looked at his commander in alarm

+and bewilderment. In contrast to his former reticent taciturnity

+Prince Andrew now seemed excited. He could apparently not refrain from

+expressing the thoughts that had suddenly occurred to him.

+

+“A battle is won by those who firmly resolve to win it! Why did we lose

+the battle at Austerlitz? The French losses were almost equal to ours,

+but very early we said to ourselves that we were losing the battle,

+and we did lose it. And we said so because we had nothing to fight for

+there, we wanted to get away from the battlefield as soon as we could.

+‘We’ve lost, so let us run,’ and we ran. If we had not said that till

+the evening, heaven knows what might not have happened. But tomorrow we

+shan’t say it! You talk about our position, the left flank weak and the

+right flank too extended,” he went on. “That’s all nonsense, there’s

+nothing of the kind. But what awaits us tomorrow? A hundred million most

+diverse chances which will be decided on the instant by the fact that

+our men or theirs run or do not run, and that this man or that man is

+killed, but all that is being done at present is only play. The fact is

+that those men with whom you have ridden round the position not only

+do not help matters, but hinder. They are only concerned with their own

+petty interests.”

+

+“At such a moment?” said Pierre reproachfully.

+

+“At such a moment!” Prince Andrew repeated. “To them it is only a moment

+affording opportunities to undermine a rival and obtain an extra cross

+or ribbon. For me tomorrow means this: a Russian army of a hundred

+thousand and a French army of a hundred thousand have met to fight, and

+the thing is that these two hundred thousand men will fight and the side

+that fights more fiercely and spares itself least will win. And if you

+like I will tell you that whatever happens and whatever muddles those at

+the top may make, we shall win tomorrow’s battle. Tomorrow, happen what

+may, we shall win!”

+

+“There now, your excellency! That’s the truth, the real truth,” said

+Timókhin. “Who would spare himself now? The soldiers in my battalion,

+believe me, wouldn’t drink their vodka! ‘It’s not the day for that!’

+they say.”

+

+All were silent. The officers rose. Prince Andrew went out of the shed

+with them, giving final orders to the adjutant. After they had gone

+Pierre approached Prince Andrew and was about to start a conversation

+when they heard the clatter of three horses’ hoofs on the road not far

+from the shed, and looking in that direction Prince Andrew recognized

+Wolzogen and Clausewitz accompanied by a Cossack. They rode close by

+continuing to converse, and Prince Andrew involuntarily heard these

+words:

+

+“Der Krieg muss in Raum verlegt werden. Der Ansicht kann ich nicht genug

+Preis geben,” * said one of them.

+

+     * “The war must be extended widely. I cannot sufficiently

+     commend that view.”

+

+

+“Oh, ja,” said the other, “der Zweck ist nur den Feind zu schwächen,

+so kann man gewiss nicht den Verlust der Privat-Personen in Achtung

+nehmen.” *

+

+     * “Oh, yes, the only aim is to weaken the enemy, so of

+     course one cannot take into account the loss of private

+     individuals.”

+

+

+“Oh, no,” agreed the other.

+

+“Extend widely!” said Prince Andrew with an angry snort, when they had

+ridden past. “In that ‘extend’ were my father, son, and sister, at Bald

+Hills. That’s all the same to him! That’s what I was saying to you—those

+German gentlemen won’t win the battle tomorrow but will only make all

+the mess they can, because they have nothing in their German heads but

+theories not worth an empty eggshell and haven’t in their hearts the one

+thing needed tomorrow—that which Timókhin has. They have yielded up all

+Europe to him, and have now come to teach us. Fine teachers!” and again

+his voice grew shrill.

+

+“So you think we shall win tomorrow’s battle?” asked Pierre.

+

+“Yes, yes,” answered Prince Andrew absently. “One thing I would do if

+I had the power,” he began again, “I would not take prisoners. Why take

+prisoners? It’s chivalry! The French have destroyed my home and are on

+their way to destroy Moscow, they have outraged and are outraging me

+every moment. They are my enemies. In my opinion they are all criminals.

+And so thinks Timókhin and the whole army. They should be executed!

+Since they are my foes they cannot be my friends, whatever may have been

+said at Tilsit.”

+

+“Yes, yes,” muttered Pierre, looking with shining eyes at Prince Andrew.

+“I quite agree with you!”

+

+The question that had perturbed Pierre on the Mozháysk hill and all

+that day now seemed to him quite clear and completely solved. He now

+understood the whole meaning and importance of this war and of the

+impending battle. All he had seen that day, all the significant and

+stern expressions on the faces he had seen in passing, were lit up

+for him by a new light. He understood that latent heat (as they say in

+physics) of patriotism which was present in all these men he had seen,

+and this explained to him why they all prepared for death calmly, and as

+it were lightheartedly.

+

+“Not take prisoners,” Prince Andrew continued: “That by itself would

+quite change the whole war and make it less cruel. As it is we have

+played at war—that’s what’s vile! We play at magnanimity and all that

+stuff. Such magnanimity and sensibility are like the magnanimity and

+sensibility of a lady who faints when she sees a calf being killed: she

+is so kindhearted that she can’t look at blood, but enjoys eating the

+calf served up with sauce. They talk to us of the rules of war, of

+chivalry, of flags of truce, of mercy to the unfortunate and so on. It’s

+all rubbish! I saw chivalry and flags of truce in 1805; they humbugged

+us and we humbugged them. They plunder other people’s houses, issue

+false paper money, and worst of all they kill my children and my

+father, and then talk of rules of war and magnanimity to foes! Take no

+prisoners, but kill and be killed! He who has come to this as I have

+through the same sufferings...”

+

+Prince Andrew, who had thought it was all the same to him whether or

+not Moscow was taken as Smolénsk had been, was suddenly checked in his

+speech by an unexpected cramp in his throat. He paced up and down a

+few times in silence, but his eyes glittered feverishly and his lips

+quivered as he began speaking.

+

+“If there was none of this magnanimity in war, we should go to war only

+when it was worth while going to certain death, as now. Then there would

+not be war because Paul Ivánovich had offended Michael Ivánovich. And

+when there was a war, like this one, it would be war! And then the

+determination of the troops would be quite different. Then all these

+Westphalians and Hessians whom Napoleon is leading would not follow

+him into Russia, and we should not go to fight in Austria and Prussia

+without knowing why. War is not courtesy but the most horrible thing in

+life; and we ought to understand that and not play at war. We ought to

+accept this terrible necessity sternly and seriously. It all lies in

+that: get rid of falsehood and let war be war and not a game. As it is

+now, war is the favorite pastime of the idle and frivolous. The military

+calling is the most highly honored.

+

+“But what is war? What is needed for success in warfare? What are the

+habits of the military? The aim of war is murder; the methods of war

+are spying, treachery, and their encouragement, the ruin of a country’s

+inhabitants, robbing them or stealing to provision the army, and fraud

+and falsehood termed military craft. The habits of the military class

+are the absence of freedom, that is, discipline, idleness, ignorance,

+cruelty, debauchery, and drunkenness. And in spite of all this it is the

+highest class, respected by everyone. All the kings, except the Chinese,

+wear military uniforms, and he who kills most people receives the

+highest rewards.

+

+“They meet, as we shall meet tomorrow, to murder one another; they kill

+and maim tens of thousands, and then have thanksgiving services for

+having killed so many people (they even exaggerate the number), and they

+announce a victory, supposing that the more people they have killed

+the greater their achievement. How does God above look at them and hear

+them?” exclaimed Prince Andrew in a shrill, piercing voice. “Ah, my

+friend, it has of late become hard for me to live. I see that I have

+begun to understand too much. And it doesn’t do for man to taste of the

+tree of knowledge of good and evil.... Ah, well, it’s not for long!” he

+added.

+

+“However, you’re sleepy, and it’s time for me to sleep. Go back to

+Górki!” said Prince Andrew suddenly.

+

+“Oh no!” Pierre replied, looking at Prince Andrew with frightened,

+compassionate eyes.

+

+“Go, go! Before a battle one must have one’s sleep out,” repeated Prince

+Andrew.

+

+He came quickly up to Pierre and embraced and kissed him. “Good-by, be

+off!” he shouted. “Whether we meet again or not...” and turning away

+hurriedly he entered the shed.

+

+It was already dark, and Pierre could not make out whether the

+expression of Prince Andrew’s face was angry or tender.

+

+For some time he stood in silence considering whether he should follow

+him or go away. “No, he does not want it!” Pierre concluded. “And I know

+that this is our last meeting!” He sighed deeply and rode back to Górki.

+

+On re-entering the shed Prince Andrew lay down on a rug, but he could

+not sleep.

+

+He closed his eyes. One picture succeeded another in his imagination. On

+one of them he dwelt long and joyfully. He vividly recalled an evening

+in Petersburg. Natásha with animated and excited face was telling him

+how she had gone to look for mushrooms the previous summer and had lost

+her way in the big forest. She incoherently described the depths of

+the forest, her feelings, and a talk with a beekeeper she met, and

+constantly interrupted her story to say: “No, I can’t! I’m not telling

+it right; no, you don’t understand,” though he encouraged her by saying

+that he did understand, and he really had understood all she wanted to

+say. But Natásha was not satisfied with her own words: she felt that

+they did not convey the passionately poetic feeling she had experienced

+that day and wished to convey. “He was such a delightful old man, and

+it was so dark in the forest... and he had such kind... No, I can’t

+describe it,” she had said, flushed and excited. Prince Andrew smiled

+now the same happy smile as then when he had looked into her eyes. “I

+understood her,” he thought. “I not only understood her, but it was just

+that inner, spiritual force, that sincerity, that frankness of soul—that

+very soul of hers which seemed to be fettered by her body—it was that

+soul I loved in her... loved so strongly and happily...” and suddenly

+he remembered how his love had ended. “He did not need anything of that

+kind. He neither saw nor understood anything of the sort. He only saw in

+her a pretty and fresh young girl, with whom he did not deign to unite

+his fate. And I?... and he is still alive and gay!”

+

+Prince Andrew jumped up as if someone had burned him, and again began

+pacing up and down in front of the shed.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XXVI

+

+On August 25, the eve of the battle of Borodinó, M. de Beausset, prefect

+of the French Emperor’s palace, arrived at Napoleon’s quarters at

+Valúevo with Colonel Fabvier, the former from Paris and the latter from

+Madrid.

+

+Donning his court uniform, M. de Beausset ordered a box he had

+brought for the Emperor to be carried before him and entered the first

+compartment of Napoleon’s tent, where he began opening the box while

+conversing with Napoleon’s aides-de-camp who surrounded him.

+

+Fabvier, not entering the tent, remained at the entrance talking to some

+generals of his acquaintance.

+

+The Emperor Napoleon had not yet left his bedroom and was finishing his

+toilet. Slightly snorting and grunting, he presented now his back and

+now his plump hairy chest to the brush with which his valet was rubbing

+him down. Another valet, with his finger over the mouth of a bottle,

+was sprinkling Eau de Cologne on the Emperor’s pampered body with an

+expression which seemed to say that he alone knew where and how much Eau

+de Cologne should be sprinkled. Napoleon’s short hair was wet and

+matted on the forehead, but his face, though puffy and yellow, expressed

+physical satisfaction. “Go on, harder, go on!” he muttered to the valet

+who was rubbing him, slightly twitching and grunting. An aide-de-camp,

+who had entered the bedroom to report to the Emperor the number of

+prisoners taken in yesterday’s action, was standing by the door after

+delivering his message, awaiting permission to withdraw. Napoleon,

+frowning, looked at him from under his brows.

+

+“No prisoners!” said he, repeating the aide-de-camp’s words. “They

+are forcing us to exterminate them. So much the worse for the Russian

+army.... Go on... harder, harder!” he muttered, hunching his back and

+presenting his fat shoulders.

+

+“All right. Let Monsieur de Beausset enter, and Fabvier too,” he said,

+nodding to the aide-de-camp.

+

+“Yes, sire,” and the aide-de-camp disappeared through the door of the

+tent.

+

+Two valets rapidly dressed His Majesty, and wearing the blue uniform of

+the Guards he went with firm quick steps to the reception room.

+

+De Beausset’s hands meanwhile were busily engaged arranging the present

+he had brought from the Empress, on two chairs directly in front of the

+entrance. But Napoleon had dressed and come out with such unexpected

+rapidity that he had not time to finish arranging the surprise.

+

+Napoleon noticed at once what they were about and guessed that they were

+not ready. He did not wish to deprive them of the pleasure of giving him

+a surprise, so he pretended not to see de Beausset and called Fabvier to

+him, listening silently and with a stern frown to what Fabvier told him

+of the heroism and devotion of his troops fighting at Salamanca, at

+the other end of Europe, with but one thought—to be worthy of their

+Emperor—and but one fear—to fail to please him. The result of that

+battle had been deplorable. Napoleon made ironic remarks during

+Fabvier’s account, as if he had not expected that matters could go

+otherwise in his absence.

+

+“I must make up for that in Moscow,” said Napoleon. “I’ll see you

+later,” he added, and summoned de Beausset, who by that time had

+prepared the surprise, having placed something on the chairs and covered

+it with a cloth.

+

+De Beausset bowed low, with that courtly French bow which only the

+old retainers of the Bourbons knew how to make, and approached him,

+presenting an envelope.

+

+Napoleon turned to him gaily and pulled his ear.

+

+“You have hurried here. I am very glad. Well, what is Paris saying?” he

+asked, suddenly changing his former stern expression for a most cordial

+tone.

+

+“Sire, all Paris regrets your absence,” replied de Beausset as was

+proper.

+

+But though Napoleon knew that de Beausset had to say something of this

+kind, and though in his lucid moments he knew it was untrue, he was

+pleased to hear it from him. Again he honored him by touching his ear.

+

+“I am very sorry to have made you travel so far,” said he.

+

+“Sire, I expected nothing less than to find you at the gates of Moscow,”

+replied de Beausset.

+

+Napoleon smiled and, lifting his head absent-mindedly, glanced to the

+right. An aide-de-camp approached with gliding steps and offered him a

+gold snuffbox, which he took.

+

+“Yes, it has happened luckily for you,” he said, raising the open

+snuffbox to his nose. “You are fond of travel, and in three days you

+will see Moscow. You surely did not expect to see that Asiatic capital.

+You will have a pleasant journey.”

+

+De Beausset bowed gratefully at this regard for his taste for travel (of

+which he had not till then been aware).

+

+“Ha, what’s this?” asked Napoleon, noticing that all the courtiers were

+looking at something concealed under a cloth.

+

+With courtly adroitness de Beausset half turned and without turning his

+back to the Emperor retired two steps, twitching off the cloth at the

+same time, and said:

+

+“A present to Your Majesty from the Empress.”

+

+It was a portrait, painted in bright colors by Gérard, of the son borne

+to Napoleon by the daughter of the Emperor of Austria, the boy whom for

+some reason everyone called “The King of Rome.”

+

+A very pretty curly-headed boy with a look of the Christ in the Sistine

+Madonna was depicted playing at stick and ball. The ball represented the

+terrestrial globe and the stick in his other hand a scepter.

+

+Though it was not clear what the artist meant to express by depicting

+the so-called King of Rome spiking the earth with a stick, the allegory

+apparently seemed to Napoleon, as it had done to all who had seen it in

+Paris, quite clear and very pleasing.

+

+“The King of Rome!” he said, pointing to the portrait with a graceful

+gesture. “Admirable!”

+

+With the natural capacity of an Italian for changing the expression of

+his face at will, he drew nearer to the portrait and assumed a look

+of pensive tenderness. He felt that what he now said and did would be

+historical, and it seemed to him that it would now be best for him—whose

+grandeur enabled his son to play stick and ball with the terrestrial

+globe—to show, in contrast to that grandeur, the simplest paternal

+tenderness. His eyes grew dim, he moved forward, glanced round at a

+chair (which seemed to place itself under him), and sat down on it

+before the portrait. At a single gesture from him everyone went out on

+tiptoe, leaving the great man to himself and his emotion.

+

+Having sat still for a while he touched—himself not knowing why—the

+thick spot of paint representing the highest light in the portrait,

+rose, and recalled de Beausset and the officer on duty. He ordered the

+portrait to be carried outside his tent, that the Old Guard, stationed

+round it, might not be deprived of the pleasure of seeing the King of

+Rome, the son and heir of their adored monarch.

+

+And while he was doing M. de Beausset the honor of breakfasting with

+him, they heard, as Napoleon had anticipated, the rapturous cries of the

+officers and men of the Old Guard who had run up to see the portrait.

+

+“Vive l’Empereur! Vive le roi de Rome! Vive l’Empereur!” came those

+ecstatic cries.

+

+After breakfast Napoleon in de Beausset’s presence dictated his order of

+the day to the army.

+

+“Short and energetic!” he remarked when he had read over the

+proclamation which he had dictated straight off without corrections. It

+ran:

+

+Soldiers! This is the battle you have so longed for. Victory depends on

+you. It is essential for us; it will give us all we need: comfortable

+quarters and a speedy return to our country. Behave as you did at

+Austerlitz, Friedland, Vítebsk, and Smolénsk. Let our remotest posterity

+recall your achievements this day with pride. Let it be said of each of

+you: “He was in the great battle before Moscow!”

+

+“Before Moscow!” repeated Napoleon, and inviting M. de Beausset, who was

+so fond of travel, to accompany him on his ride, he went out of the tent

+to where the horses stood saddled.

+

+“Your Majesty is too kind!” replied de Beausset to the invitation to

+accompany the Emperor; he wanted to sleep, did not know how to ride and

+was afraid of doing so.

+

+But Napoleon nodded to the traveler, and de Beausset had to mount. When

+Napoleon came out of the tent the shouting of the Guards before his

+son’s portrait grew still louder. Napoleon frowned.

+

+“Take him away!” he said, pointing with a gracefully majestic gesture to

+the portrait. “It is too soon for him to see a field of battle.”

+

+De Beausset closed his eyes, bowed his head, and sighed deeply, to

+indicate how profoundly he valued and comprehended the Emperor’s words.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XXVII

+

+On the twenty-fifth of August, so his historians tell us, Napoleon spent

+the whole day on horseback inspecting the locality, considering plans

+submitted to him by his marshals, and personally giving commands to his

+generals.

+

+The original line of the Russian forces along the river Kolochá had

+been dislocated by the capture of the Shevárdino Redoubt on the

+twenty-fourth, and part of the line—the left flank—had been drawn back.

+That part of the line was not entrenched and in front of it the ground

+was more open and level than elsewhere. It was evident to anyone,

+military or not, that it was here the French should attack. It would

+seem that not much consideration was needed to reach this conclusion,

+nor any particular care or trouble on the part of the Emperor and his

+marshals, nor was there any need of that special and supreme quality

+called genius that people are so apt to ascribe to Napoleon; yet the

+historians who described the event later and the men who then surrounded

+Napoleon, and he himself, thought otherwise.

+

+Napoleon rode over the plain and surveyed the locality with a profound

+air and in silence, nodded with approval or shook his head dubiously,

+and without communicating to the generals around him the profound

+course of ideas which guided his decisions merely gave them his final

+conclusions in the form of commands. Having listened to a suggestion

+from Davout, who was now called Prince d’Eckmühl, to turn the Russian

+left wing, Napoleon said it should not be done, without explaining

+why not. To a proposal made by General Campan (who was to attack the

+flèches) to lead his division through the woods, Napoleon agreed, though

+the so-called Duke of Elchingen (Ney) ventured to remark that a movement

+through the woods was dangerous and might disorder the division.

+

+Having inspected the country opposite the Shevárdino Redoubt, Napoleon

+pondered a little in silence and then indicated the spots where two

+batteries should be set up by the morrow to act against the Russian

+entrenchments, and the places where, in line with them, the field

+artillery should be placed.

+

+After giving these and other commands he returned to his tent, and the

+dispositions for the battle were written down from his dictation.

+

+These dispositions, of which the French historians write with enthusiasm

+and other historians with profound respect, were as follows:

+

+At dawn the two new batteries established during the night on the

+plain occupied by the Prince d’Eckmühl will open fire on the opposing

+batteries of the enemy.

+

+At the same time the commander of the artillery of the 1st Corps,

+General Pernetti, with thirty cannon of Campan’s division and all the

+howitzers of Dessaix’s and Friant’s divisions, will move forward, open

+fire, and overwhelm with shellfire the enemy’s battery, against which

+will operate:

+

+        24 guns of the artillery of the Guards

+        30 guns of Campan’s division

+

+ and     8 guns of Friant’s and Dessaix’s divisions

+        —

+

+ in all 62 guns.

+

+The commander of the artillery of the 3rd Corps, General Fouché, will

+place the howitzers of the 3rd and 8th Corps, sixteen in all, on the

+flanks of the battery that is to bombard the entrenchment on the left,

+which will have forty guns in all directed against it.

+

+General Sorbier must be ready at the first order to advance with all the

+howitzers of the Guard’s artillery against either one or other of the

+entrenchments.

+

+During the cannonade Prince Poniatowski is to advance through the wood

+on the village and turn the enemy’s position.

+

+General Campan will move through the wood to seize the first

+fortification.

+

+After the advance has begun in this manner, orders will be given in

+accordance with the enemy’s movements.

+

+The cannonade on the left flank will begin as soon as the guns of the

+right wing are heard. The sharpshooters of Morand’s division and of

+the vice-King’s division will open a heavy fire on seeing the attack

+commence on the right wing.

+

+The vice-King will occupy the village and cross by its three bridges,

+advancing to the same heights as Morand’s and Gibrard’s divisions, which

+under his leadership will be directed against the redoubt and come into

+line with the rest of the forces.

+

+All this must be done in good order (le tout se fera avec ordre et

+méthode) as far as possible retaining troops in reserve.

+

+The Imperial Camp near Mozháysk,

+

+September, 6, 1812.

+

+

+These dispositions, which are very obscure and confused if one allows

+oneself to regard the arrangements without religious awe of his genius,

+related to Napoleon’s orders to deal with four points—four different

+orders. Not one of these was, or could be, carried out.

+

+In the disposition it is said first that the batteries placed on the

+spot chosen by Napoleon, with the guns of Pernetti and Fouché; which

+were to come in line with them, 102 guns in all, were to open fire and

+shower shells on the Russian flèches and redoubts. This could not be

+done, as from the spots selected by Napoleon the projectiles did not

+carry to the Russian works, and those 102 guns shot into the air until

+the nearest commander, contrary to Napoleon’s instructions, moved them

+forward.

+

+The second order was that Poniatowski, moving to the village through the

+wood, should turn the Russian left flank. This could not be done and

+was not done, because Poniatowski, advancing on the village through the

+wood, met Túchkov there barring his way, and could not and did not turn

+the Russian position.

+

+The third order was: General Campan will move through the wood to seize

+the first fortification. General Campan’s division did not seize the

+first fortification but was driven back, for on emerging from the wood

+it had to reform under grapeshot, of which Napoleon was unaware.

+

+The fourth order was: The vice-King will occupy the village (Borodinó)

+and cross by its three bridges, advancing to the same heights as

+Morand’s and Gérard’s divisions (for whose movements no directions are

+given), which under his leadership will be directed against the redoubt

+and come into line with the rest of the forces.

+

+As far as one can make out, not so much from this unintelligible

+sentence as from the attempts the vice-King made to execute the orders

+given him, he was to advance from the left through Borodinó to the

+redoubt while the divisions of Morand and Gérard were to advance

+simultaneously from the front.

+

+All this, like the other parts of the disposition, was not and could

+not be executed. After passing through Borodinó the vice-King was driven

+back to the Kolochá and could get no farther; while the divisions of

+Morand and Gérard did not take the redoubt but were driven back, and the

+redoubt was only taken at the end of the battle by the cavalry (a thing

+probably unforeseen and not heard of by Napoleon). So not one of

+the orders in the disposition was, or could be, executed. But in the

+disposition it is said that, after the fight has commenced in this

+manner, orders will be given in accordance with the enemy’s movements,

+and so it might be supposed that all necessary arrangements would be

+made by Napoleon during the battle. But this was not and could not be

+done, for during the whole battle Napoleon was so far away that, as

+appeared later, he could not know the course of the battle and not one

+of his orders during the fight could be executed.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XXVIII

+

+Many historians say that the French did not win the battle of Borodinó

+because Napoleon had a cold, and that if he had not had a cold the

+orders he gave before and during the battle would have been still more

+full of genius and Russia would have been lost and the face of the world

+have been changed. To historians who believe that Russia was shaped

+by the will of one man—Peter the Great—and that France from a republic

+became an empire and French armies went to Russia at the will of one

+man—Napoleon—to say that Russia remained a power because Napoleon had a

+bad cold on the twenty-fourth of August may seem logical and convincing.

+

+If it had depended on Napoleon’s will to fight or not to fight the

+battle of Borodinó, and if this or that other arrangement depended on

+his will, then evidently a cold affecting the manifestation of his will

+might have saved Russia, and consequently the valet who omitted to bring

+Napoleon his waterproof boots on the twenty-fourth would have been

+the savior of Russia. Along that line of thought such a deduction is

+indubitable, as indubitable as the deduction Voltaire made in jest

+(without knowing what he was jesting at) when he saw that the Massacre

+of St. Bartholomew was due to Charles IX’s stomach being deranged. But

+to men who do not admit that Russia was formed by the will of one man,

+Peter I, or that the French Empire was formed and the war with Russia

+begun by the will of one man, Napoleon, that argument seems not merely

+untrue and irrational, but contrary to all human reality. To the

+question of what causes historic events another answer presents itself,

+namely, that the course of human events is predetermined from on

+high—depends on the coincidence of the wills of all who take part in the

+events, and that a Napoleon’s influence on the course of these events is

+purely external and fictitious.

+

+Strange as at first glance it may seem to suppose that the Massacre of

+St. Bartholomew was not due to Charles IX’s will, though he gave the

+order for it and thought it was done as a result of that order; and

+strange as it may seem to suppose that the slaughter of eighty thousand

+men at Borodinó was not due to Napoleon’s will, though he ordered the

+commencement and conduct of the battle and thought it was done

+because he ordered it; strange as these suppositions appear, yet human

+dignity—which tells me that each of us is, if not more at least not less

+a man than the great Napoleon—demands the acceptance of that solution of

+the question, and historic investigation abundantly confirms it.

+

+At the battle of Borodinó Napoleon shot at no one and killed no one.

+That was all done by the soldiers. Therefore it was not he who killed

+people.

+

+The French soldiers went to kill and be killed at the battle of Borodinó

+not because of Napoleon’s orders but by their own volition. The whole

+army—French, Italian, German, Polish, and Dutch—hungry, ragged, and

+weary of the campaign, felt at the sight of an army blocking their road

+to Moscow that the wine was drawn and must be drunk. Had Napoleon then

+forbidden them to fight the Russians, they would have killed him and

+have proceeded to fight the Russians because it was inevitable.

+

+When they heard Napoleon’s proclamation offering them, as compensation

+for mutilation and death, the words of posterity about their having been

+in the battle before Moscow, they cried “Vive l’Empereur!” just as they

+had cried “Vive l’Empereur!” at the sight of the portrait of the boy

+piercing the terrestrial globe with a toy stick, and just as they would

+have cried “Vive l’Empereur!” at any nonsense that might be told them.

+There was nothing left for them to do but cry “Vive l’Empereur!” and go

+to fight, in order to get food and rest as conquerors in Moscow. So it

+was not because of Napoleon’s commands that they killed their fellow

+men.

+

+And it was not Napoleon who directed the course of the battle, for none

+of his orders were executed and during the battle he did not know what

+was going on before him. So the way in which these people killed one

+another was not decided by Napoleon’s will but occurred independently of

+him, in accord with the will of hundreds of thousands of people who took

+part in the common action. It only seemed to Napoleon that it all took

+place by his will. And so the question whether he had or had not a

+cold has no more historic interest than the cold of the least of the

+transport soldiers.

+

+Moreover, the assertion made by various writers that his cold was

+the cause of his dispositions not being as well-planned as on former

+occasions, and of his orders during the battle not being as good as

+previously, is quite baseless, which again shows that Napoleon’s cold on

+the twenty-sixth of August was unimportant.

+

+The dispositions cited above are not at all worse, but are even

+better, than previous dispositions by which he had won victories. His

+pseudo-orders during the battle were also no worse than formerly, but

+much the same as usual. These dispositions and orders only seem worse

+than previous ones because the battle of Borodinó was the first Napoleon

+did not win. The profoundest and most excellent dispositions and orders

+seem very bad, and every learned militarist criticizes them with looks

+of importance, when they relate to a battle that has been lost, and the

+very worst dispositions and orders seem very good, and serious people

+fill whole volumes to demonstrate their merits, when they relate to a

+battle that has been won.

+

+The dispositions drawn up by Weyrother for the battle of Austerlitz were

+a model of perfection for that kind of composition, but still they were

+criticized—criticized for their very perfection, for their excessive

+minuteness.

+

+Napoleon at the battle of Borodinó fulfilled his office as

+representative of authority as well as, and even better than, at other

+battles. He did nothing harmful to the progress of the battle; he

+inclined to the most reasonable opinions, he made no confusion, did not

+contradict himself, did not get frightened or run away from the field of

+battle, but with his great tact and military experience carried out his

+role of appearing to command, calmly and with dignity.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XXIX

+

+On returning from a second inspection of the lines, Napoleon remarked:

+

+“The chessmen are set up, the game will begin tomorrow!”

+

+Having ordered punch and summoned de Beausset, he began to talk to him

+about Paris and about some changes he meant to make in the Empress’

+household, surprising the prefect by his memory of minute details

+relating to the court.

+

+He showed an interest in trifles, joked about de Beausset’s love of

+travel, and chatted carelessly, as a famous, self-confident surgeon who

+knows his job does when turning up his sleeves and putting on his apron

+while a patient is being strapped to the operating table. “The matter is

+in my hands and is clear and definite in my head. When the time comes to

+set to work I shall do it as no one else could, but now I can jest, and

+the more I jest and the calmer I am the more tranquil and confident you

+ought to be, and the more amazed at my genius.”

+

+Having finished his second glass of punch, Napoleon went to rest before

+the serious business which, he considered, awaited him next day. He

+was so much interested in that task that he was unable to sleep, and

+in spite of his cold which had grown worse from the dampness of the

+evening, he went into the large division of the tent at three o’clock in

+the morning, loudly blowing his nose. He asked whether the Russians had

+not withdrawn, and was told that the enemy’s fires were still in the

+same places. He nodded approval.

+

+The adjutant in attendance came into the tent.

+

+“Well, Rapp, do you think we shall do good business today?” Napoleon

+asked him.

+

+“Without doubt, sire,” replied Rapp.

+

+Napoleon looked at him.

+

+“Do you remember, sire, what you did me the honor to say at Smolénsk?”

+continued Rapp. “The wine is drawn and must be drunk.”

+

+Napoleon frowned and sat silent for a long time leaning his head on his

+hand.

+

+“This poor army!” he suddenly remarked. “It has diminished greatly since

+Smolénsk. Fortune is frankly a courtesan, Rapp. I have always said so

+and I am beginning to experience it. But the Guards, Rapp, the Guards

+are intact?” he remarked interrogatively.

+

+“Yes, sire,” replied Rapp.

+

+Napoleon took a lozenge, put it in his mouth, and glanced at his watch.

+He was not sleepy and it was still not nearly morning. It was impossible

+to give further orders for the sake of killing time, for the orders had

+all been given and were now being executed.

+

+“Have the biscuits and rice been served out to the regiments of the

+Guards?” asked Napoleon sternly.

+

+“Yes, sire.”

+

+“The rice too?”

+

+Rapp replied that he had given the Emperor’s order about the rice, but

+Napoleon shook his head in dissatisfaction as if not believing that

+his order had been executed. An attendant came in with punch. Napoleon

+ordered another glass to be brought for Rapp, and silently sipped his

+own.

+

+“I have neither taste nor smell,” he remarked, sniffing at his glass.

+“This cold is tiresome. They talk about medicine—what is the good of

+medicine when it can’t cure a cold! Corvisart gave me these lozenges but

+they don’t help at all. What can doctors cure? One can’t cure anything.

+Our body is a machine for living. It is organized for that, it is its

+nature. Let life go on in it unhindered and let it defend itself, it

+will do more than if you paralyze it by encumbering it with remedies.

+Our body is like a perfect watch that should go for a certain time; the

+watchmaker cannot open it, he can only adjust it by fumbling, and that

+blindfold.... Yes, our body is just a machine for living, that is all.”

+

+And having entered on the path of definition, of which he was fond,

+Napoleon suddenly and unexpectedly gave a new one.

+

+“Do you know, Rapp, what military art is?” asked he. “It is the art of

+being stronger than the enemy at a given moment. That’s all.”

+

+Rapp made no reply.

+

+“Tomorrow we shall have to deal with Kutúzov!” said Napoleon. “We shall

+see! Do you remember at Braunau he commanded an army for three weeks

+and did not once mount a horse to inspect his entrenchments.... We shall

+see!”

+

+He looked at his watch. It was still only four o’clock. He did not feel

+sleepy. The punch was finished and there was still nothing to do. He

+rose, walked to and fro, put on a warm overcoat and a hat, and went

+out of the tent. The night was dark and damp, a scarcely perceptible

+moisture was descending from above. Near by, the campfires were dimly

+burning among the French Guards, and in the distance those of the

+Russian line shone through the smoke. The weather was calm, and the

+rustle and tramp of the French troops already beginning to move to take

+up their positions were clearly audible.

+

+Napoleon walked about in front of his tent, looked at the fires and

+listened to these sounds, and as he was passing a tall guardsman in

+a shaggy cap, who was standing sentinel before his tent and had drawn

+himself up like a black pillar at sight of the Emperor, Napoleon stopped

+in front of him.

+

+“What year did you enter the service?” he asked with that affectation

+of military bluntness and geniality with which he always addressed the

+soldiers.

+

+The man answered the question.

+

+“Ah! One of the old ones! Has your regiment had its rice?”

+

+“It has, Your Majesty.”

+

+Napoleon nodded and walked away.

+

+

+At half-past five Napoleon rode to the village of Shevárdino.

+

+It was growing light, the sky was clearing, only a single cloud lay in

+the east. The abandoned campfires were burning themselves out in the

+faint morning light.

+

+On the right a single deep report of a cannon resounded and died away in

+the prevailing silence. Some minutes passed. A second and a third report

+shook the air, then a fourth and a fifth boomed solemnly near by on the

+right.

+

+The first shots had not yet ceased to reverberate before others rang out

+and yet more were heard mingling with and overtaking one another.

+

+Napoleon with his suite rode up to the Shevárdino Redoubt where he

+dismounted. The game had begun.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XXX

+

+On returning to Górki after having seen Prince Andrew, Pierre ordered

+his groom to get the horses ready and to call him early in the morning,

+and then immediately fell asleep behind a partition in a corner Borís

+had given up to him.

+

+Before he was thoroughly awake next morning everybody had already left

+the hut. The panes were rattling in the little windows and his groom was

+shaking him.

+

+“Your excellency! Your excellency! Your excellency!” he kept repeating

+pertinaciously while he shook Pierre by the shoulder without looking at

+him, having apparently lost hope of getting him to wake up.

+

+“What? Has it begun? Is it time?” Pierre asked, waking up.

+

+“Hear the firing,” said the groom, a discharged soldier. “All the

+gentlemen have gone out, and his Serene Highness himself rode past long

+ago.”

+

+Pierre dressed hastily and ran out to the porch. Outside all was bright,

+fresh, dewy, and cheerful. The sun, just bursting forth from behind a

+cloud that had concealed it, was shining, with rays still half broken

+by the clouds, over the roofs of the street opposite, on the

+dew-besprinkled dust of the road, on the walls of the houses, on the

+windows, the fence, and on Pierre’s horses standing before the hut. The

+roar of guns sounded more distinct outside. An adjutant accompanied by a

+Cossack passed by at a sharp trot.

+

+“It’s time, Count; it’s time!” cried the adjutant.

+

+Telling the groom to follow him with the horses, Pierre went down the

+street to the knoll from which he had looked at the field of battle the

+day before. A crowd of military men was assembled there, members of the

+staff could be heard conversing in French, and Kutúzov’s gray head in

+a white cap with a red band was visible, his gray nape sunk between his

+shoulders. He was looking through a field glass down the highroad before

+him.

+

+Mounting the steps to the knoll Pierre looked at the scene before him,

+spellbound by beauty. It was the same panorama he had admired from that

+spot the day before, but now the whole place was full of troops and

+covered by smoke clouds from the guns, and the slanting rays of the

+bright sun, rising slightly to the left behind Pierre, cast upon it

+through the clear morning air penetrating streaks of rosy, golden-tinted

+light and long dark shadows. The forest at the farthest extremity of

+the panorama seemed carved in some precious stone of a yellowish-green

+color; its undulating outline was silhouetted against the horizon and

+was pierced beyond Valúevo by the Smolénsk highroad crowded with troops.

+Nearer at hand glittered golden cornfields interspersed with copses.

+There were troops to be seen everywhere, in front and to the right and

+left. All this was vivid, majestic, and unexpected; but what impressed

+Pierre most of all was the view of the battlefield itself, of Borodinó

+and the hollows on both sides of the Kolochá.

+

+Above the Kolochá, in Borodinó and on both sides of it, especially to

+the left where the Vóyna flowing between its marshy banks falls into

+the Kolochá, a mist had spread which seemed to melt, to dissolve, and to

+become translucent when the brilliant sun appeared and magically colored

+and outlined everything. The smoke of the guns mingled with this mist,

+and over the whole expanse and through that mist the rays of the morning

+sun were reflected, flashing back like lightning from the water, from

+the dew, and from the bayonets of the troops crowded together by the

+riverbanks and in Borodinó. A white church could be seen through the

+mist, and here and there the roofs of huts in Borodinó as well as dense

+masses of soldiers, or green ammunition chests and ordnance. And all

+this moved, or seemed to move, as the smoke and mist spread out over

+the whole space. Just as in the mist-enveloped hollow near Borodinó, so

+along the entire line outside and above it and especially in the woods

+and fields to the left, in the valleys and on the summits of the high

+ground, clouds of powder smoke seemed continually to spring up out of

+nothing, now singly, now several at a time, some translucent, others

+dense, which, swelling, growing, rolling, and blending, extended over

+the whole expanse.

+

+These puffs of smoke and (strange to say) the sound of the firing

+produced the chief beauty of the spectacle.

+

+“Puff!”—suddenly a round compact cloud of smoke was seen merging from

+violet into gray and milky white, and “boom!” came the report a second

+later.

+

+“Puff! puff!”—and two clouds arose pushing one another and blending

+together; and “boom, boom!” came the sounds confirming what the eye had

+seen.

+

+Pierre glanced round at the first cloud, which he had seen as a round

+compact ball, and in its place already were balloons of smoke floating

+to one side, and—“puff” (with a pause)—“puff, puff!” three and then four

+more appeared and then from each, with the same interval—“boom—boom,

+boom!” came the fine, firm, precise sounds in reply. It seemed as if

+those smoke clouds sometimes ran and sometimes stood still while woods,

+fields, and glittering bayonets ran past them. From the left, over

+fields and bushes, those large balls of smoke were continually appearing

+followed by their solemn reports, while nearer still, in the hollows and

+woods, there burst from the muskets small cloudlets that had no time

+to become balls, but had their little echoes in just the same way.

+“Trakh-ta-ta-takh!” came the frequent crackle of musketry, but it was

+irregular and feeble in comparison with the reports of the cannon.

+

+Pierre wished to be there with that smoke, those shining bayonets, that

+movement, and those sounds. He turned to look at Kutúzov and his suite,

+to compare his impressions with those of others. They were all looking

+at the field of battle as he was, and, as it seemed to him, with the

+same feelings. All their faces were now shining with that latent warmth

+of feeling Pierre had noticed the day before and had fully understood

+after his talk with Prince Andrew.

+

+“Go, my dear fellow, go... and Christ be with you!” Kutúzov was

+saying to a general who stood beside him, not taking his eye from the

+battlefield.

+

+Having received this order the general passed by Pierre on his way down

+the knoll.

+

+“To the crossing!” said the general coldly and sternly in reply to one

+of the staff who asked where he was going.

+

+“I’ll go there too, I too!” thought Pierre, and followed the general.

+

+The general mounted a horse a Cossack had brought him. Pierre went to

+his groom who was holding his horses and, asking which was the quietest,

+clambered onto it, seized it by the mane, and turning out his toes

+pressed his heels against its sides and, feeling that his spectacles

+were slipping off but unable to let go of the mane and reins, he

+galloped after the general, causing the staff officers to smile as they

+watched him from the knoll.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XXXI

+

+Having descended the hill the general after whom Pierre was galloping

+turned sharply to the left, and Pierre, losing sight of him, galloped

+in among some ranks of infantry marching ahead of him. He tried to pass

+either in front of them or to the right or left, but there were soldiers

+everywhere, all with the same preoccupied expression and busy with

+some unseen but evidently important task. They all gazed with the same

+dissatisfied and inquiring expression at this stout man in a white hat,

+who for some unknown reason threatened to trample them under his horse’s

+hoofs.

+

+“Why ride into the middle of the battalion?” one of them shouted at him.

+

+Another prodded his horse with the butt end of a musket, and Pierre,

+bending over his saddlebow and hardly able to control his shying horse,

+galloped ahead of the soldiers where there was a free space.

+

+There was a bridge ahead of him, where other soldiers stood firing.

+Pierre rode up to them. Without being aware of it he had come to the

+bridge across the Kolochá between Górki and Borodinó, which the French

+(having occupied Borodinó) were attacking in the first phase of the

+battle. Pierre saw that there was a bridge in front of him and that

+soldiers were doing something on both sides of it and in the meadow,

+among the rows of new-mown hay which he had taken no notice of amid the

+smoke of the campfires the day before; but despite the incessant firing

+going on there he had no idea that this was the field of battle. He did

+not notice the sound of the bullets whistling from every side, or the

+projectiles that flew over him, did not see the enemy on the other side

+of the river, and for a long time did not notice the killed and wounded,

+though many fell near him. He looked about him with a smile which did

+not leave his face.

+

+“Why’s that fellow in front of the line?” shouted somebody at him again.

+

+“To the left!... Keep to the right!” the men shouted to him.

+

+Pierre went to the right, and unexpectedly encountered one of Raévski’s

+adjutants whom he knew. The adjutant looked angrily at him, evidently

+also intending to shout at him, but on recognizing him he nodded.

+

+“How have you got here?” he said, and galloped on.

+

+Pierre, feeling out of place there, having nothing to do, and afraid of

+getting in someone’s way again, galloped after the adjutant.

+

+“What’s happening here? May I come with you?” he asked.

+

+“One moment, one moment!” replied the adjutant, and riding up to a stout

+colonel who was standing in the meadow, he gave him some message and

+then addressed Pierre.

+

+“Why have you come here, Count?” he asked with a smile. “Still

+inquisitive?”

+

+“Yes, yes,” assented Pierre.

+

+But the adjutant turned his horse about and rode on.

+

+“Here it’s tolerable,” said he, “but with Bagratión on the left flank

+they’re getting it frightfully hot.”

+

+“Really?” said Pierre. “Where is that?”

+

+“Come along with me to our knoll. We can get a view from there and in

+our battery it is still bearable,” said the adjutant. “Will you come?”

+

+“Yes, I’ll come with you,” replied Pierre, looking round for his groom.

+

+It was only now that he noticed wounded men staggering along or being

+carried on stretchers. On that very meadow he had ridden over the day

+before, a soldier was lying athwart the rows of scented hay, with his

+head thrown awkwardly back and his shako off.

+

+“Why haven’t they carried him away?” Pierre was about to ask, but seeing

+the stern expression of the adjutant who was also looking that way, he

+checked himself.

+

+Pierre did not find his groom and rode along the hollow with the

+adjutant to Raévski’s Redoubt. His horse lagged behind the adjutant’s

+and jolted him at every step.

+

+“You don’t seem to be used to riding, Count?” remarked the adjutant.

+

+“No it’s not that, but her action seems so jerky,” said Pierre in a

+puzzled tone.

+

+“Why... she’s wounded!” said the adjutant. “In the off foreleg above the

+knee. A bullet, no doubt. I congratulate you, Count, on your baptism of

+fire!”

+

+Having ridden in the smoke past the Sixth Corps, behind the artillery

+which had been moved forward and was in action, deafening them with the

+noise of firing, they came to a small wood. There it was cool and quiet,

+with a scent of autumn. Pierre and the adjutant dismounted and walked up

+the hill on foot.

+

+“Is the general here?” asked the adjutant on reaching the knoll.

+

+“He was here a minute ago but has just gone that way,” someone told him,

+pointing to the right.

+

+The adjutant looked at Pierre as if puzzled what to do with him now.

+

+“Don’t trouble about me,” said Pierre. “I’ll go up onto the knoll if I

+may?”

+

+“Yes, do. You’ll see everything from there and it’s less dangerous, and

+I’ll come for you.”

+

+Pierre went to the battery and the adjutant rode on. They did not meet

+again, and only much later did Pierre learn that he lost an arm that

+day.

+

+The knoll to which Pierre ascended was that famous one afterwards known

+to the Russians as the Knoll Battery or Raévski’s Redoubt, and to the

+French as la grande redoute, la fatale redoute, la redoute du centre,

+around which tens of thousands fell, and which the French regarded as

+the key to the whole position.

+

+This redoubt consisted of a knoll, on three sides of which trenches had

+been dug. Within the entrenchment stood ten guns that were being fired

+through openings in the earthwork.

+

+In line with the knoll on both sides stood other guns which also fired

+incessantly. A little behind the guns stood infantry. When ascending

+that knoll Pierre had no notion that this spot, on which small trenches

+had been dug and from which a few guns were firing, was the most

+important point of the battle.

+

+On the contrary, just because he happened to be there he thought it one

+of the least significant parts of the field.

+

+Having reached the knoll, Pierre sat down at one end of a trench

+surrounding the battery and gazed at what was going on around him with

+an unconsciously happy smile. Occasionally he rose and walked about the

+battery still with that same smile, trying not to obstruct the soldiers

+who were loading, hauling the guns, and continually running past

+him with bags and charges. The guns of that battery were being fired

+continually one after another with a deafening roar, enveloping the

+whole neighborhood in powder smoke.

+

+In contrast with the dread felt by the infantrymen placed in support,

+here in the battery where a small number of men busy at their work were

+separated from the rest by a trench, everyone experienced a common and

+as it were family feeling of animation.

+

+The intrusion of Pierre’s nonmilitary figure in a white hat made an

+unpleasant impression at first. The soldiers looked askance at him with

+surprise and even alarm as they went past him. The senior artillery

+officer, a tall, long-legged, pockmarked man, moved over to Pierre as if

+to see the action of the farthest gun and looked at him with curiosity.

+

+A young round-faced officer, quite a boy still and evidently only just

+out of the Cadet College, who was zealously commanding the two guns

+entrusted to him, addressed Pierre sternly.

+

+“Sir,” he said, “permit me to ask you to stand aside. You must not be

+here.”

+

+The soldiers shook their heads disapprovingly as they looked at Pierre.

+But when they had convinced themselves that this man in the white hat

+was doing no harm, but either sat quietly on the slope of the trench

+with a shy smile or, politely making way for the soldiers, paced up

+and down the battery under fire as calmly as if he were on a boulevard,

+their feeling of hostile distrust gradually began to change into a

+kindly and bantering sympathy, such as soldiers feel for their dogs,

+cocks, goats, and in general for the animals that live with the

+regiment. The men soon accepted Pierre into their family, adopted him,

+gave him a nickname (“our gentleman”), and made kindly fun of him among

+themselves.

+

+A shell tore up the earth two paces from Pierre and he looked around

+with a smile as he brushed from his clothes some earth it had thrown up.

+

+“And how’s it you’re not afraid, sir, really now?” a red-faced,

+broad-shouldered soldier asked Pierre, with a grin that disclosed a set

+of sound, white teeth.

+

+“Are you afraid, then?” said Pierre.

+

+“What else do you expect?” answered the soldier. “She has no mercy, you

+know! When she comes spluttering down, out go your innards. One can’t

+help being afraid,” he said laughing.

+

+Several of the men, with bright kindly faces, stopped beside Pierre.

+They seemed not to have expected him to talk like anybody else, and the

+discovery that he did so delighted them.

+

+“It’s the business of us soldiers. But in a gentleman it’s wonderful!

+There’s a gentleman for you!”

+

+“To your places!” cried the young officer to the men gathered round

+Pierre.

+

+The young officer was evidently exercising his duties for the first or

+second time and therefore treated both his superiors and the men with

+great precision and formality.

+

+The booming cannonade and the fusillade of musketry were growing more

+intense over the whole field, especially to the left where Bagratión’s

+flèches were, but where Pierre was the smoke of the firing made it

+almost impossible to distinguish anything. Moreover, his whole

+attention was engrossed by watching the family circle—separated from all

+else—formed by the men in the battery. His first unconscious feeling of

+joyful animation produced by the sights and sounds of the battlefield

+was now replaced by another, especially since he had seen that soldier

+lying alone in the hayfield. Now, seated on the slope of the trench, he

+observed the faces of those around him.

+

+By ten o’clock some twenty men had already been carried away from the

+battery; two guns were smashed and cannon balls fell more and more

+frequently on the battery and spent bullets buzzed and whistled around.

+But the men in the battery seemed not to notice this, and merry voices

+and jokes were heard on all sides.

+

+“A live one!” shouted a man as a whistling shell approached.

+

+“Not this way! To the infantry!” added another with loud laughter,

+seeing the shell fly past and fall into the ranks of the supports.

+

+“Are you bowing to a friend, eh?” remarked another, chaffing a peasant

+who ducked low as a cannon ball flew over.

+

+Several soldiers gathered by the wall of the trench, looking out to see

+what was happening in front.

+

+“They’ve withdrawn the front line, it has retired,” said they, pointing

+over the earthwork.

+

+“Mind your own business,” an old sergeant shouted at them. “If they’ve

+retired it’s because there’s work for them to do farther back.”

+

+And the sergeant, taking one of the men by the shoulders, gave him a

+shove with his knee. This was followed by a burst of laughter.

+

+“To the fifth gun, wheel it up!” came shouts from one side.

+

+“Now then, all together, like bargees!” rose the merry voices of those

+who were moving the gun.

+

+“Oh, she nearly knocked our gentleman’s hat off!” cried the red-faced

+humorist, showing his teeth chaffing Pierre. “Awkward baggage!” he added

+reproachfully to a cannon ball that struck a cannon wheel and a man’s

+leg.

+

+“Now then, you foxes!” said another, laughing at some militiamen who,

+stooping low, entered the battery to carry away the wounded man.

+

+“So this gruel isn’t to your taste? Oh, you crows! You’re scared!” they

+shouted at the militiamen who stood hesitating before the man whose leg

+had been torn off.

+

+“There, lads... oh, oh!” they mimicked the peasants, “they don’t like it

+at all!”

+

+Pierre noticed that after every ball that hit the redoubt, and after

+every loss, the liveliness increased more and more.

+

+As the flames of the fire hidden within come more and more vividly and

+rapidly from an approaching thundercloud, so, as if in opposition to

+what was taking place, the lightning of hidden fire growing more and

+more intense glowed in the faces of these men.

+

+Pierre did not look out at the battlefield and was not concerned to know

+what was happening there; he was entirely absorbed in watching this fire

+which burned ever more brightly and which he felt was flaming up in the

+same way in his own soul.

+

+At ten o’clock the infantry that had been among the bushes in front of

+the battery and along the Kámenka streamlet retreated. From the battery

+they could be seen running back past it carrying their wounded on

+their muskets. A general with his suite came to the battery, and after

+speaking to the colonel gave Pierre an angry look and went away again

+having ordered the infantry supports behind the battery to lie down,

+so as to be less exposed to fire. After this from amid the ranks of

+infantry to the right of the battery came the sound of a drum and shouts

+of command, and from the battery one saw how those ranks of infantry

+moved forward.

+

+Pierre looked over the wall of the trench and was particularly struck

+by a pale young officer who, letting his sword hang down, was walking

+backwards and kept glancing uneasily around.

+

+The ranks of the infantry disappeared amid the smoke but their

+long-drawn shout and rapid musketry firing could still be heard. A few

+minutes later crowds of wounded men and stretcher-bearers came back from

+that direction. Projectiles began to fall still more frequently in the

+battery. Several men were lying about who had not been removed. Around

+the cannon the men moved still more briskly and busily. No one any

+longer took notice of Pierre. Once or twice he was shouted at for being

+in the way. The senior officer moved with big, rapid strides from one

+gun to another with a frowning face. The young officer, with his face

+still more flushed, commanded the men more scrupulously than ever. The

+soldiers handed up the charges, turned, loaded, and did their business

+with strained smartness. They gave little jumps as they walked, as

+though they were on springs.

+

+The stormcloud had come upon them, and in every face the fire which

+Pierre had watched kindle burned up brightly. Pierre standing beside the

+commanding officer. The young officer, his hand to his shako, ran up to

+his superior.

+

+“I have the honor to report, sir, that only eight rounds are left. Are

+we to continue firing?” he asked.

+

+“Grapeshot!” the senior shouted, without answering the question, looking

+over the wall of the trench.

+

+Suddenly something happened: the young officer gave a gasp and bending

+double sat down on the ground like a bird shot on the wing. Everything

+became strange, confused, and misty in Pierre’s eyes.

+

+One cannon ball after another whistled by and struck the earthwork, a

+soldier, or a gun. Pierre, who had not noticed these sounds before,

+now heard nothing else. On the right of the battery soldiers shouting

+“Hurrah!” were running not forwards but backwards, it seemed to Pierre.

+

+A cannon ball struck the very end of the earth work by which he was

+standing, crumbling down the earth; a black ball flashed before his eyes

+and at the same instant plumped into something. Some militiamen who were

+entering the battery ran back.

+

+“All with grapeshot!” shouted the officer.

+

+The sergeant ran up to the officer and in a frightened whisper informed

+him (as a butler at dinner informs his master that there is no more of

+some wine asked for) that there were no more charges.

+

+“The scoundrels! What are they doing?” shouted the officer, turning to

+Pierre.

+

+The officer’s face was red and perspiring and his eyes glittered under

+his frowning brow.

+

+“Run to the reserves and bring up the ammunition boxes!” he yelled,

+angrily avoiding Pierre with his eyes and speaking to his men.

+

+“I’ll go,” said Pierre.

+

+The officer, without answering him, strode across to the opposite side.

+

+“Don’t fire.... Wait!” he shouted.

+

+The man who had been ordered to go for ammunition stumbled against

+Pierre.

+

+“Eh, sir, this is no place for you,” said he, and ran down the slope.

+

+Pierre ran after him, avoiding the spot where the young officer was

+sitting.

+

+One cannon ball, another, and a third flew over him, falling in front,

+beside, and behind him. Pierre ran down the slope. “Where am I going?”

+he suddenly asked himself when he was already near the green ammunition

+wagons. He halted irresolutely, not knowing whether to return or go on.

+Suddenly a terrible concussion threw him backwards to the ground. At the

+same instant he was dazzled by a great flash of flame, and immediately a

+deafening roar, crackling, and whistling made his ears tingle.

+

+When he came to himself he was sitting on the ground leaning on his

+hands; the ammunition wagons he had been approaching no longer existed,

+only charred green boards and rags littered the scorched grass, and a

+horse, dangling fragments of its shaft behind it, galloped past, while

+another horse lay, like Pierre, on the ground, uttering prolonged and

+piercing cries.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XXXII

+

+Beside himself with terror Pierre jumped up and ran back to the battery,

+as to the only refuge from the horrors that surrounded him.

+

+On entering the earthwork he noticed that there were men doing something

+there but that no shots were being fired from the battery. He had no

+time to realize who these men were. He saw the senior officer lying on

+the earth wall with his back turned as if he were examining something

+down below and that one of the soldiers he had noticed before was

+struggling forward shouting “Brothers!” and trying to free himself from

+some men who were holding him by the arm. He also saw something else

+that was strange.

+

+But he had not time to realize that the colonel had been killed, that

+the soldier shouting “Brothers!” was a prisoner, and that another man

+had been bayoneted in the back before his eyes, for hardly had he run

+into the redoubt before a thin, sallow-faced, perspiring man in a blue

+uniform rushed on him sword in hand, shouting something. Instinctively

+guarding against the shock—for they had been running together at full

+speed before they saw one another—Pierre put out his hands and seized

+the man (a French officer) by the shoulder with one hand and by the

+throat with the other. The officer, dropping his sword, seized Pierre by

+his collar.

+

+For some seconds they gazed with frightened eyes at one another’s

+unfamiliar faces and both were perplexed at what they had done and

+what they were to do next. “Am I taken prisoner or have I taken him

+prisoner?” each was thinking. But the French officer was evidently more

+inclined to think he had been taken prisoner because Pierre’s strong

+hand, impelled by instinctive fear, squeezed his throat ever tighter and

+tighter. The Frenchman was about to say something, when just above their

+heads, terrible and low, a cannon ball whistled, and it seemed to Pierre

+that the French officer’s head had been torn off, so swiftly had he

+ducked it.

+

+Pierre too bent his head and let his hands fall. Without further thought

+as to who had taken whom prisoner, the Frenchman ran back to the battery

+and Pierre ran down the slope stumbling over the dead and wounded who,

+it seemed to him, caught at his feet. But before he reached the foot

+of the knoll he was met by a dense crowd of Russian soldiers who,

+stumbling, tripping up, and shouting, ran merrily and wildly toward

+the battery. (This was the attack for which Ermólov claimed the credit,

+declaring that only his courage and good luck made such a feat possible:

+it was the attack in which he was said to have thrown some St. George’s

+Crosses he had in his pocket into the battery for the first soldiers to

+take who got there.)

+

+The French who had occupied the battery fled, and our troops shouting

+“Hurrah!” pursued them so far beyond the battery that it was difficult

+to call them back.

+

+The prisoners were brought down from the battery and among them was

+a wounded French general, whom the officers surrounded. Crowds of

+wounded—some known to Pierre and some unknown—Russians and French,

+with faces distorted by suffering, walked, crawled, and were carried on

+stretchers from the battery. Pierre again went up onto the knoll where

+he had spent over an hour, and of that family circle which had received

+him as a member he did not find a single one. There were many dead whom

+he did not know, but some he recognized. The young officer still sat in

+the same way, bent double, in a pool of blood at the edge of the earth

+wall. The red-faced man was still twitching, but they did not carry him

+away.

+

+Pierre ran down the slope once more.

+

+“Now they will stop it, now they will be horrified at what they have

+done!” he thought, aimlessly going toward a crowd of stretcher bearers

+moving from the battlefield.

+

+But behind the veil of smoke the sun was still high, and in front and

+especially to the left, near Semënovsk, something seemed to be seething

+in the smoke, and the roar of cannon and musketry did not diminish, but

+even increased to desperation like a man who, straining himself, shrieks

+with all his remaining strength.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XXXIII

+

+The chief action of the battle of Borodinó was fought within the seven

+thousand feet between Borodinó and Bagratión’s flèches. Beyond that

+space there was, on the one side, a demonstration made by the Russians

+with Uvárov’s cavalry at midday, and on the other side, beyond Utítsa,

+Poniatowski’s collision with Túchkov; but these two were detached and

+feeble actions in comparison with what took place in the center of the

+battlefield. On the field between Borodinó and the flèches, beside the

+wood, the chief action of the day took place on an open space visible

+from both sides and was fought in the simplest and most artless way.

+

+The battle began on both sides with a cannonade from several hundred

+guns.

+

+Then when the whole field was covered with smoke, two divisions,

+Campan’s and Dessaix’s, advanced from the French right, while Murat’s

+troops advanced on Borodinó from their left.

+

+From the Shevárdino Redoubt where Napoleon was standing the flèches were

+two thirds of a mile away, and it was more than a mile as the crow flies

+to Borodinó, so that Napoleon could not see what was happening there,

+especially as the smoke mingling with the mist hid the whole locality.

+The soldiers of Dessaix’s division advancing against the flèches could

+only be seen till they had entered the hollow that lay between them and

+the flèches. As soon as they had descended into that hollow, the smoke

+of the guns and musketry on the flèches grew so dense that it covered

+the whole approach on that side of it. Through the smoke glimpses could

+be caught of something black—probably men—and at times the glint of

+bayonets. But whether they were moving or stationary, whether they were

+French or Russian, could not be discovered from the Shevárdino Redoubt.

+

+The sun had risen brightly and its slanting rays struck straight into

+Napoleon’s face as, shading his eyes with his hand, he looked at the

+flèches. The smoke spread out before them, and at times it looked as if

+the smoke were moving, at times as if the troops moved. Sometimes shouts

+were heard through the firing, but it was impossible to tell what was

+being done there.

+

+Napoleon, standing on the knoll, looked through a field glass, and in

+its small circlet saw smoke and men, sometimes his own and sometimes

+Russians, but when he looked again with the naked eye, he could not tell

+where what he had seen was.

+

+He descended the knoll and began walking up and down before it.

+

+Occasionally he stopped, listened to the firing, and gazed intently at

+the battlefield.

+

+But not only was it impossible to make out what was happening from where

+he was standing down below, or from the knoll above on which some of his

+generals had taken their stand, but even from the flèches themselves—in

+which by this time there were now Russian and now French soldiers,

+alternately or together, dead, wounded, alive, frightened, or

+maddened—even at those flèches themselves it was impossible to make out

+what was taking place. There for several hours amid incessant cannon and

+musketry fire, now Russians were seen alone, now Frenchmen alone, now

+infantry, and now cavalry: they appeared, fired, fell, collided, not

+knowing what to do with one another, screamed, and ran back again.

+

+From the battlefield adjutants he had sent out, and orderlies from his

+marshals, kept galloping up to Napoleon with reports of the progress

+of the action, but all these reports were false, both because it was

+impossible in the heat of battle to say what was happening at any given

+moment and because many of the adjutants did not go to the actual place

+of conflict but reported what they had heard from others; and also

+because while an adjutant was riding more than a mile to Napoleon

+circumstances changed and the news he brought was already becoming

+false. Thus an adjutant galloped up from Murat with tidings that

+Borodinó had been occupied and the bridge over the Kolochá was in the

+hands of the French. The adjutant asked whether Napoleon wished the

+troops to cross it? Napoleon gave orders that the troops should form up

+on the farther side and wait. But before that order was given—almost

+as soon in fact as the adjutant had left Borodinó—the bridge had been

+retaken by the Russians and burned, in the very skirmish at which Pierre

+had been present at the beginning of the battle.

+

+An adjutant galloped up from the flèches with a pale and frightened face

+and reported to Napoleon that their attack had been repulsed, Campan

+wounded, and Davout killed; yet at the very time the adjutant had been

+told that the French had been repulsed, the flèches had in fact been

+recaptured by other French troops, and Davout was alive and only

+slightly bruised. On the basis of these necessarily untrustworthy

+reports Napoleon gave his orders, which had either been executed before

+he gave them or could not be and were not executed.

+

+The marshals and generals, who were nearer to the field of battle

+but, like Napoleon, did not take part in the actual fighting and only

+occasionally went within musket range, made their own arrangements

+without asking Napoleon and issued orders where and in what direction to

+fire and where cavalry should gallop and infantry should run. But even

+their orders, like Napoleon’s, were seldom carried out, and then but

+partially. For the most part things happened contrary to their orders.

+Soldiers ordered to advance ran back on meeting grapeshot; soldiers

+ordered to remain where they were, suddenly, seeing Russians

+unexpectedly before them, sometimes rushed back and sometimes forward,

+and the cavalry dashed without orders in pursuit of the flying Russians.

+In this way two cavalry regiments galloped through the Semënovsk hollow

+and as soon as they reached the top of the incline turned round and

+galloped full speed back again. The infantry moved in the same way,

+sometimes running to quite other places than those they were ordered to

+go to. All orders as to where and when to move the guns, when to send

+infantry to shoot or horsemen to ride down the Russian infantry—all

+such orders were given by the officers on the spot nearest to the

+units concerned, without asking either Ney, Davout, or Murat, much less

+Napoleon. They did not fear getting into trouble for not fulfilling

+orders or for acting on their own initiative, for in battle what is at

+stake is what is dearest to man—his own life—and it sometimes seems that

+safety lies in running back, sometimes in running forward; and these men

+who were right in the heat of the battle acted according to the mood

+of the moment. In reality, however, all these movements forward and

+backward did not improve or alter the position of the troops. All

+their rushing and galloping at one another did little harm, the harm of

+disablement and death was caused by the balls and bullets that flew over

+the fields on which these men were floundering about. As soon as they

+left the place where the balls and bullets were flying about, their

+superiors, located in the background, re-formed them and brought them

+under discipline and under the influence of that discipline led them

+back to the zone of fire, where under the influence of fear of death

+they lost their discipline and rushed about according to the chance

+promptings of the throng.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XXXIV

+

+Napoleon’s generals—Davout, Ney, and Murat, who were near that region of

+fire and sometimes even entered it—repeatedly led into it huge masses of

+well-ordered troops. But contrary to what had always happened in their

+former battles, instead of the news they expected of the enemy’s flight,

+these orderly masses returned thence as disorganized and terrified mobs.

+The generals re-formed them, but their numbers constantly decreased.

+In the middle of the day Murat sent his adjutant to Napoleon to demand

+reinforcements.

+

+Napoleon sat at the foot of the knoll, drinking punch, when Murat’s

+adjutant galloped up with an assurance that the Russians would be routed

+if His Majesty would let him have another division.

+

+“Reinforcements?” said Napoleon in a tone of stern surprise, looking at

+the adjutant—a handsome lad with long black curls arranged like Murat’s

+own—as though he did not understand his words.

+

+“Reinforcements!” thought Napoleon to himself. “How can they need

+reinforcements when they already have half the army directed against a

+weak, unentrenched Russian wing?”

+

+“Tell the King of Naples,” said he sternly, “that it is not noon yet,

+and I don’t yet see my chessboard clearly. Go!...”

+

+The handsome boy adjutant with the long hair sighed deeply without

+removing his hand from his hat and galloped back to where men were being

+slaughtered.

+

+Napoleon rose and having summoned Caulaincourt and Berthier began

+talking to them about matters unconnected with the battle.

+

+In the midst of this conversation, which was beginning to interest

+Napoleon, Berthier’s eyes turned to look at a general with a suite, who

+was galloping toward the knoll on a lathering horse. It was Belliard.

+Having dismounted he went up to the Emperor with rapid strides and in

+a loud voice began boldly demonstrating the necessity of sending

+reinforcements. He swore on his honor that the Russians were lost if the

+Emperor would give another division.

+

+Napoleon shrugged his shoulders and continued to pace up and down

+without replying. Belliard began talking loudly and eagerly to the

+generals of the suite around him.

+

+“You are very fiery, Belliard,” said Napoleon, when he again came up to

+the general. “In the heat of a battle it is easy to make a mistake. Go

+and have another look and then come back to me.”

+

+Before Belliard was out of sight, a messenger from another part of the

+battlefield galloped up.

+

+“Now then, what do you want?” asked Napoleon in the tone of a man

+irritated at being continually disturbed.

+

+“Sire, the prince...” began the adjutant.

+

+“Asks for reinforcements?” said Napoleon with an angry gesture.

+

+The adjutant bent his head affirmatively and began to report, but the

+Emperor turned from him, took a couple of steps, stopped, came back, and

+called Berthier.

+

+“We must give reserves,” he said, moving his arms slightly apart.

+“Who do you think should be sent there?” he asked of Berthier (whom he

+subsequently termed “that gosling I have made an eagle”).

+

+“Send Claparède’s division, sire,” replied Berthier, who knew all the

+division’s regiments, and battalions by heart.

+

+Napoleon nodded assent.

+

+The adjutant galloped to Claparède’s division and a few minutes later

+the Young Guards stationed behind the knoll moved forward. Napoleon

+gazed silently in that direction.

+

+“No!” he suddenly said to Berthier. “I can’t send Claparède. Send

+Friant’s division.”

+

+Though there was no advantage in sending Friant’s division instead of

+Claparède’s, and even an obvious inconvenience and delay in stopping

+Claparède and sending Friant now, the order was carried out exactly.

+Napoleon did not notice that in regard to his army he was playing

+the part of a doctor who hinders by his medicines—a role he so justly

+understood and condemned.

+

+Friant’s division disappeared as the others had done into the smoke

+of the battlefield. From all sides adjutants continued to arrive at a

+gallop and as if by agreement all said the same thing. They all asked

+for reinforcements and all said that the Russians were holding their

+positions and maintaining a hellish fire under which the French army was

+melting away.

+

+Napoleon sat on a campstool, wrapped in thought.

+

+M. de Beausset, the man so fond of travel, having fasted since morning,

+came up to the Emperor and ventured respectfully to suggest lunch to His

+Majesty.

+

+“I hope I may now congratulate Your Majesty on a victory?” said he.

+

+Napoleon silently shook his head in negation. Assuming the negation to

+refer only to the victory and not to the lunch, M. de Beausset ventured

+with respectful jocularity to remark that there is no reason for not

+having lunch when one can get it.

+

+“Go away...” exclaimed Napoleon suddenly and morosely, and turned aside.

+

+A beatific smile of regret, repentance, and ecstasy beamed on M. de

+Beausset’s face and he glided away to the other generals.

+

+Napoleon was experiencing a feeling of depression like that of an

+ever-lucky gambler who, after recklessly flinging money about and always

+winning, suddenly just when he has calculated all the chances of the

+game, finds that the more he considers his play the more surely he

+loses.

+

+His troops were the same, his generals the same, the same preparations

+had been made, the same dispositions, and the same proclamation courte

+et énergique, he himself was still the same: he knew that and knew that

+he was now even more experienced and skillful than before. Even the

+enemy was the same as at Austerlitz and Friedland—yet the terrible

+stroke of his arm had supernaturally become impotent.

+

+All the old methods that had been unfailingly crowned with success: the

+concentration of batteries on one point, an attack by reserves to break

+the enemy’s line, and a cavalry attack by “the men of iron,” all these

+methods had already been employed, yet not only was there no victory,

+but from all sides came the same news of generals killed and wounded,

+of reinforcements needed, of the impossibility of driving back the

+Russians, and of disorganization among his own troops.

+

+Formerly, after he had given two or three orders and uttered a

+few phrases, marshals and adjutants had come galloping up with

+congratulations and happy faces, announcing the trophies taken, the

+corps of prisoners, bundles of enemy eagles and standards, cannon and

+stores, and Murat had only begged leave to loose the cavalry to gather

+in the baggage wagons. So it had been at Lodi, Marengo, Arcola, Jena,

+Austerlitz, Wagram, and so on. But now something strange was happening

+to his troops.

+

+Despite news of the capture of the flèches, Napoleon saw that this was

+not the same, not at all the same, as what had happened in his former

+battles. He saw that what he was feeling was felt by all the men about

+him experienced in the art of war. All their faces looked dejected, and

+they all shunned one another’s eyes—only a de Beausset could fail to

+grasp the meaning of what was happening.

+

+But Napoleon with his long experience of war well knew the meaning of

+a battle not gained by the attacking side in eight hours, after all

+efforts had been expended. He knew that it was a lost battle and that

+the least accident might now—with the fight balanced on such a strained

+center—destroy him and his army.

+

+When he ran his mind over the whole of this strange Russian campaign in

+which not one battle had been won, and in which not a flag, or cannon,

+or army corps had been captured in two months, when he looked at the

+concealed depression on the faces around him and heard reports of the

+Russians still holding their ground—a terrible feeling like a nightmare

+took possession of him, and all the unlucky accidents that might destroy

+him occurred to his mind. The Russians might fall on his left wing,

+might break through his center, he himself might be killed by a stray

+cannon ball. All this was possible. In former battles he had only

+considered the possibilities of success, but now innumerable unlucky

+chances presented themselves, and he expected them all. Yes, it was like

+a dream in which a man fancies that a ruffian is coming to attack him,

+and raises his arm to strike that ruffian a terrible blow which he knows

+should annihilate him, but then feels that his arm drops powerless and

+limp like a rag, and the horror of unavoidable destruction seizes him in

+his helplessness.

+

+The news that the Russians were attacking the left flank of the French

+army aroused that horror in Napoleon. He sat silently on a campstool

+below the knoll, with head bowed and elbows on his knees. Berthier

+approached and suggested that they should ride along the line to

+ascertain the position of affairs.

+

+“What? What do you say?” asked Napoleon. “Yes, tell them to bring me my

+horse.”

+

+He mounted and rode toward Semënovsk.

+

+Amid the powder smoke, slowly dispersing over the whole space through

+which Napoleon rode, horses and men were lying in pools of blood, singly

+or in heaps. Neither Napoleon nor any of his generals had ever before

+seen such horrors or so many slain in such a small area. The roar of

+guns, that had not ceased for ten hours, wearied the ear and gave

+a peculiar significance to the spectacle, as music does to tableaux

+vivants. Napoleon rode up the high ground at Semënovsk, and through the

+smoke saw ranks of men in uniforms of a color unfamiliar to him. They

+were Russians.

+

+The Russians stood in serried ranks behind Semënovsk village and its

+knoll, and their guns boomed incessantly along their line and sent

+forth clouds of smoke. It was no longer a battle: it was a continuous

+slaughter which could be of no avail either to the French or the

+Russians. Napoleon stopped his horse and again fell into the reverie

+from which Berthier had aroused him. He could not stop what was going on

+before him and around him and was supposed to be directed by him and to

+depend on him, and from its lack of success this affair, for the first

+time, seemed to him unnecessary and horrible.

+

+One of the generals rode up to Napoleon and ventured to offer to lead

+the Old Guard into action. Ney and Berthier, standing near Napoleon,

+exchanged looks and smiled contemptuously at this general’s senseless

+offer.

+

+Napoleon bowed his head and remained silent a long time.

+

+“At eight hundred leagues from France, I will not have my Guard

+destroyed!” he said, and turning his horse rode back to Shevárdino.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XXXV

+

+On the rug-covered bench where Pierre had seen him in the morning sat

+Kutúzov, his gray head hanging, his heavy body relaxed. He gave no

+orders, but only assented to or dissented from what others suggested.

+

+“Yes, yes, do that,” he replied to various proposals. “Yes, yes: go,

+dear boy, and have a look,” he would say to one or another of those

+about him; or, “No, don’t, we’d better wait!” He listened to the reports

+that were brought him and gave directions when his subordinates demanded

+that of him; but when listening to the reports it seemed as if he

+were not interested in the import of the words spoken, but rather in

+something else—in the expression of face and tone of voice of those who

+were reporting. By long years of military experience he knew, and with

+the wisdom of age understood, that it is impossible for one man to

+direct hundreds of thousands of others struggling with death, and he

+knew that the result of a battle is decided not by the orders of a

+commander in chief, nor the place where the troops are stationed, nor by

+the number of cannon or of slaughtered men, but by that intangible force

+called the spirit of the army, and he watched this force and guided it

+in as far as that was in his power.

+

+Kutúzov’s general expression was one of concentrated quiet attention,

+and his face wore a strained look as if he found it difficult to master

+the fatigue of his old and feeble body.

+

+At eleven o’clock they brought him news that the flèches captured by the

+French had been retaken, but that Prince Bagratión was wounded. Kutúzov

+groaned and swayed his head.

+

+“Ride over to Prince Peter Ivánovich and find out about it exactly,” he

+said to one of his adjutants, and then turned to the Duke of Württemberg

+who was standing behind him.

+

+“Will Your Highness please take command of the first army?”

+

+Soon after the duke’s departure—before he could possibly have reached

+Semënovsk—his adjutant came back from him and told Kutúzov that the duke

+asked for more troops.

+

+Kutúzov made a grimace and sent an order to Dokhtúrov to take over the

+command of the first army, and a request to the duke—whom he said he

+could not spare at such an important moment—to return to him. When

+they brought him news that Murat had been taken prisoner, and the staff

+officers congratulated him, Kutúzov smiled.

+

+“Wait a little, gentlemen,” said he. “The battle is won, and there is

+nothing extraordinary in the capture of Murat. Still, it is better to

+wait before we rejoice.”

+

+But he sent an adjutant to take the news round the army.

+

+When Scherbínin came galloping from the left flank with news that the

+French had captured the flèches and the village of Semënovsk, Kutúzov,

+guessing by the sounds of the battle and by Scherbínin’s looks that the

+news was bad, rose as if to stretch his legs and, taking Scherbínin’s

+arm, led him aside.

+

+“Go, my dear fellow,” he said to Ermólov, “and see whether something

+can’t be done.”

+

+Kutúzov was in Górki, near the center of the Russian position. The

+attack directed by Napoleon against our left flank had been several

+times repulsed. In the center the French had not got beyond Borodinó,

+and on their left flank Uvárov’s cavalry had put the French to flight.

+

+Toward three o’clock the French attacks ceased. On the faces of all

+who came from the field of battle, and of those who stood around him,

+Kutúzov noticed an expression of extreme tension. He was satisfied with

+the day’s success—a success exceeding his expectations, but the old

+man’s strength was failing him. Several times his head dropped low as if

+it were falling and he dozed off. Dinner was brought him.

+

+Adjutant General Wolzogen, the man who when riding past Prince Andrew

+had said, “the war should be extended widely,” and whom Bagratión so

+detested, rode up while Kutúzov was at dinner. Wolzogen had come from

+Barclay de Tolly to report on the progress of affairs on the left flank.

+The sagacious Barclay de Tolly, seeing crowds of wounded men running

+back and the disordered rear of the army, weighed all the circumstances,

+concluded that the battle was lost, and sent his favorite officer to the

+commander in chief with that news.

+

+Kutúzov was chewing a piece of roast chicken with difficulty and glanced

+at Wolzogen with eyes that brightened under their puckering lids.

+

+Wolzogen, nonchalantly stretching his legs, approached Kutúzov with a

+half-contemptuous smile on his lips, scarcely touching the peak of his

+cap.

+

+He treated his Serene Highness with a somewhat affected nonchalance

+intended to show that, as a highly trained military man, he left it to

+Russians to make an idol of this useless old man, but that he knew whom

+he was dealing with. “Der alte Herr” (as in their own set the Germans

+called Kutúzov) “is making himself very comfortable,” thought Wolzogen,

+and looking severely at the dishes in front of Kutúzov he began to

+report to “the old gentleman” the position of affairs on the left flank

+as Barclay had ordered him to and as he himself had seen and understood

+it.

+

+“All the points of our position are in the enemy’s hands and we cannot

+dislodge them for lack of troops, the men are running away and it is

+impossible to stop them,” he reported.

+

+Kutúzov ceased chewing and fixed an astonished gaze on Wolzogen, as

+if not understanding what was said to him. Wolzogen, noticing “the old

+gentleman’s” agitation, said with a smile:

+

+“I have not considered it right to conceal from your Serene Highness

+what I have seen. The troops are in complete disorder....”

+

+“You have seen? You have seen?...” Kutúzov shouted. Frowning and rising

+quickly, he went up to Wolzogen.

+

+“How... how dare you!...” he shouted, choking and making a threatening

+gesture with his trembling arms: “How dare you, sir, say that to me? You

+know nothing about it. Tell General Barclay from me that his information

+is incorrect and that the real course of the battle is better known to

+me, the commander in chief, than to him.”

+

+Wolzogen was about to make a rejoinder, but Kutúzov interrupted him.

+

+“The enemy has been repulsed on the left and defeated on the right

+flank. If you have seen amiss, sir, do not allow yourself to say what

+you don’t know! Be so good as to ride to General Barclay and inform

+him of my firm intention to attack the enemy tomorrow,” said Kutúzov

+sternly.

+

+All were silent, and the only sound audible was the heavy breathing of

+the panting old general.

+

+“They are repulsed everywhere, for which I thank God and our brave army!

+The enemy is beaten, and tomorrow we shall drive him from the sacred

+soil of Russia,” said Kutúzov crossing himself, and he suddenly sobbed

+as his eyes filled with tears.

+

+Wolzogen, shrugging his shoulders and curling his lips, stepped silently

+aside, marveling at “the old gentleman’s” conceited stupidity.

+

+“Ah, here he is, my hero!” said Kutúzov to a portly, handsome,

+dark-haired general who was just ascending the knoll.

+

+This was Raévski, who had spent the whole day at the most important part

+of the field of Borodinó.

+

+Raévski reported that the troops were firmly holding their ground and

+that the French no longer ventured to attack.

+

+After hearing him, Kutúzov said in French:

+

+“Then you do not think, like some others, that we must retreat?”

+

+“On the contrary, your Highness, in indecisive actions it is always

+the most stubborn who remain victors,” replied Raévski, “and in my

+opinion...”

+

+“Kaysárov!” Kutúzov called to his adjutant. “Sit down and write out

+the order of the day for tomorrow. And you,” he continued, addressing

+another, “ride along the line and announce that tomorrow we attack.”

+

+While Kutúzov was talking to Raévski and dictating the order of the day,

+Wolzogen returned from Barclay and said that General Barclay wished to

+have written confirmation of the order the field marshal had given.

+

+Kutúzov, without looking at Wolzogen, gave directions for the order to

+be written out which the former commander in chief, to avoid personal

+responsibility, very judiciously wished to receive.

+

+And by means of that mysterious indefinable bond which maintains

+throughout an army one and the same temper, known as “the spirit of

+the army,” and which constitutes the sinew of war, Kutúzov’s words, his

+order for a battle next day, immediately became known from one end of

+the army to the other.

+

+It was far from being the same words or the same order that reached the

+farthest links of that chain. The tales passing from mouth to mouth at

+different ends of the army did not even resemble what Kutúzov had said,

+but the sense of his words spread everywhere because what he said was

+not the outcome of cunning calculations, but of a feeling that lay in

+the commander in chief’s soul as in that of every Russian.

+

+And on learning that tomorrow they were to attack the enemy, and hearing

+from the highest quarters a confirmation of what they wanted to believe,

+the exhausted, wavering men felt comforted and inspirited.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XXXVI

+

+Prince Andrew’s regiment was among the reserves which till after one

+o’clock were stationed inactive behind Semënovsk, under heavy artillery

+fire. Toward two o’clock the regiment, having already lost more than

+two hundred men, was moved forward into a trampled oatfield in the gap

+between Semënovsk and the Knoll Battery, where thousands of men perished

+that day and on which an intense, concentrated fire from several hundred

+enemy guns was directed between one and two o’clock.

+

+Without moving from that spot or firing a single shot the regiment here

+lost another third of its men. From in front and especially from the

+right, in the unlifting smoke the guns boomed, and out of the mysterious

+domain of smoke that overlay the whole space in front, quick hissing

+cannon balls and slow whistling shells flew unceasingly. At times, as

+if to allow them a respite, a quarter of an hour passed during which

+the cannon balls and shells all flew overhead, but sometimes several men

+were torn from the regiment in a minute and the slain were continually

+being dragged away and the wounded carried off.

+

+With each fresh blow less and less chance of life remained for those not

+yet killed. The regiment stood in columns of battalion, three hundred

+paces apart, but nevertheless the men were always in one and the same

+mood. All alike were taciturn and morose. Talk was rarely heard in the

+ranks, and it ceased altogether every time the thud of a successful

+shot and the cry of “stretchers!” was heard. Most of the time, by their

+officers’ order, the men sat on the ground. One, having taken off his

+shako, carefully loosened the gathers of its lining and drew them tight

+again; another, rubbing some dry clay between his palms, polished

+his bayonet; another fingered the strap and pulled the buckle of his

+bandolier, while another smoothed and refolded his leg bands and put

+his boots on again. Some built little houses of the tufts in the plowed

+ground, or plaited baskets from the straw in the cornfield. All seemed

+fully absorbed in these pursuits. When men were killed or wounded, when

+rows of stretchers went past, when some troops retreated, and when great

+masses of the enemy came into view through the smoke, no one paid any

+attention to these things. But when our artillery or cavalry advanced or

+some of our infantry were seen to move forward, words of approval

+were heard on all sides. But the liveliest attention was attracted by

+occurrences quite apart from, and unconnected with, the battle. It was

+as if the minds of these morally exhausted men found relief in everyday,

+commonplace occurrences. A battery of artillery was passing in front of

+the regiment. The horse of an ammunition cart put its leg over a trace.

+“Hey, look at the trace horse!... Get her leg out! She’ll fall.... Ah,

+they don’t see it!” came identical shouts from the ranks all along the

+regiment. Another time, general attention was attracted by a small brown

+dog, coming heaven knows whence, which trotted in a preoccupied manner

+in front of the ranks with tail stiffly erect till suddenly a shell fell

+close by, when it yelped, tucked its tail between its legs, and darted

+aside. Yells and shrieks of laughter rose from the whole regiment. But

+such distractions lasted only a moment, and for eight hours the men had

+been inactive, without food, in constant fear of death, and their pale

+and gloomy faces grew ever paler and gloomier.

+

+Prince Andrew, pale and gloomy like everyone in the regiment, paced up

+and down from the border of one patch to another, at the edge of the

+meadow beside an oatfield, with head bowed and arms behind his back.

+There was nothing for him to do and no orders to be given. Everything

+went on of itself. The killed were dragged from the front, the wounded

+carried away, and the ranks closed up. If any soldiers ran to the

+rear they returned immediately and hastily. At first Prince Andrew,

+considering it his duty to rouse the courage of the men and to set them

+an example, walked about among the ranks, but he soon became convinced

+that this was unnecessary and that there was nothing he could teach

+them. All the powers of his soul, as of every soldier there, were

+unconsciously bent on avoiding the contemplation of the horrors of their

+situation. He walked along the meadow, dragging his feet, rustling the

+grass, and gazing at the dust that covered his boots; now he took big

+strides trying to keep to the footprints left on the meadow by the

+mowers, then he counted his steps, calculating how often he must walk

+from one strip to another to walk a mile, then he stripped the flowers

+from the wormwood that grew along a boundary rut, rubbed them in his

+palms, and smelled their pungent, sweetly bitter scent. Nothing remained

+of the previous day’s thoughts. He thought of nothing. He listened with

+weary ears to the ever-recurring sounds, distinguishing the whistle

+of flying projectiles from the booming of the reports, glanced at the

+tiresomely familiar faces of the men of the first battalion, and

+waited. “Here it comes... this one is coming our way again!” he thought,

+listening to an approaching whistle in the hidden region of smoke. “One,

+another! Again! It has hit....” He stopped and looked at the ranks. “No,

+it has gone over. But this one has hit!” And again he started trying

+to reach the boundary strip in sixteen paces. A whizz and a thud! Five

+paces from him, a cannon ball tore up the dry earth and disappeared. A

+chill ran down his back. Again he glanced at the ranks. Probably many

+had been hit—a large crowd had gathered near the second battalion.

+

+“Adjutant!” he shouted. “Order them not to crowd together.”

+

+The adjutant, having obeyed this instruction, approached Prince Andrew.

+From the other side a battalion commander rode up.

+

+“Look out!” came a frightened cry from a soldier and, like a bird

+whirring in rapid flight and alighting on the ground, a shell dropped

+with little noise within two steps of Prince Andrew and close to the

+battalion commander’s horse. The horse first, regardless of whether it

+was right or wrong to show fear, snorted, reared almost throwing the

+major, and galloped aside. The horse’s terror infected the men.

+

+“Lie down!” cried the adjutant, throwing himself flat on the ground.

+

+Prince Andrew hesitated. The smoking shell spun like a top between him

+and the prostrate adjutant, near a wormwood plant between the field and

+the meadow.

+

+“Can this be death?” thought Prince Andrew, looking with a quite new,

+envious glance at the grass, the wormwood, and the streamlet of smoke

+that curled up from the rotating black ball. “I cannot, I do not wish to

+die. I love life—I love this grass, this earth, this air....” He thought

+this, and at the same time remembered that people were looking at him.

+

+“It’s shameful, sir!” he said to the adjutant. “What...”

+

+He did not finish speaking. At one and the same moment came the sound of

+an explosion, a whistle of splinters as from a breaking window frame,

+a suffocating smell of powder, and Prince Andrew started to one side,

+raising his arm, and fell on his chest. Several officers ran up to him.

+From the right side of his abdomen, blood was welling out making a large

+stain on the grass.

+

+The militiamen with stretchers who were called up stood behind the

+officers. Prince Andrew lay on his chest with his face in the grass,

+breathing heavily and noisily.

+

+“What are you waiting for? Come along!”

+

+The peasants went up and took him by his shoulders and legs, but he

+moaned piteously and, exchanging looks, they set him down again.

+

+“Pick him up, lift him, it’s all the same!” cried someone.

+

+They again took him by the shoulders and laid him on the stretcher.

+

+“Ah, God! My God! What is it? The stomach? That means death! My

+God!”—voices among the officers were heard saying.

+

+“It flew a hair’s breadth past my ear,” said the adjutant.

+

+The peasants, adjusting the stretcher to their shoulders, started

+hurriedly along the path they had trodden down, to the dressing station.

+

+“Keep in step! Ah... those peasants!” shouted an officer, seizing by

+their shoulders and checking the peasants, who were walking unevenly and

+jolting the stretcher.

+

+“Get into step, Fëdor... I say, Fëdor!” said the foremost peasant.

+

+“Now that’s right!” said the one behind joyfully, when he had got into

+step.

+

+“Your excellency! Eh, Prince!” said the trembling voice of Timókhin, who

+had run up and was looking down on the stretcher.

+

+Prince Andrew opened his eyes and looked up at the speaker from the

+stretcher into which his head had sunk deep and again his eyelids

+drooped.

+

+

+The militiamen carried Prince Andrew to the dressing station by the

+wood, where wagons were stationed. The dressing station consisted of

+three tents with flaps turned back, pitched at the edge of a birch wood.

+In the wood, wagons and horses were standing. The horses were eating

+oats from their movable troughs and sparrows flew down and pecked the

+grains that fell. Some crows, scenting blood, flew among the birch

+trees cawing impatiently. Around the tents, over more than five acres,

+bloodstained men in various garbs stood, sat, or lay. Around the wounded

+stood crowds of soldier stretcher-bearers with dismal and attentive

+faces, whom the officers keeping order tried in vain to drive from the

+spot. Disregarding the officers’ orders, the soldiers stood leaning

+against their stretchers and gazing intently, as if trying to comprehend

+the difficult problem of what was taking place before them. From the

+tents came now loud angry cries and now plaintive groans. Occasionally

+dressers ran out to fetch water, or to point out those who were to be

+brought in next. The wounded men awaiting their turn outside the tents

+groaned, sighed, wept, screamed, swore, or asked for vodka. Some were

+delirious. Prince Andrew’s bearers, stepping over the wounded who had

+not yet been bandaged, took him, as a regimental commander, close up to

+one of the tents and there stopped, awaiting instructions. Prince Andrew

+opened his eyes and for a long time could not make out what was going

+on around him. He remembered the meadow, the wormwood, the field, the

+whirling black ball, and his sudden rush of passionate love of life.

+Two steps from him, leaning against a branch and talking loudly and

+attracting general attention, stood a tall, handsome, black-haired

+noncommissioned officer with a bandaged head. He had been wounded in the

+head and leg by bullets. Around him, eagerly listening to his talk, a

+crowd of wounded and stretcher-bearers was gathered.

+

+“We kicked him out from there so that he chucked everything, we grabbed

+the King himself!” cried he, looking around him with eyes that glittered

+with fever. “If only reserves had come up just then, lads, there

+wouldn’t have been nothing left of him! I tell you surely....”

+

+Like all the others near the speaker, Prince Andrew looked at him with

+shining eyes and experienced a sense of comfort. “But isn’t it all the

+same now?” thought he. “And what will be there, and what has there been

+here? Why was I so reluctant to part with life? There was something in

+this life I did not and do not understand.”

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XXXVII

+

+One of the doctors came out of the tent in a bloodstained apron,

+holding a cigar between the thumb and little finger of one of his small

+bloodstained hands, so as not to smear it. He raised his head and looked

+about him, but above the level of the wounded men. He evidently wanted a

+little respite. After turning his head from right to left for some time,

+he sighed and looked down.

+

+“All right, immediately,” he replied to a dresser who pointed Prince

+Andrew out to him, and he told them to carry him into the tent.

+

+Murmurs arose among the wounded who were waiting.

+

+“It seems that even in the next world only the gentry are to have a

+chance!” remarked one.

+

+Prince Andrew was carried in and laid on a table that had only just been

+cleared and which a dresser was washing down. Prince Andrew could not

+make out distinctly what was in that tent. The pitiful groans from all

+sides and the torturing pain in his thigh, stomach, and back distracted

+him. All he saw about him merged into a general impression of naked,

+bleeding human bodies that seemed to fill the whole of the low tent, as

+a few weeks previously, on that hot August day, such bodies had filled

+the dirty pond beside the Smolénsk road. Yes, it was the same flesh,

+the same chair à canon, the sight of which had even then filled him with

+horror, as by a presentiment.

+

+There were three operating tables in the tent. Two were occupied, and

+on the third they placed Prince Andrew. For a little while he was left

+alone and involuntarily witnessed what was taking place on the other two

+tables. On the nearest one sat a Tartar, probably a Cossack, judging by

+the uniform thrown down beside him. Four soldiers were holding him, and

+a spectacled doctor was cutting into his muscular brown back.

+

+“Ooh, ooh, ooh!” grunted the Tartar, and suddenly lifting up his swarthy

+snub-nosed face with its high cheekbones, and baring his white teeth,

+he began to wriggle and twitch his body and utter piercing, ringing,

+and prolonged yells. On the other table, round which many people were

+crowding, a tall well-fed man lay on his back with his head thrown back.

+His curly hair, its color, and the shape of his head seemed strangely

+familiar to Prince Andrew. Several dressers were pressing on his chest

+to hold him down. One large, white, plump leg twitched rapidly all

+the time with a feverish tremor. The man was sobbing and choking

+convulsively. Two doctors—one of whom was pale and trembling—were

+silently doing something to this man’s other, gory leg. When he had

+finished with the Tartar, whom they covered with an overcoat, the

+spectacled doctor came up to Prince Andrew, wiping his hands.

+

+He glanced at Prince Andrew’s face and quickly turned away.

+

+“Undress him! What are you waiting for?” he cried angrily to the

+dressers.

+

+His very first, remotest recollections of childhood came back to Prince

+Andrew’s mind when the dresser with sleeves rolled up began hastily to

+undo the buttons of his clothes and undressed him. The doctor bent

+down over the wound, felt it, and sighed deeply. Then he made a sign to

+someone, and the torturing pain in his abdomen caused Prince Andrew to

+lose consciousness. When he came to himself the splintered portions of

+his thighbone had been extracted, the torn flesh cut away, and the

+wound bandaged. Water was being sprinkled on his face. As soon as Prince

+Andrew opened his eyes, the doctor bent over, kissed him silently on the

+lips, and hurried away.

+

+After the sufferings he had been enduring, Prince Andrew enjoyed a

+blissful feeling such as he had not experienced for a long time. All the

+best and happiest moments of his life—especially his earliest childhood,

+when he used to be undressed and put to bed, and when leaning over him

+his nurse sang him to sleep and he, burying his head in the pillow,

+felt happy in the mere consciousness of life—returned to his memory, not

+merely as something past but as something present.

+

+The doctors were busily engaged with the wounded man the shape of whose

+head seemed familiar to Prince Andrew: they were lifting him up and

+trying to quiet him.

+

+“Show it to me.... Oh, ooh... Oh! Oh, ooh!” his frightened moans could

+be heard, subdued by suffering and broken by sobs.

+

+Hearing those moans Prince Andrew wanted to weep. Whether because he

+was dying without glory, or because he was sorry to part with life,

+or because of those memories of a childhood that could not return, or

+because he was suffering and others were suffering and that man near him

+was groaning so piteously—he felt like weeping childlike, kindly, and

+almost happy tears.

+

+The wounded man was shown his amputated leg stained with clotted blood

+and with the boot still on.

+

+“Oh! Oh, ooh!” he sobbed, like a woman.

+

+The doctor who had been standing beside him, preventing Prince Andrew

+from seeing his face, moved away.

+

+“My God! What is this? Why is he here?” said Prince Andrew to himself.

+

+In the miserable, sobbing, enfeebled man whose leg had just been

+amputated, he recognized Anatole Kurágin. Men were supporting him in

+their arms and offering him a glass of water, but his trembling, swollen

+lips could not grasp its rim. Anatole was sobbing painfully. “Yes, it is

+he! Yes, that man is somehow closely and painfully connected with me,”

+thought Prince Andrew, not yet clearly grasping what he saw before him.

+“What is the connection of that man with my childhood and life?” he

+asked himself without finding an answer. And suddenly a new unexpected

+memory from that realm of pure and loving childhood presented itself to

+him. He remembered Natásha as he had seen her for the first time at the

+ball in 1810, with her slender neck and arms and with a frightened happy

+face ready for rapture, and love and tenderness for her, stronger

+and more vivid than ever, awoke in his soul. He now remembered the

+connection that existed between himself and this man who was dimly

+gazing at him through tears that filled his swollen eyes. He remembered

+everything, and ecstatic pity and love for that man overflowed his happy

+heart.

+

+Prince Andrew could no longer restrain himself and wept tender loving

+tears for his fellow men, for himself, and for his own and their errors.

+

+“Compassion, love of our brothers, for those who love us and for those

+who hate us, love of our enemies; yes, that love which God preached on

+earth and which Princess Mary taught me and I did not understand—that is

+what made me sorry to part with life, that is what remained for me had I

+lived. But now it is too late. I know it!”

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XXXVIII

+

+The terrible spectacle of the battlefield covered with dead and wounded,

+together with the heaviness of his head and the news that some twenty

+generals he knew personally had been killed or wounded, and the

+consciousness of the impotence of his once mighty arm, produced an

+unexpected impression on Napoleon who usually liked to look at the

+killed and wounded, thereby, he considered, testing his strength of

+mind. This day the horrible appearance of the battlefield overcame

+that strength of mind which he thought constituted his merit and his

+greatness. He rode hurriedly from the battlefield and returned to the

+Shevárdino knoll, where he sat on his campstool, his sallow face

+swollen and heavy, his eyes dim, his nose red, and his voice hoarse,

+involuntarily listening, with downcast eyes, to the sounds of firing.

+With painful dejection he awaited the end of this action, in which he

+regarded himself as a participant and which he was unable to arrest.

+A personal, human feeling for a brief moment got the better of the

+artificial phantasm of life he had served so long. He felt in his own

+person the sufferings and death he had witnessed on the battlefield.

+The heaviness of his head and chest reminded him of the possibility

+of suffering and death for himself. At that moment he did not desire

+Moscow, or victory, or glory (what need had he for any more glory?). The

+one thing he wished for was rest, tranquillity, and freedom. But when he

+had been on the Semënovsk heights the artillery commander had proposed

+to him to bring several batteries of artillery up to those heights to

+strengthen the fire on the Russian troops crowded in front of Knyazkóvo.

+Napoleon had assented and had given orders that news should be brought

+to him of the effect those batteries produced.

+

+An adjutant came now to inform him that the fire of two hundred guns

+had been concentrated on the Russians, as he had ordered, but that they

+still held their ground.

+

+“Our fire is mowing them down by rows, but still they hold on,” said the

+adjutant.

+

+“They want more!...” said Napoleon in a hoarse voice.

+

+“Sire?” asked the adjutant who had not heard the remark.

+

+“They want more!” croaked Napoleon frowning. “Let them have it!”

+

+Even before he gave that order the thing he did not desire, and for

+which he gave the order only because he thought it was expected of him,

+was being done. And he fell back into that artificial realm of imaginary

+greatness, and again—as a horse walking a treadmill thinks it is doing

+something for itself—he submissively fulfilled the cruel, sad, gloomy,

+and inhuman role predestined for him.

+

+And not for that day and hour alone were the mind and conscience

+darkened of this man on whom the responsibility for what was happening

+lay more than on all the others who took part in it. Never to the end

+of his life could he understand goodness, beauty, or truth, or the

+significance of his actions which were too contrary to goodness and

+truth, too remote from everything human, for him ever to be able to

+grasp their meaning. He could not disavow his actions, belauded as they

+were by half the world, and so he had to repudiate truth, goodness, and

+all humanity.

+

+Not only on that day, as he rode over the battlefield strewn with men

+killed and maimed (by his will as he believed), did he reckon as he

+looked at them how many Russians there were for each Frenchman and,

+deceiving himself, find reason for rejoicing in the calculation that

+there were five Russians for every Frenchman. Not on that day alone

+did he write in a letter to Paris that “the battle field was superb,”

+because fifty thousand corpses lay there, but even on the island of St.

+Helena in the peaceful solitude where he said he intended to devote his

+leisure to an account of the great deeds he had done, he wrote:

+

+The Russian war should have been the most popular war of modern times:

+it was a war of good sense, for real interests, for the tranquillity and

+security of all; it was purely pacific and conservative.

+

+It was a war for a great cause, the end of uncertainties and the

+beginning of security. A new horizon and new labors were opening out,

+full of well-being and prosperity for all. The European system was

+already founded; all that remained was to organize it.

+

+Satisfied on these great points and with tranquility everywhere, I

+too should have had my Congress and my Holy Alliance. Those ideas were

+stolen from me. In that reunion of great sovereigns we should have

+discussed our interests like one family, and have rendered account to

+the peoples as clerk to master.

+

+Europe would in this way soon have been, in fact, but one people, and

+anyone who traveled anywhere would have found himself always in the

+common fatherland. I should have demanded the freedom of all navigable

+rivers for everybody, that the seas should be common to all, and that

+the great standing armies should be reduced henceforth to mere guards

+for the sovereigns.

+

+On returning to France, to the bosom of the great, strong, magnificent,

+peaceful, and glorious fatherland, I should have proclaimed

+her frontiers immutable; all future wars purely defensive, all

+aggrandizement antinational. I should have associated my son in the

+Empire; my dictatorship would have been finished, and his constitutional

+reign would have begun.

+

+Paris would have been the capital of the world, and the French the envy

+of the nations!

+

+My leisure then, and my old age, would have been devoted, in company

+with the Empress and during the royal apprenticeship of my son, to

+leisurely visiting, with our own horses and like a true country couple,

+every corner of the Empire, receiving complaints, redressing wrongs,

+and scattering public buildings and benefactions on all sides and

+everywhere.

+

+Napoleon, predestined by Providence for the gloomy role of executioner

+of the peoples, assured himself that the aim of his actions had been the

+peoples’ welfare and that he could control the fate of millions and by

+the employment of power confer benefactions.

+

+“Of four hundred thousand who crossed the Vistula,” he wrote further

+of the Russian war, “half were Austrians, Prussians, Saxons, Poles,

+Bavarians, Württembergers, Mecklenburgers, Spaniards, Italians, and

+Neapolitans. The Imperial army, strictly speaking, was one third

+composed of Dutch, Belgians, men from the borders of the Rhine,

+Piedmontese, Swiss, Genevese, Tuscans, Romans, inhabitants of the

+Thirty-second Military Division, of Bremen, of Hamburg, and so on: it

+included scarcely a hundred and forty thousand who spoke French. The

+Russian expedition actually cost France less than fifty thousand men;

+the Russian army in its retreat from Vílna to Moscow lost in the various

+battles four times more men than the French army; the burning of Moscow

+cost the lives of a hundred thousand Russians who died of cold and want

+in the woods; finally, in its march from Moscow to the Oder the Russian

+army also suffered from the severity of the season; so that by the time

+it reached Vílna it numbered only fifty thousand, and at Kálisch less

+than eighteen thousand.”

+

+He imagined that the war with Russia came about by his will, and the

+horrors that occurred did not stagger his soul. He boldly took the

+whole responsibility for what happened, and his darkened mind found

+justification in the belief that among the hundreds of thousands who

+perished there were fewer Frenchmen than Hessians and Bavarians.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XXXIX

+

+Several tens of thousands of the slain lay in diverse postures and

+various uniforms on the fields and meadows belonging to the Davýdov

+family and to the crown serfs—those fields and meadows where for

+hundreds of years the peasants of Borodinó, Górki, Shevárdino, and

+Semënovsk had reaped their harvests and pastured their cattle. At the

+dressing stations the grass and earth were soaked with blood for a space

+of some three acres around. Crowds of men of various arms, wounded and

+unwounded, with frightened faces, dragged themselves back to Mozháysk

+from the one army and back to Valúevo from the other. Other crowds,

+exhausted and hungry, went forward led by their officers. Others held

+their ground and continued to fire.

+

+Over the whole field, previously so gaily beautiful with the glitter of

+bayonets and cloudlets of smoke in the morning sun, there now spread a

+mist of damp and smoke and a strange acid smell of saltpeter and blood.

+Clouds gathered and drops of rain began to fall on the dead and wounded,

+on the frightened, exhausted, and hesitating men, as if to say: “Enough,

+men! Enough! Cease... bethink yourselves! What are you doing?”

+

+To the men of both sides alike, worn out by want of food and rest,

+it began equally to appear doubtful whether they should continue to

+slaughter one another; all the faces expressed hesitation, and the

+question arose in every soul: “For what, for whom, must I kill and be

+killed?... You may go and kill whom you please, but I don’t want to do

+so any more!” By evening this thought had ripened in every soul. At any

+moment these men might have been seized with horror at what they were

+doing and might have thrown up everything and run away anywhere.

+

+But though toward the end of the battle the men felt all the horror of

+what they were doing, though they would have been glad to leave off,

+some incomprehensible, mysterious power continued to control them, and

+they still brought up the charges, loaded, aimed, and applied the match,

+though only one artilleryman survived out of every three, and though

+they stumbled and panted with fatigue, perspiring and stained with blood

+and powder. The cannon balls flew just as swiftly and cruelly from both

+sides, crushing human bodies, and that terrible work which was not done

+by the will of a man but at the will of Him who governs men and worlds

+continued.

+

+Anyone looking at the disorganized rear of the Russian army would have

+said that, if only the French made one more slight effort, it would

+disappear; and anyone looking at the rear of the French army would have

+said that the Russians need only make one more slight effort and the

+French would be destroyed. But neither the French nor the Russians made

+that effort, and the flame of battle burned slowly out.

+

+The Russians did not make that effort because they were not attacking

+the French. At the beginning of the battle they stood blocking the

+way to Moscow and they still did so at the end of the battle as at the

+beginning. But even had the aim of the Russians been to drive the French

+from their positions, they could not have made this last effort, for all

+the Russian troops had been broken up, there was no part of the Russian

+army that had not suffered in the battle, and though still holding their

+positions they had lost ONE HALF of their army.

+

+The French, with the memory of all their former victories during

+fifteen years, with the assurance of Napoleon’s invincibility, with the

+consciousness that they had captured part of the battlefield and had

+lost only a quarter of their men and still had their Guards intact,

+twenty thousand strong, might easily have made that effort. The French

+who had attacked the Russian army in order to drive it from its position

+ought to have made that effort, for as long as the Russians continued to

+block the road to Moscow as before, the aim of the French had not been

+attained and all their efforts and losses were in vain. But the French

+did not make that effort. Some historians say that Napoleon need only

+have used his Old Guards, who were intact, and the battle would have

+been won. To speak of what would have happened had Napoleon sent his

+Guards is like talking of what would happen if autumn became spring. It

+could not be. Napoleon did not give his Guards, not because he did not

+want to, but because it could not be done. All the generals, officers,

+and soldiers of the French army knew it could not be done, because the

+flagging spirit of the troops would not permit it.

+

+It was not Napoleon alone who had experienced that nightmare feeling

+of the mighty arm being stricken powerless, but all the generals and

+soldiers of his army whether they had taken part in the battle or not,

+after all their experience of previous battles—when after one tenth of

+such efforts the enemy had fled—experienced a similar feeling of terror

+before an enemy who, after losing HALF his men, stood as threateningly

+at the end as at the beginning of the battle. The moral force of the

+attacking French army was exhausted. Not that sort of victory which is

+defined by the capture of pieces of material fastened to sticks, called

+standards, and of the ground on which the troops had stood and were

+standing, but a moral victory that convinces the enemy of the moral

+superiority of his opponent and of his own impotence was gained by the

+Russians at Borodinó. The French invaders, like an infuriated animal

+that has in its onslaught received a mortal wound, felt that they were

+perishing, but could not stop, any more than the Russian army, weaker

+by one half, could help swerving. By impetus gained, the French army was

+still able to roll forward to Moscow, but there, without further effort

+on the part of the Russians, it had to perish, bleeding from the mortal

+wound it had received at Borodinó. The direct consequence of the battle

+of Borodinó was Napoleon’s senseless flight from Moscow, his retreat

+along the old Smolénsk road, the destruction of the invading army of

+five hundred thousand men, and the downfall of Napoleonic France, on

+which at Borodinó for the first time the hand of an opponent of stronger

+spirit had been laid.

+

+

+

+

+

+BOOK ELEVEN: 1812

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER I

+

+Absolute continuity of motion is not comprehensible to the human mind.

+Laws of motion of any kind become comprehensible to man only when he

+examines arbitrarily selected elements of that motion; but at the

+same time, a large proportion of human error comes from the arbitrary

+division of continuous motion into discontinuous elements. There is a

+well-known, so-called sophism of the ancients consisting in this, that

+Achilles could never catch up with a tortoise he was following, in spite

+of the fact that he traveled ten times as fast as the tortoise. By

+the time Achilles has covered the distance that separated him from the

+tortoise, the tortoise has covered one tenth of that distance ahead

+of him: when Achilles has covered that tenth, the tortoise has covered

+another one hundredth, and so on forever. This problem seemed to

+the ancients insoluble. The absurd answer (that Achilles could never

+overtake the tortoise) resulted from this: that motion was arbitrarily

+divided into discontinuous elements, whereas the motion both of Achilles

+and of the tortoise was continuous.

+

+By adopting smaller and smaller elements of motion we only approach a

+solution of the problem, but never reach it. Only when we have admitted

+the conception of the infinitely small, and the resulting geometrical

+progression with a common ratio of one tenth, and have found the sum of

+this progression to infinity, do we reach a solution of the problem.

+

+A modern branch of mathematics having achieved the art of dealing with

+the infinitely small can now yield solutions in other more complex

+problems of motion which used to appear insoluble.

+

+This modern branch of mathematics, unknown to the ancients, when dealing

+with problems of motion admits the conception of the infinitely small,

+and so conforms to the chief condition of motion (absolute continuity)

+and thereby corrects the inevitable error which the human mind cannot

+avoid when it deals with separate elements of motion instead of

+examining continuous motion.

+

+In seeking the laws of historical movement just the same thing happens.

+The movement of humanity, arising as it does from innumerable arbitrary

+human wills, is continuous.

+

+To understand the laws of this continuous movement is the aim of

+history. But to arrive at these laws, resulting from the sum of all

+those human wills, man’s mind postulates arbitrary and disconnected

+units. The first method of history is to take an arbitrarily selected

+series of continuous events and examine it apart from others, though

+there is and can be no beginning to any event, for one event always

+flows uninterruptedly from another.

+

+The second method is to consider the actions of some one man—a king or a

+commander—as equivalent to the sum of many individual wills; whereas the

+sum of individual wills is never expressed by the activity of a single

+historic personage.

+

+Historical science in its endeavor to draw nearer to truth continually

+takes smaller and smaller units for examination. But however small the

+units it takes, we feel that to take any unit disconnected from others,

+or to assume a beginning of any phenomenon, or to say that the will of

+many men is expressed by the actions of any one historic personage, is

+in itself false.

+

+It needs no critical exertion to reduce utterly to dust any deductions

+drawn from history. It is merely necessary to select some larger or

+smaller unit as the subject of observation—as criticism has every

+right to do, seeing that whatever unit history observes must always be

+arbitrarily selected.

+

+Only by taking infinitesimally small units for observation (the

+differential of history, that is, the individual tendencies of men) and

+attaining to the art of integrating them (that is, finding the sum of

+these infinitesimals) can we hope to arrive at the laws of history.

+

+The first fifteen years of the nineteenth century in Europe present an

+extraordinary movement of millions of people. Men leave their customary

+pursuits, hasten from one side of Europe to the other, plunder and

+slaughter one another, triumph and are plunged in despair, and for some

+years the whole course of life is altered and presents an intensive

+movement which first increases and then slackens. What was the cause of

+this movement, by what laws was it governed? asks the mind of man.

+

+The historians, replying to this question, lay before us the sayings and

+doings of a few dozen men in a building in the city of Paris, calling

+these sayings and doings “the Revolution”; then they give a detailed

+biography of Napoleon and of certain people favorable or hostile to him;

+tell of the influence some of these people had on others, and say: that

+is why this movement took place and those are its laws.

+

+But the mind of man not only refuses to believe this explanation, but

+plainly says that this method of explanation is fallacious, because in

+it a weaker phenomenon is taken as the cause of a stronger. The sum of

+human wills produced the Revolution and Napoleon, and only the sum of

+those wills first tolerated and then destroyed them.

+

+“But every time there have been conquests there have been conquerors;

+every time there has been a revolution in any state there have been

+great men,” says history. And, indeed, human reason replies: every time

+conquerors appear there have been wars, but this does not prove that the

+conquerors caused the wars and that it is possible to find the laws of

+a war in the personal activity of a single man. Whenever I look at my

+watch and its hands point to ten, I hear the bells of the neighboring

+church; but because the bells begin to ring when the hands of the clock

+reach ten, I have no right to assume that the movement of the bells is

+caused by the position of the hands of the watch.

+

+Whenever I see the movement of a locomotive I hear the whistle and see

+the valves opening and wheels turning; but I have no right to conclude

+that the whistling and the turning of wheels are the cause of the

+movement of the engine.

+

+The peasants say that a cold wind blows in late spring because the oaks

+are budding, and really every spring cold winds do blow when the oak

+is budding. But though I do not know what causes the cold winds to blow

+when the oak buds unfold, I cannot agree with the peasants that the

+unfolding of the oak buds is the cause of the cold wind, for the

+force of the wind is beyond the influence of the buds. I see only a

+coincidence of occurrences such as happens with all the phenomena of

+life, and I see that however much and however carefully I observe the

+hands of the watch, and the valves and wheels of the engine, and the

+oak, I shall not discover the cause of the bells ringing, the engine

+moving, or of the winds of spring. To that I must entirely change my

+point of view and study the laws of the movement of steam, of the

+bells, and of the wind. History must do the same. And attempts in this

+direction have already been made.

+

+To study the laws of history we must completely change the subject of

+our observation, must leave aside kings, ministers, and generals, and

+study the common, infinitesimally small elements by which the masses are

+moved. No one can say in how far it is possible for man to advance

+in this way toward an understanding of the laws of history; but it is

+evident that only along that path does the possibility of discovering

+the laws of history lie, and that as yet not a millionth part as much

+mental effort has been applied in this direction by historians as has

+been devoted to describing the actions of various kings, commanders,

+and ministers and propounding the historians’ own reflections concerning

+these actions.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER II

+

+The forces of a dozen European nations burst into Russia. The Russian

+army and people avoided a collision till Smolénsk was reached, and again

+from Smolénsk to Borodinó. The French army pushed on to Moscow, its

+goal, its impetus ever increasing as it neared its aim, just as the

+velocity of a falling body increases as it approaches the earth. Behind

+it were seven hundred miles of hunger-stricken, hostile country; ahead

+were a few dozen miles separating it from its goal. Every soldier in

+Napoleon’s army felt this and the invasion moved on by its own momentum.

+

+The more the Russian army retreated the more fiercely a spirit of hatred

+of the enemy flared up, and while it retreated the army increased and

+consolidated. At Borodinó a collision took place. Neither army was

+broken up, but the Russian army retreated immediately after the

+collision as inevitably as a ball recoils after colliding with another

+having a greater momentum, and with equal inevitability the ball

+of invasion that had advanced with such momentum rolled on for some

+distance, though the collision had deprived it of all its force.

+

+The Russians retreated eighty miles—to beyond Moscow—and the French

+reached Moscow and there came to a standstill. For five weeks after that

+there was not a single battle. The French did not move. As a bleeding,

+mortally wounded animal licks its wounds, they remained inert in Moscow

+for five weeks, and then suddenly, with no fresh reason, fled back:

+they made a dash for the Kalúga road, and (after a victory—for at

+Málo-Yaroslávets the field of conflict again remained theirs) without

+undertaking a single serious battle, they fled still more rapidly back

+to Smolénsk, beyond Smolénsk, beyond the Berëzina, beyond Vílna, and

+farther still.

+

+On the evening of the twenty-sixth of August, Kutúzov and the whole

+Russian army were convinced that the battle of Borodinó was a victory.

+Kutúzov reported so to the Emperor. He gave orders to prepare for a

+fresh conflict to finish the enemy and did this not to deceive anyone,

+but because he knew that the enemy was beaten, as everyone who had taken

+part in the battle knew it.

+

+But all that evening and next day reports came in one after another

+of unheard-of losses, of the loss of half the army, and a fresh battle

+proved physically impossible.

+

+It was impossible to give battle before information had been collected,

+the wounded gathered in, the supplies of ammunition replenished, the

+slain reckoned up, new officers appointed to replace those who had been

+killed, and before the men had had food and sleep. And meanwhile, the

+very next morning after the battle, the French army advanced of itself

+upon the Russians, carried forward by the force of its own momentum now

+seemingly increased in inverse proportion to the square of the distance

+from its aim. Kutúzov’s wish was to attack next day, and the whole

+army desired to do so. But to make an attack the wish to do so is not

+sufficient, there must also be a possibility of doing it, and that

+possibility did not exist. It was impossible not to retreat a day’s

+march, and then in the same way it was impossible not to retreat another

+and a third day’s march, and at last, on the first of September when

+the army drew near Moscow—despite the strength of the feeling that had

+arisen in all ranks—the force of circumstances compelled it to retire

+beyond Moscow. And the troops retired one more, last, day’s march, and

+abandoned Moscow to the enemy.

+

+For people accustomed to think that plans of campaign and battles are

+made by generals—as anyone of us sitting over a map in his study may

+imagine how he would have arranged things in this or that battle—the

+questions present themselves: Why did Kutúzov during the retreat not do

+this or that? Why did he not take up a position before reaching Filí?

+Why did he not retire at once by the Kalúga road, abandoning Moscow? and

+so on. People accustomed to think in that way forget, or do not know,

+the inevitable conditions which always limit the activities of any

+commander in chief. The activity of a commander in chief does not at all

+resemble the activity we imagine to ourselves when we sit at ease in

+our studies examining some campaign on the map, with a certain number of

+troops on this and that side in a certain known locality, and begin our

+plans from some given moment. A commander in chief is never dealing with

+the beginning of any event—the position from which we always contemplate

+it. The commander in chief is always in the midst of a series of

+shifting events and so he never can at any moment consider the whole

+import of an event that is occurring. Moment by moment the event is

+imperceptibly shaping itself, and at every moment of this continuous,

+uninterrupted shaping of events the commander in chief is in the

+midst of a most complex play of intrigues, worries, contingencies,

+authorities, projects, counsels, threats, and deceptions and is

+continually obliged to reply to innumerable questions addressed to him,

+which constantly conflict with one another.

+

+Learned military authorities quite seriously tell us that Kutúzov should

+have moved his army to the Kalúga road long before reaching Filí, and

+that somebody actually submitted such a proposal to him. But a commander

+in chief, especially at a difficult moment, has always before him not

+one proposal but dozens simultaneously. And all these proposals, based

+on strategics and tactics, contradict each other.

+

+A commander in chief’s business, it would seem, is simply to choose one

+of these projects. But even that he cannot do. Events and time do not

+wait. For instance, on the twenty-eighth it is suggested to him to

+cross to the Kalúga road, but just then an adjutant gallops up from

+Milorádovich asking whether he is to engage the French or retire. An

+order must be given him at once, that instant. And the order to retreat

+carries us past the turn to the Kalúga road. And after the adjutant

+comes the commissary general asking where the stores are to be taken,

+and the chief of the hospitals asks where the wounded are to go, and a

+courier from Petersburg brings a letter from the sovereign which does

+not admit of the possibility of abandoning Moscow, and the commander in

+chief’s rival, the man who is undermining him (and there are always

+not merely one but several such), presents a new project diametrically

+opposed to that of turning to the Kalúga road, and the commander in

+chief himself needs sleep and refreshment to maintain his energy and

+a respectable general who has been overlooked in the distribution of

+rewards comes to complain, and the inhabitants of the district pray to

+be defended, and an officer sent to inspect the locality comes in and

+gives a report quite contrary to what was said by the officer

+previously sent; and a spy, a prisoner, and a general who has been

+on reconnaissance, all describe the position of the enemy’s army

+differently. People accustomed to misunderstand or to forget these

+inevitable conditions of a commander in chief’s actions describe to

+us, for instance, the position of the army at Filí and assume that the

+commander in chief could, on the first of September, quite freely decide

+whether to abandon Moscow or defend it; whereas, with the Russian army

+less than four miles from Moscow, no such question existed. When had

+that question been settled? At Drissa and at Smolénsk and most

+palpably of all on the twenty-fourth of August at Shevárdino and on

+the twenty-sixth at Borodinó, and each day and hour and minute of the

+retreat from Borodinó to Filí.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER III

+

+When Ermólov, having been sent by Kutúzov to inspect the position, told

+the field marshal that it was impossible to fight there before Moscow

+and that they must retreat, Kutúzov looked at him in silence.

+

+“Give me your hand,” said he and, turning it over so as to feel the

+pulse, added: “You are not well, my dear fellow. Think what you are

+saying!”

+

+Kutúzov could not yet admit the possibility of retreating beyond Moscow

+without a battle.

+

+On the Poklónny Hill, four miles from the Dorogomílov gate of Moscow,

+Kutúzov got out of his carriage and sat down on a bench by the roadside.

+A great crowd of generals gathered round him, and Count Rostopchín, who

+had come out from Moscow, joined them. This brilliant company separated

+into several groups who all discussed the advantages and disadvantages

+of the position, the state of the army, the plans suggested, the

+situation of Moscow, and military questions generally. Though they had

+not been summoned for the purpose, and though it was not so called, they

+all felt that this was really a council of war. The conversations all

+dealt with public questions. If anyone gave or asked for personal

+news, it was done in a whisper and they immediately reverted to general

+matters. No jokes, or laughter, or smiles even, were seen among all

+these men. They evidently all made an effort to hold themselves at the

+height the situation demanded. And all these groups, while talking

+among themselves, tried to keep near the commander in chief (whose

+bench formed the center of the gathering) and to speak so that he might

+overhear them. The commander in chief listened to what was being said

+and sometimes asked them to repeat their remarks, but did not himself

+take part in the conversations or express any opinion. After hearing

+what was being said by one or other of these groups he generally turned

+away with an air of disappointment, as though they were not speaking of

+anything he wished to hear. Some discussed the position that had been

+chosen, criticizing not the position itself so much as the mental

+capacity of those who had chosen it. Others argued that a mistake had

+been made earlier and that a battle should have been fought two days

+before. Others again spoke of the battle of Salamanca, which was

+described by Crosart, a newly arrived Frenchman in a Spanish uniform.

+(This Frenchman and one of the German princes serving with the Russian

+army were discussing the siege of Saragossa and considering the

+possibility of defending Moscow in a similar manner.) Count Rostopchín

+was telling a fourth group that he was prepared to die with the city

+train bands under the walls of the capital, but that he still could not

+help regretting having been left in ignorance of what was happening, and

+that had he known it sooner things would have been different.... A

+fifth group, displaying the profundity of their strategic perceptions,

+discussed the direction the troops would now have to take. A sixth group

+was talking absolute nonsense. Kutúzov’s expression grew more and more

+preoccupied and gloomy. From all this talk he saw only one thing: that

+to defend Moscow was a physical impossibility in the full meaning of

+those words, that is to say, so utterly impossible that if any senseless

+commander were to give orders to fight, confusion would result but the

+battle would still not take place. It would not take place because the

+commanders not merely all recognized the position to be impossible, but

+in their conversations were only discussing what would happen after its

+inevitable abandonment. How could the commanders lead their troops to

+a field of battle they considered impossible to hold? The lower-grade

+officers and even the soldiers (who too reason) also considered the

+position impossible and therefore could not go to fight, fully convinced

+as they were of defeat. If Bennigsen insisted on the position being

+defended and others still discussed it, the question was no longer

+important in itself but only as a pretext for disputes and intrigue.

+This Kutúzov knew well.

+

+Bennigsen, who had chosen the position, warmly displayed his Russian

+patriotism (Kutúzov could not listen to this without wincing) by

+insisting that Moscow must be defended. His aim was as clear as daylight

+to Kutúzov: if the defense failed, to throw the blame on Kutúzov who had

+brought the army as far as the Sparrow Hills without giving battle; if

+it succeeded, to claim the success as his own; or if battle were not

+given, to clear himself of the crime of abandoning Moscow. But this

+intrigue did not now occupy the old man’s mind. One terrible question

+absorbed him and to that question he heard no reply from anyone. The

+question for him now was: “Have I really allowed Napoleon to reach

+Moscow, and when did I do so? When was it decided? Can it have been

+yesterday when I ordered Plátov to retreat, or was it the evening

+before, when I had a nap and told Bennigsen to issue orders? Or was it

+earlier still?... When, when was this terrible affair decided? Moscow

+must be abandoned. The army must retreat and the order to do so must

+be given.” To give that terrible order seemed to him equivalent to

+resigning the command of the army. And not only did he love power to

+which he was accustomed (the honours awarded to Prince Prozoróvski,

+under whom he had served in Turkey, galled him), but he was convinced

+that he was destined to save Russia and that that was why, against

+the Emperor’s wish and by the will of the people, he had been chosen

+commander in chief. He was convinced that he alone could maintain

+command of the army in these difficult circumstances, and that in all

+the world he alone could encounter the invincible Napoleon without fear,

+and he was horrified at the thought of the order he had to issue. But

+something had to be decided, and these conversations around him which

+were assuming too free a character must be stopped.

+

+He called the most important generals to him.

+

+“My head, be it good or bad, must depend on itself,” said he, rising

+from the bench, and he rode to Filí where his carriages were waiting.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER IV

+

+The Council of War began to assemble at two in the afternoon in the

+better and roomier part of Andrew Savostyánov’s hut. The men, women, and

+children of the large peasant family crowded into the back room across

+the passage. Only Malásha, Andrew’s six-year-old granddaughter whom

+his Serene Highness had petted and to whom he had given a lump of sugar

+while drinking his tea, remained on the top of the brick oven in the

+larger room. Malásha looked down from the oven with shy delight at the

+faces, uniforms, and decorations of the generals, who one after another

+came into the room and sat down on the broad benches in the corner

+under the icons. “Granddad” himself, as Malásha in her own mind called

+Kutúzov, sat apart in a dark corner behind the oven. He sat, sunk deep

+in a folding armchair, and continually cleared his throat and pulled at

+the collar of his coat which, though it was unbuttoned, still seemed

+to pinch his neck. Those who entered went up one by one to the field

+marshal; he pressed the hands of some and nodded to others. His adjutant

+Kaysárov was about to draw back the curtain of the window facing

+Kutúzov, but the latter moved his hand angrily and Kaysárov understood

+that his Serene Highness did not wish his face to be seen.

+

+Round the peasant’s deal table, on which lay maps, plans, pencils, and

+papers, so many people gathered that the orderlies brought in another

+bench and put it beside the table. Ermólov, Kaysárov, and Toll, who had

+just arrived, sat down on this bench. In the foremost place, immediately

+under the icons, sat Barclay de Tolly, his high forehead merging into

+his bald crown. He had a St. George’s Cross round his neck and looked

+pale and ill. He had been feverish for two days and was now shivering

+and in pain. Beside him sat Uvárov, who with rapid gesticulations was

+giving him some information, speaking in low tones as they all did.

+Chubby little Dokhtúrov was listening attentively with eyebrows

+raised and arms folded on his stomach. On the other side sat Count

+Ostermann-Tolstóy, seemingly absorbed in his own thoughts. His broad

+head with its bold features and glittering eyes was resting on his hand.

+Raévski, twitching forward the black hair on his temples as was his

+habit, glanced now at Kutúzov and now at the door with a look of

+impatience. Konovnítsyn’s firm, handsome, and kindly face was lit up by

+a tender, sly smile. His glance met Malásha’s, and the expression of his

+eyes caused the little girl to smile.

+

+They were all waiting for Bennigsen, who on the pretext of inspecting

+the position was finishing his savory dinner. They waited for him from

+four till six o’clock and did not begin their deliberations all that

+time but talked in low tones of other matters.

+

+Only when Bennigsen had entered the hut did Kutúzov leave his corner and

+draw toward the table, but not near enough for the candles that had been

+placed there to light up his face.

+

+Bennigsen opened the council with the question: “Are we to abandon

+Russia’s ancient and sacred capital without a struggle, or are we to

+defend it?” A prolonged and general silence followed. There was a frown

+on every face and only Kutúzov’s angry grunts and occasional cough

+broke the silence. All eyes were gazing at him. Malásha too looked at

+“Granddad.” She was nearest to him and saw how his face puckered; he

+seemed about to cry, but this did not last long.

+

+“Russia’s ancient and sacred capital!” he suddenly said, repeating

+Bennigsen’s words in an angry voice and thereby drawing attention to the

+false note in them. “Allow me to tell you, your excellency, that that

+question has no meaning for a Russian.” (He lurched his heavy body

+forward.) “Such a question cannot be put; it is senseless! The question

+I have asked these gentlemen to meet to discuss is a military one.

+The question is that of saving Russia. Is it better to give up Moscow

+without a battle, or by accepting battle to risk losing the army as well

+as Moscow? That is the question on which I want your opinion,” and he

+sank back in his chair.

+

+The discussion began. Bennigsen did not yet consider his game lost.

+Admitting the view of Barclay and others that a defensive battle at

+Filí was impossible, but imbued with Russian patriotism and the love

+of Moscow, he proposed to move troops from the right to the left flank

+during the night and attack the French right flank the following day.

+Opinions were divided, and arguments were advanced for and against that

+project. Ermólov, Dokhtúrov, and Raévski agreed with Bennigsen. Whether

+feeling it necessary to make a sacrifice before abandoning the capital

+or guided by other, personal considerations, these generals seemed not

+to understand that this council could not alter the inevitable course

+of events and that Moscow was in effect already abandoned. The other

+generals, however, understood it and, leaving aside the question of

+Moscow, spoke of the direction the army should take in its retreat.

+Malásha, who kept her eyes fixed on what was going on before her,

+understood the meaning of the council differently. It seemed to her that

+it was only a personal struggle between “Granddad” and “Long-coat” as

+she termed Bennigsen. She saw that they grew spiteful when they spoke to

+one another, and in her heart she sided with “Granddad.” In the midst of

+the conversation she noticed “Granddad” give Bennigsen a quick, subtle

+glance, and then to her joys she saw that “Granddad” said something to

+“Long-coat” which settled him. Bennigsen suddenly reddened and paced

+angrily up and down the room. What so affected him was Kutúzov’s calm

+and quiet comment on the advantage or disadvantage of Bennigsen’s

+proposal to move troops by night from the right to the left flank to

+attack the French right wing.

+

+“Gentlemen,” said Kutúzov, “I cannot approve of the count’s plan. Moving

+troops in close proximity to an enemy is always dangerous, and military

+history supports that view. For instance...” Kutúzov seemed to reflect,

+searching for an example, then with a clear, naïve look at Bennigsen he

+added: “Oh yes; take the battle of Friedland, which I think the count

+well remembers, and which was... not fully successful, only because our

+troops were rearranged too near the enemy....”

+

+There followed a momentary pause, which seemed very long to them all.

+

+The discussion recommenced, but pauses frequently occurred and they all

+felt that there was no more to be said.

+

+During one of these pauses Kutúzov heaved a deep sigh as if preparing to

+speak. They all looked at him.

+

+“Well, gentlemen, I see that it is I who will have to pay for the broken

+crockery,” said he, and rising slowly he moved to the table. “Gentlemen,

+I have heard your views. Some of you will not agree with me. But I,” he

+paused, “by the authority entrusted to me by my Sovereign and country,

+order a retreat.”

+

+After that the generals began to disperse with the solemnity and

+circumspect silence of people who are leaving, after a funeral.

+

+Some of the generals, in low tones and in a strain very different from

+the way they had spoken during the council, communicated something to

+their commander in chief.

+

+Malásha, who had long been expected for supper, climbed carefully

+backwards down from the oven, her bare little feet catching at its

+projections, and slipping between the legs of the generals she darted

+out of the room.

+

+When he had dismissed the generals Kutúzov sat a long time with his

+elbows on the table, thinking always of the same terrible question:

+“When, when did the abandonment of Moscow become inevitable? When was

+that done which settled the matter? And who was to blame for it?”

+

+“I did not expect this,” said he to his adjutant Schneider when the

+latter came in late that night. “I did not expect this! I did not think

+this would happen.”

+

+“You should take some rest, your Serene Highness,” replied Schneider.

+

+“But no! They shall eat horseflesh yet, like the Turks!” exclaimed

+Kutúzov without replying, striking the table with his podgy fist. “They

+shall too, if only...”

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER V

+

+At that very time, in circumstances even more important than retreating

+without a battle, namely the evacuation and burning of Moscow,

+Rostopchín, who is usually represented as being the instigator of that

+event, acted in an altogether different manner from Kutúzov.

+

+After the battle of Borodinó the abandonment and burning of Moscow was

+as inevitable as the retreat of the army beyond Moscow without fighting.

+

+Every Russian might have predicted it, not by reasoning but by the

+feeling implanted in each of us and in our fathers.

+

+The same thing that took place in Moscow had happened in all the towns

+and villages on Russian soil beginning with Smolénsk, without the

+participation of Count Rostopchín and his broadsheets. The people

+awaited the enemy unconcernedly, did not riot or become excited or tear

+anyone to pieces, but faced its fate, feeling within it the strength to

+find what it should do at that most difficult moment. And as soon as the

+enemy drew near the wealthy classes went away abandoning their property,

+while the poorer remained and burned and destroyed what was left.

+

+The consciousness that this would be so and would always be so was and

+is present in the heart of every Russian. And a consciousness of this,

+and a foreboding that Moscow would be taken, was present in Russian

+Moscow society in 1812. Those who had quitted Moscow already in July

+and at the beginning of August showed that they expected this. Those who

+went away, taking what they could and abandoning their houses and half

+their belongings, did so from the latent patriotism which expresses

+itself not by phrases or by giving one’s children to save the fatherland

+and similar unnatural exploits, but unobtrusively, simply, organically,

+and therefore in the way that always produces the most powerful results.

+

+“It is disgraceful to run away from danger; only cowards are running

+away from Moscow,” they were told. In his broadsheets Rostopchín

+impressed on them that to leave Moscow was shameful. They were ashamed

+to be called cowards, ashamed to leave, but still they left, knowing

+it had to be done. Why did they go? It is impossible to suppose that

+Rostopchín had scared them by his accounts of horrors Napoleon had

+committed in conquered countries. The first people to go away were the

+rich educated people who knew quite well that Vienna and Berlin had

+remained intact and that during Napoleon’s occupation the inhabitants

+had spent their time pleasantly in the company of the charming Frenchmen

+whom the Russians, and especially the Russian ladies, then liked so

+much.

+

+They went away because for Russians there could be no question as to

+whether things would go well or ill under French rule in Moscow. It was

+out of the question to be under French rule, it would be the worst thing

+that could happen. They went away even before the battle of Borodinó and

+still more rapidly after it, despite Rostopchín’s calls to defend Moscow

+or the announcement of his intention to take the wonder-working icon of

+the Iberian Mother of God and go to fight, or of the balloons that were

+to destroy the French, and despite all the nonsense Rostopchín wrote in

+his broadsheets. They knew that it was for the army to fight, and that

+if it could not succeed it would not do to take young ladies and house

+serfs to the Three Hills quarter of Moscow to fight Napoleon, and that

+they must go away, sorry as they were to abandon their property

+to destruction. They went away without thinking of the tremendous

+significance of that immense and wealthy city being given over to

+destruction, for a great city with wooden buildings was certain when

+abandoned by its inhabitants to be burned. They went away each on his

+own account, and yet it was only in consequence of their going away

+that the momentous event was accomplished that will always remain the

+greatest glory of the Russian people. The lady who, afraid of being

+stopped by Count Rostopchín’s orders, had already in June moved with her

+Negroes and her women jesters from Moscow to her Sarátov estate, with

+a vague consciousness that she was not Bonaparte’s servant, was really,

+simply, and truly carrying out the great work which saved Russia. But

+Count Rostopchín, who now taunted those who left Moscow and now had the

+government offices removed; now distributed quite useless weapons to

+the drunken rabble; now had processions displaying the icons, and now

+forbade Father Augustin to remove icons or the relics of saints; now

+seized all the private carts in Moscow and on one hundred and thirty-six

+of them removed the balloon that was being constructed by Leppich; now

+hinted that he would burn Moscow and related how he had set fire to his

+own house; now wrote a proclamation to the French solemnly upbraiding

+them for having destroyed his Orphanage; now claimed the glory of

+having hinted that he would burn Moscow and now repudiated the deed;

+now ordered the people to catch all spies and bring them to him, and now

+reproached them for doing so; now expelled all the French residents from

+Moscow, and now allowed Madame Aubert-Chalmé (the center of the whole

+French colony in Moscow) to remain, but ordered the venerable old

+postmaster Klyucharëv to be arrested and exiled for no particular

+offense; now assembled the people at the Three Hills to fight the French

+and now, to get rid of them, handed over to them a man to be killed

+and himself drove away by a back gate; now declared that he would

+not survive the fall of Moscow, and now wrote French verses in albums

+concerning his share in the affair—this man did not understand the

+meaning of what was happening but merely wanted to do something himself

+that would astonish people, to perform some patriotically heroic

+feat; and like a child he made sport of the momentous, and unavoidable

+event—the abandonment and burning of Moscow—and tried with his puny hand

+now to speed and now to stay the enormous, popular tide that bore him

+along with it.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER VI

+

+Hélène, having returned with the court from Vílna to Petersburg, found

+herself in a difficult position.

+

+In Petersburg she had enjoyed the special protection of a grandee who

+occupied one of the highest posts in the Empire. In Vílna she had formed

+an intimacy with a young foreign prince. When she returned to Petersburg

+both the magnate and the prince were there, and both claimed their

+rights. Hélène was faced by a new problem—how to preserve her intimacy

+with both without offending either.

+

+What would have seemed difficult or even impossible to another woman did

+not cause the least embarrassment to Countess Bezúkhova, who evidently

+deserved her reputation of being a very clever woman. Had she attempted

+concealment, or tried to extricate herself from her awkward position

+by cunning, she would have spoiled her case by acknowledging herself

+guilty. But Hélène, like a really great man who can do whatever

+he pleases, at once assumed her own position to be correct, as she

+sincerely believed it to be, and that everyone else was to blame.

+

+The first time the young foreigner allowed himself to reproach her, she

+lifted her beautiful head and, half turning to him, said firmly: “That’s

+just like a man—selfish and cruel! I expected nothing else. A woman

+sacrifices herself for you, she suffers, and this is her reward! What

+right have you, monseigneur, to demand an account of my attachments and

+friendships? He is a man who has been more than a father to me!” The

+prince was about to say something, but Hélène interrupted him.

+

+“Well, yes,” said she, “it may be that he has other sentiments for me

+than those of a father, but that is not a reason for me to shut my door

+on him. I am not a man, that I should repay kindness with ingratitude!

+Know, monseigneur, that in all that relates to my intimate feelings I

+render account only to God and to my conscience,” she concluded, laying

+her hand on her beautiful, fully expanded bosom and looking up to

+heaven.

+

+“But for heaven’s sake listen to me!”

+

+“Marry me, and I will be your slave!”

+

+“But that’s impossible.”

+

+“You won’t deign to demean yourself by marrying me, you...” said Hélène,

+beginning to cry.

+

+The prince tried to comfort her, but Hélène, as if quite distraught,

+said through her tears that there was nothing to prevent her marrying,

+that there were precedents (there were up to that time very few, but

+she mentioned Napoleon and some other exalted personages), that she had

+never been her husband’s wife, and that she had been sacrificed.

+

+“But the law, religion...” said the prince, already yielding.

+

+“The law, religion... What have they been invented for if they can’t

+arrange that?” said Hélène.

+

+The prince was surprised that so simple an idea had not occurred to him,

+and he applied for advice to the holy brethren of the Society of Jesus,

+with whom he was on intimate terms.

+

+A few days later at one of those enchanting fetes which Hélène gave at

+her country house on the Stone Island, the charming Monsieur de Jobert,

+a man no longer young, with snow white hair and brilliant black eyes,

+a Jesuit à robe courte * was presented to her, and in the garden by the

+light of the illuminations and to the sound of music talked to her for a

+long time of the love of God, of Christ, of the Sacred Heart, and of the

+consolations the one true Catholic religion affords in this world and

+the next. Hélène was touched, and more than once tears rose to her eyes

+and to those of Monsieur de Jobert and their voices trembled. A dance,

+for which her partner came to seek her, put an end to her discourse with

+her future directeur de conscience, but the next evening Monsieur de

+Jobert came to see Hélène when she was alone, and after that often came

+again.

+

+    * Lay member of the Society of Jesus.

+

+One day he took the countess to a Roman Catholic church, where she knelt

+down before the altar to which she was led. The enchanting, middle-aged

+Frenchman laid his hands on her head and, as she herself afterward

+described it, she felt something like a fresh breeze wafted into her

+soul. It was explained to her that this was la grâce.

+

+After that a long-frocked abbé was brought to her. She confessed to

+him, and he absolved her from her sins. Next day she received a box

+containing the Sacred Host, which was left at her house for her to

+partake of. A few days later Hélène learned with pleasure that she had

+now been admitted to the true Catholic Church and that in a few days the

+Pope himself would hear of her and would send her a certain document.

+

+All that was done around her and to her at this time, all the attention

+devoted to her by so many clever men and expressed in such pleasant,

+refined ways, and the state of dove-like purity she was now in (she wore

+only white dresses and white ribbons all that time) gave her pleasure,

+but her pleasure did not cause her for a moment to forget her aim. And

+as it always happens in contests of cunning that a stupid person gets

+the better of cleverer ones, Hélène—having realized that the main object

+of all these words and all this trouble was, after converting her to

+Catholicism, to obtain money from her for Jesuit institutions (as to

+which she received indications)—before parting with her money insisted

+that the various operations necessary to free her from her husband

+should be performed. In her view the aim of every religion was merely

+to preserve certain proprieties while affording satisfaction to

+human desires. And with this aim, in one of her talks with her Father

+Confessor, she insisted on an answer to the question, in how far was she

+bound by her marriage?

+

+They were sitting in the twilight by a window in the drawing room.

+The scent of flowers came in at the window. Hélène was wearing a white

+dress, transparent over her shoulders and bosom. The abbé, a well-fed

+man with a plump, clean-shaven chin, a pleasant firm mouth, and white

+hands meekly folded on his knees, sat close to Hélène and, with a

+subtle smile on his lips and a peaceful look of delight at her beauty,

+occasionally glanced at her face as he explained his opinion on the

+subject. Hélène with an uneasy smile looked at his curly hair and his

+plump, clean-shaven, blackish cheeks and every moment expected the

+conversation to take a fresh turn. But the abbé, though he evidently

+enjoyed the beauty of his companion, was absorbed in his mastery of the

+matter.

+

+The course of the Father Confessor’s arguments ran as follows: “Ignorant

+of the import of what you were undertaking, you made a vow of conjugal

+fidelity to a man who on his part, by entering the married state without

+faith in the religious significance of marriage, committed an act of

+sacrilege. That marriage lacked the dual significance it should have

+had. Yet in spite of this your vow was binding. You swerved from it.

+What did you commit by so acting? A venial, or a mortal, sin? A venial

+sin, for you acted without evil intention. If now you married again

+with the object of bearing children, your sin might be forgiven. But the

+question is again a twofold one: firstly...”

+

+But suddenly Hélène, who was getting bored, said with one of her

+bewitching smiles: “But I think that having espoused the true religion I

+cannot be bound by what a false religion laid upon me.”

+

+The director of her conscience was astounded at having the case

+presented to him thus with the simplicity of Columbus’ egg. He was

+delighted at the unexpected rapidity of his pupil’s progress, but could

+not abandon the edifice of argument he had laboriously constructed.

+

+“Let us understand one another, Countess,” said he with a smile, and

+began refuting his spiritual daughter’s arguments.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER VII

+

+Hélène understood that the question was very simple and easy from

+the ecclesiastical point of view, and that her directors were making

+difficulties only because they were apprehensive as to how the matter

+would be regarded by the secular authorities.

+

+So she decided that it was necessary to prepare the opinion of society.

+She provoked the jealousy of the elderly magnate and told him what she

+had told her other suitor; that is, she put the matter so that the only

+way for him to obtain a right over her was to marry her. The elderly

+magnate was at first as much taken aback by this suggestion of marriage

+with a woman whose husband was alive, as the younger man had been, but

+Hélène’s imperturbable conviction that it was as simple and natural as

+marrying a maiden had its effect on him too. Had Hélène herself shown

+the least sign of hesitation, shame, or secrecy, her cause would

+certainly have been lost; but not only did she show no signs of secrecy

+or shame, on the contrary, with good-natured naïveté she told her

+intimate friends (and these were all Petersburg) that both the prince

+and the magnate had proposed to her and that she loved both and was

+afraid of grieving either.

+

+A rumor immediately spread in Petersburg, not that Hélène wanted to

+be divorced from her husband (had such a report spread many would have

+opposed so illegal an intention) but simply that the unfortunate and

+interesting Hélène was in doubt which of the two men she should marry.

+The question was no longer whether this was possible, but only which was

+the better match and how the matter would be regarded at court. There

+were, it is true, some rigid individuals unable to rise to the height of

+such a question, who saw in the project a desecration of the sacrament

+of marriage, but there were not many such and they remained silent,

+while the majority were interested in Hélène’s good fortune and in the

+question which match would be the more advantageous. Whether it was

+right or wrong to remarry while one had a husband living they did not

+discuss, for that question had evidently been settled by people “wiser

+than you or me,” as they said, and to doubt the correctness of that

+decision would be to risk exposing one’s stupidity and incapacity to

+live in society.

+

+Only Márya Dmítrievna Akhrosímova, who had come to Petersburg that

+summer to see one of her sons, allowed herself plainly to express

+an opinion contrary to the general one. Meeting Hélène at a ball she

+stopped her in the middle of the room and, amid general silence, said

+in her gruff voice: “So wives of living men have started marrying

+again! Perhaps you think you have invented a novelty? You have been

+forestalled, my dear! It was thought of long ago. It is done in all the

+brothels,” and with these words Márya Dmítrievna, turning up her wide

+sleeves with her usual threatening gesture and glancing sternly round,

+moved across the room.

+

+Though people were afraid of Márya Dmítrievna she was regarded in

+Petersburg as a buffoon, and so of what she had said they only noticed,

+and repeated in a whisper, the one coarse word she had used, supposing

+the whole sting of her remark to lie in that word.

+

+Prince Vasíli, who of late very often forgot what he had said and

+repeated one and the same thing a hundred times, remarked to his

+daughter whenever he chanced to see her:

+

+“Hélène, I have a word to say to you,” and he would lead her

+aside, drawing her hand downward. “I have heard of certain projects

+concerning... you know. Well my dear child, you know how your father’s

+heart rejoices to know that you... You have suffered so much.... But, my

+dear child, consult only your own heart. That is all I have to say,” and

+concealing his unvarying emotion he would press his cheek against his

+daughter’s and move away.

+

+Bilíbin, who had not lost his reputation of an exceedingly clever man,

+and who was one of the disinterested friends so brilliant a woman as

+Hélène always has—men friends who can never change into lovers—once gave

+her his view of the matter at a small and intimate gathering.

+

+“Listen, Bilíbin,” said Hélène (she always called friends of that sort

+by their surnames), and she touched his coat sleeve with her white,

+beringed fingers. “Tell me, as you would a sister, what I ought to do.

+Which of the two?”

+

+Bilíbin wrinkled up the skin over his eyebrows and pondered, with a

+smile on his lips.

+

+“You are not taking me unawares, you know,” said he. “As a true friend,

+I have thought and thought again about your affair. You see, if you

+marry the prince”—he meant the younger man—and he crooked one finger,

+“you forever lose the chance of marrying the other, and you will

+displease the court besides. (You know there is some kind of

+connection.) But if you marry the old count you will make his last days

+happy, and as widow of the Grand... the prince would no longer be making

+a mésalliance by marrying you,” and Bilíbin smoothed out his forehead.

+

+“That’s a true friend!” said Hélène beaming, and again touching

+Bilíbin’s sleeve. “But I love them, you know, and don’t want to distress

+either of them. I would give my life for the happiness of them both.”

+

+Bilíbin shrugged his shoulders, as much as to say that not even he could

+help in that difficulty.

+

+“Une maîtresse-femme! * That’s what is called putting things squarely.

+She would like to be married to all three at the same time,” thought he.

+

+    * A masterly woman.

+

+“But tell me, how will your husband look at the matter?” Bilíbin asked,

+his reputation being so well established that he did not fear to ask so

+naïve a question. “Will he agree?”

+

+“Oh, he loves me so!” said Hélène, who for some reason imagined that

+Pierre too loved her. “He will do anything for me.”

+

+Bilíbin puckered his skin in preparation for something witty.

+

+“Even divorce you?” said he.

+

+Hélène laughed.

+

+Among those who ventured to doubt the justifiability of the proposed

+marriage was Hélène’s mother, Princess Kurágina. She was continually

+tormented by jealousy of her daughter, and now that jealousy concerned

+a subject near to her own heart, she could not reconcile herself to the

+idea. She consulted a Russian priest as to the possibility of divorce

+and remarriage during a husband’s lifetime, and the priest told her that

+it was impossible, and to her delight showed her a text in the Gospel

+which (as it seemed to him) plainly forbids remarriage while the husband

+is alive.

+

+Armed with these arguments, which appeared to her unanswerable, she

+drove to her daughter’s early one morning so as to find her alone.

+

+Having listened to her mother’s objections, Hélène smiled blandly and

+ironically.

+

+“But it says plainly: ‘Whosoever shall marry her that is divorced...’”

+said the old princess.

+

+“Ah, Maman, ne dites pas de bêtises. Vous ne comprenez rien. Dans ma

+position j’ai des devoirs,” * said Hélène changing from Russian, in

+which language she always felt that her case did not sound quite clear,

+into French which suited it better.

+

+     * “Oh, Mamma, don’t talk nonsense! You don’t understand

+     anything. In my position I have obligations.”

+

+

+“But, my dear....”

+

+“Oh, Mamma, how is it you don’t understand that the Holy Father, who has

+the right to grant dispensations...”

+

+Just then the lady companion who lived with Hélène came in to announce

+that His Highness was in the ballroom and wished to see her.

+

+“Non, dites-lui que je ne veux pas le voir, que je suis furieuse contre

+lui, parce qu’il m’a manqué parole.” *

+

+     * “No, tell him I don’t wish to see him, I am furious with

+     him for not keeping his word to me.”

+

+

+“Comtesse, à tout péché miséricorde,” * said a fair-haired young man

+with a long face and nose, as he entered the room.

+

+    * “Countess, there is mercy for every sin.”

+

+

+The old princess rose respectfully and curtsied. The young man who had

+entered took no notice of her. The princess nodded to her daughter and

+sidled out of the room.

+

+“Yes, she is right,” thought the old princess, all her convictions

+dissipated by the appearance of His Highness. “She is right, but how

+is it that we in our irrecoverable youth did not know it? Yet it is so

+simple,” she thought as she got into her carriage.

+

+

+By the beginning of August Hélène’s affairs were clearly defined and

+she wrote a letter to her husband—who, as she imagined, loved her very

+much—informing him of her intention to marry N.N. and of her having

+embraced the one true faith, and asking him to carry out all the

+formalities necessary for a divorce, which would be explained to him by

+the bearer of the letter.

+

+And so I pray God to have you, my friend, in His holy and powerful

+keeping—Your friend Hélène.

+

+This letter was brought to Pierre’s house when he was on the field of

+Borodinó.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER VIII

+

+Toward the end of the battle of Borodinó, Pierre, having run down

+from Raévski’s battery a second time, made his way through a gully to

+Knyazkóvo with a crowd of soldiers, reached the dressing station, and

+seeing blood and hearing cries and groans hurried on, still entangled in

+the crowds of soldiers.

+

+The one thing he now desired with his whole soul was to get away quickly

+from the terrible sensations amid which he had lived that day and return

+to ordinary conditions of life and sleep quietly in a room in his own

+bed. He felt that only in the ordinary conditions of life would he

+be able to understand himself and all he had seen and felt. But such

+ordinary conditions of life were nowhere to be found.

+

+Though shells and bullets did not whistle over the road along which he

+was going, still on all sides there was what there had been on the field

+of battle. There were still the same suffering, exhausted, and sometimes

+strangely indifferent faces, the same blood, the same soldiers’

+overcoats, the same sounds of firing which, though distant now, still

+aroused terror, and besides this there were the foul air and the dust.

+

+Having gone a couple of miles along the Mozháysk road, Pierre sat down

+by the roadside.

+

+Dusk had fallen, and the roar of guns died away. Pierre lay leaning on

+his elbow for a long time, gazing at the shadows that moved past him in

+the darkness. He was continually imagining that a cannon ball was flying

+toward him with a terrific whizz, and then he shuddered and sat up. He

+had no idea how long he had been there. In the middle of the night three

+soldiers, having brought some firewood, settled down near him and began

+lighting a fire.

+

+The soldiers, who threw sidelong glances at Pierre, got the fire to burn

+and placed an iron pot on it into which they broke some dried bread and

+put a little dripping. The pleasant odor of greasy viands mingled with

+the smell of smoke. Pierre sat up and sighed. The three soldiers were

+eating and talking among themselves, taking no notice of him.

+

+“And who may you be?” one of them suddenly asked Pierre, evidently

+meaning what Pierre himself had in mind, namely: “If you want to eat

+we’ll give you some food, only let us know whether you are an honest

+man.”

+

+“I, I...” said Pierre, feeling it necessary to minimize his social

+position as much as possible so as to be nearer to the soldiers and

+better understood by them. “By rights I am a militia officer, but my men

+are not here. I came to the battle and have lost them.”

+

+“There now!” said one of the soldiers.

+

+Another shook his head.

+

+“Would you like a little mash?” the first soldier asked, and handed

+Pierre a wooden spoon after licking it clean.

+

+Pierre sat down by the fire and began eating the mash, as they called

+the food in the cauldron, and he thought it more delicious than any food

+he had ever tasted. As he sat bending greedily over it, helping himself

+to large spoonfuls and chewing one after another, his face was lit up by

+the fire and the soldiers looked at him in silence.

+

+“Where have you to go to? Tell us!” said one of them.

+

+“To Mozháysk.”

+

+“You’re a gentleman, aren’t you?”

+

+“Yes.”

+

+“And what’s your name?”

+

+“Peter Kirílych.”

+

+“Well then, Peter Kirílych, come along with us, we’ll take you there.”

+

+In the total darkness the soldiers walked with Pierre to Mozháysk.

+

+By the time they got near Mozháysk and began ascending the steep hill

+into the town, the cocks were already crowing. Pierre went on with the

+soldiers, quite forgetting that his inn was at the bottom of the hill

+and that he had already passed it. He would not soon have remembered

+this, such was his state of forgetfulness, had he not halfway up the

+hill stumbled upon his groom, who had been to look for him in the

+town and was returning to the inn. The groom recognized Pierre in the

+darkness by his white hat.

+

+“Your excellency!” he said. “Why, we were beginning to despair! How is

+it you are on foot? And where are you going, please?”

+

+“Oh, yes!” said Pierre.

+

+The soldiers stopped.

+

+“So you’ve found your folk?” said one of them. “Well, good-by, Peter

+Kirílych—isn’t it?”

+

+“Good-by, Peter Kirílych!” Pierre heard the other voices repeat.

+

+“Good-by!” he said and turned with his groom toward the inn.

+

+“I ought to give them something!” he thought, and felt in his pocket.

+“No, better not!” said another, inner voice.

+

+There was not a room to be had at the inn, they were all occupied.

+Pierre went out into the yard and, covering himself up head and all, lay

+down in his carriage.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER IX

+

+Scarcely had Pierre laid his head on the pillow before he felt himself

+falling asleep, but suddenly, almost with the distinctness of reality,

+he heard the boom, boom, boom of firing, the thud of projectiles, groans

+and cries, and smelled blood and powder, and a feeling of horror and

+dread of death seized him. Filled with fright he opened his eyes and

+lifted his head from under his cloak. All was tranquil in the yard. Only

+someone’s orderly passed through the gateway, splashing through the mud,

+and talked to the innkeeper. Above Pierre’s head some pigeons, disturbed

+by the movement he had made in sitting up, fluttered under the dark roof

+of the penthouse. The whole courtyard was permeated by a strong peaceful

+smell of stable yards, delightful to Pierre at that moment. He could see

+the clear starry sky between the dark roofs of two penthouses.

+

+“Thank God, there is no more of that!” he thought, covering up his head

+again. “Oh, what a terrible thing is fear, and how shamefully I yielded

+to it! But they... they were steady and calm all the time, to the

+end...” thought he.

+

+They, in Pierre’s mind, were the soldiers, those who had been at the

+battery, those who had given him food, and those who had prayed before

+the icon. They, those strange men he had not previously known, stood out

+clearly and sharply from everyone else.

+

+“To be a soldier, just a soldier!” thought Pierre as he fell asleep,

+“to enter communal life completely, to be imbued by what makes them what

+they are. But how cast off all the superfluous, devilish burden of my

+outer man? There was a time when I could have done it. I could have run

+away from my father, as I wanted to. Or I might have been sent to serve

+as a soldier after the duel with Dólokhov.” And the memory of the dinner

+at the English Club when he had challenged Dólokhov flashed through

+Pierre’s mind, and then he remembered his benefactor at Torzhók. And now

+a picture of a solemn meeting of the lodge presented itself to his mind.

+It was taking place at the English Club and someone near and dear to him

+sat at the end of the table. “Yes, that is he! It is my benefactor.

+But he died!” thought Pierre. “Yes, he died, and I did not know he was

+alive. How sorry I am that he died, and how glad I am that he is alive

+again!” On one side of the table sat Anatole, Dólokhov, Nesvítski,

+Denísov, and others like them (in his dream the category to which these

+men belonged was as clearly defined in his mind as the category of

+those he termed they), and he heard those people, Anatole and Dólokhov,

+shouting and singing loudly; yet through their shouting the voice of his

+benefactor was heard speaking all the time and the sound of his words

+was as weighty and uninterrupted as the booming on the battlefield, but

+pleasant and comforting. Pierre did not understand what his benefactor

+was saying, but he knew (the categories of thoughts were also quite

+distinct in his dream) that he was talking of goodness and the

+possibility of being what they were. And they with their simple, kind,

+firm faces surrounded his benefactor on all sides. But though they were

+kindly they did not look at Pierre and did not know him. Wishing to

+speak and to attract their attention, he got up, but at that moment his

+legs grew cold and bare.

+

+He felt ashamed, and with one arm covered his legs from which his cloak

+had in fact slipped. For a moment as he was rearranging his cloak Pierre

+opened his eyes and saw the same penthouse roofs, posts, and yard, but

+now they were all bluish, lit up, and glittering with frost or dew.

+

+“It is dawn,” thought Pierre. “But that’s not what I want. I want to

+hear and understand my benefactor’s words.” Again he covered himself up

+with his cloak, but now neither the lodge nor his benefactor was there.

+There were only thoughts clearly expressed in words, thoughts that

+someone was uttering or that he himself was formulating.

+

+Afterwards when he recalled those thoughts Pierre was convinced that

+someone outside himself had spoken them, though the impressions of that

+day had evoked them. He had never, it seemed to him, been able to think

+and express his thoughts like that when awake.

+

+“To endure war is the most difficult subordination of man’s freedom to

+the law of God,” the voice had said. “Simplicity is submission to the

+will of God; you cannot escape from Him. And they are simple. They do

+not talk, but act. The spoken word is silver but the unspoken is golden.

+Man can be master of nothing while he fears death, but he who does not

+fear it possesses all. If there were no suffering, man would not know

+his limitations, would not know himself. The hardest thing (Pierre went

+on thinking, or hearing, in his dream) is to be able in your soul to

+unite the meaning of all. To unite all?” he asked himself. “No, not

+to unite. Thoughts cannot be united, but to harness all these thoughts

+together is what we need! Yes, one must harness them, must harness

+them!” he repeated to himself with inward rapture, feeling that these

+words and they alone expressed what he wanted to say and solved the

+question that tormented him.

+

+“Yes, one must harness, it is time to harness.”

+

+“Time to harness, time to harness, your excellency! Your excellency!”

+some voice was repeating. “We must harness, it is time to harness....”

+

+It was the voice of the groom, trying to wake him. The sun shone

+straight into Pierre’s face. He glanced at the dirty innyard in the

+middle of which soldiers were watering their lean horses at the pump

+while carts were passing out of the gate. Pierre turned away with

+repugnance, and closing his eyes quickly fell back on the carriage seat.

+“No, I don’t want that, I don’t want to see and understand that. I want

+to understand what was revealing itself to me in my dream. One second

+more and I should have understood it all! But what am I to do? Harness,

+but how can I harness everything?” and Pierre felt with horror that the

+meaning of all he had seen and thought in the dream had been destroyed.

+

+The groom, the coachman, and the innkeeper told Pierre that an officer

+had come with news that the French were already near Mozháysk and that

+our men were leaving it.

+

+Pierre got up and, having told them to harness and overtake him, went on

+foot through the town.

+

+The troops were moving on, leaving about ten thousand wounded behind

+them. There were wounded in the yards, at the windows of the houses, and

+the streets were crowded with them. In the streets, around carts that

+were to take some of the wounded away, shouts, curses, and blows could

+be heard. Pierre offered the use of his carriage, which had overtaken

+him, to a wounded general he knew, and drove with him to Moscow. On the

+way Pierre was told of the death of his brother-in-law Anatole and of

+that of Prince Andrew.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER X

+

+On the thirtieth of August Pierre reached Moscow. Close to the gates of

+the city he was met by Count Rostopchín’s adjutant.

+

+“We have been looking for you everywhere,” said the adjutant. “The count

+wants to see you particularly. He asks you to come to him at once on a

+very important matter.”

+

+Without going home, Pierre took a cab and drove to see the Moscow

+commander in chief.

+

+Count Rostopchín had only that morning returned to town from his summer

+villa at Sokólniki. The anteroom and reception room of his house

+were full of officials who had been summoned or had come for orders.

+Vasílchikov and Plátov had already seen the count and explained to him

+that it was impossible to defend Moscow and that it would have to be

+surrendered. Though this news was being concealed from the inhabitants,

+the officials—the heads of the various government departments—knew that

+Moscow would soon be in the enemy’s hands, just as Count Rostopchín

+himself knew it, and to escape personal responsibility they had all

+come to the governor to ask how they were to deal with their various

+departments.

+

+As Pierre was entering the reception room a courier from the army came

+out of Rostopchín’s private room.

+

+In answer to questions with which he was greeted, the courier made a

+despairing gesture with his hand and passed through the room.

+

+While waiting in the reception room Pierre with weary eyes watched the

+various officials, old and young, military and civilian, who were there.

+They all seemed dissatisfied and uneasy. Pierre went up to a group of

+men, one of whom he knew. After greeting Pierre they continued their

+conversation.

+

+“If they’re sent out and brought back again later on it will do no harm,

+but as things are now one can’t answer for anything.”

+

+“But you see what he writes...” said another, pointing to a printed

+sheet he held in his hand.

+

+“That’s another matter. That’s necessary for the people,” said the

+first.

+

+“What is it?” asked Pierre.

+

+“Oh, it’s a fresh broadsheet.”

+

+Pierre took it and began reading.

+

+His Serene Highness has passed through Mozháysk in order to join up with

+the troops moving toward him and has taken up a strong position where

+the enemy will not soon attack him. Forty-eight guns with ammunition

+have been sent him from here, and his Serene Highness says he will

+defend Moscow to the last drop of blood and is even ready to fight in

+the streets. Do not be upset, brothers, that the law courts are closed;

+things have to be put in order, and we will deal with villains in our

+own way! When the time comes I shall want both town and peasant lads and

+will raise the cry a day or two beforehand, but they are not wanted yet

+so I hold my peace. An ax will be useful, a hunting spear not bad, but a

+three-pronged fork will be best of all: a Frenchman is no heavier than a

+sheaf of rye. Tomorrow after dinner I shall take the Iberian icon of

+the Mother of God to the wounded in the Catherine Hospital where we will

+have some water blessed. That will help them to get well quicker. I,

+too, am well now: one of my eyes was sore but now I am on the lookout

+with both.

+

+“But military men have told me that it is impossible to fight in the

+town,” said Pierre, “and that the position...”

+

+“Well, of course! That’s what we were saying,” replied the first

+speaker.

+

+“And what does he mean by ‘One of my eyes was sore but now I am on the

+lookout with both’?” asked Pierre.

+

+“The count had a sty,” replied the adjutant smiling, “and was very much

+upset when I told him people had come to ask what was the matter with

+him. By the by, Count,” he added suddenly, addressing Pierre with a

+smile, “we heard that you have family troubles and that the countess,

+your wife...”

+

+“I have heard nothing,” Pierre replied unconcernedly. “But what have you

+heard?”

+

+“Oh, well, you know people often invent things. I only say what I

+heard.”

+

+“But what did you hear?”

+

+“Well, they say,” continued the adjutant with the same smile, “that

+the countess, your wife, is preparing to go abroad. I expect it’s

+nonsense....”

+

+“Possibly,” remarked Pierre, looking about him absent-mindedly. “And who

+is that?” he asked, indicating a short old man in a clean blue peasant

+overcoat, with a big snow-white beard and eyebrows and a ruddy face.

+

+“He? That’s a tradesman, that is to say, he’s the restaurant

+keeper, Vereshchágin. Perhaps you have heard of that affair with the

+proclamation.”

+

+“Oh, so that is Vereshchágin!” said Pierre, looking at the firm, calm

+face of the old man and seeking any indication of his being a traitor.

+

+“That’s not he himself, that’s the father of the fellow who wrote the

+proclamation,” said the adjutant. “The young man is in prison and I

+expect it will go hard with him.”

+

+An old gentleman wearing a star and another official, a German wearing a

+cross round his neck, approached the speaker.

+

+“It’s a complicated story, you know,” said the adjutant. “That

+proclamation appeared about two months ago. The count was informed of

+it. He gave orders to investigate the matter. Gabriel Ivánovich

+here made the inquiries. The proclamation had passed through exactly

+sixty-three hands. He asked one, ‘From whom did you get it?’ ‘From

+so-and-so.’ He went to the next one. ‘From whom did you get it?’ and so

+on till he reached Vereshchágin, a half educated tradesman, you know, ‘a

+pet of a trader,’” said the adjutant smiling. “They asked him, ‘Who gave

+it you?’ And the point is that we knew whom he had it from. He could

+only have had it from the Postmaster. But evidently they had come to

+some understanding. He replied: ‘From no one; I made it up myself.’

+They threatened and questioned him, but he stuck to that: ‘I made it

+up myself.’ And so it was reported to the count, who sent for the man.

+‘From whom did you get the proclamation?’ ‘I wrote it myself.’ Well, you

+know the count,” said the adjutant cheerfully, with a smile of pride,

+“he flared up dreadfully—and just think of the fellow’s audacity, lying,

+and obstinacy!”

+

+“And the count wanted him to say it was from Klyucharëv? I understand!”

+said Pierre.

+

+“Not at all,” rejoined the adjutant in dismay. “Klyucharëv had his own

+sins to answer for without that and that is why he has been banished.

+But the point is that the count was much annoyed. ‘How could you have

+written it yourself?’ said he, and he took up the Hamburg Gazette that

+was lying on the table. ‘Here it is! You did not write it yourself but

+translated it, and translated it abominably, because you don’t even know

+French, you fool.’ And what do you think? ‘No,’ said he, ‘I have not

+read any papers, I made it up myself.’ ‘If that’s so, you’re a traitor

+and I’ll have you tried, and you’ll be hanged! Say from whom you had

+it.’ ‘I have seen no papers, I made it up myself.’ And that was the end

+of it. The count had the father fetched, but the fellow stuck to it.

+He was sent for trial and condemned to hard labor, I believe. Now the

+father has come to intercede for him. But he’s a good-for-nothing lad!

+You know that sort of tradesman’s son, a dandy and lady-killer. He

+attended some lectures somewhere and imagines that the devil is no match

+for him. That’s the sort of fellow he is. His father keeps a cookshop

+here by the Stone Bridge, and you know there was a large icon of God

+Almighty painted with a scepter in one hand and an orb in the other.

+Well, he took that icon home with him for a few days and what did he do?

+He found some scoundrel of a painter...”

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XI

+

+In the middle of this fresh tale Pierre was summoned to the commander in

+chief.

+

+When he entered the private room Count Rostopchín, puckering his face,

+was rubbing his forehead and eyes with his hand. A short man was saying

+something, but when Pierre entered he stopped speaking and went out.

+

+“Ah, how do you do, great warrior?” said Rostopchín as soon as the short

+man had left the room. “We have heard of your prowess. But that’s not

+the point. Between ourselves, mon cher, do you belong to the Masons?” he

+went on severely, as though there were something wrong about it which

+he nevertheless intended to pardon. Pierre remained silent. “I am well

+informed, my friend, but I am aware that there are Masons and I hope

+that you are not one of those who on pretense of saving mankind wish to

+ruin Russia.”

+

+“Yes, I am a Mason,” Pierre replied.

+

+“There, you see, mon cher! I expect you know that Messrs. Speránski and

+Magnítski have been deported to their proper place. Mr. Klyucharëv has

+been treated in the same way, and so have others who on the plea of

+building up the temple of Solomon have tried to destroy the temple of

+their fatherland. You can understand that there are reasons for this and

+that I could not have exiled the Postmaster had he not been a harmful

+person. It has now come to my knowledge that you lent him your carriage

+for his removal from town, and that you have even accepted papers from

+him for safe custody. I like you and don’t wish you any harm and—as

+you are only half my age—I advise you, as a father would, to cease

+all communication with men of that stamp and to leave here as soon as

+possible.”

+

+“But what did Klyucharëv do wrong, Count?” asked Pierre.

+

+“That is for me to know, but not for you to ask,” shouted Rostopchín.

+

+“If he is accused of circulating Napoleon’s proclamation it is not

+proved that he did so,” said Pierre without looking at Rostopchín, “and

+Vereshchágin...”

+

+“There we are!” Rostopchín shouted at Pierre louder than before,

+frowning suddenly. “Vereshchágin is a renegade and a traitor who will

+be punished as he deserves,” said he with the vindictive heat with which

+people speak when recalling an insult. “But I did not summon you to

+discuss my actions, but to give you advice—or an order if you prefer it.

+I beg you to leave the town and break off all communication with such

+men as Klyucharëv. And I will knock the nonsense out of anybody”—but

+probably realizing that he was shouting at Bezúkhov who so far was not

+guilty of anything, he added, taking Pierre’s hand in a friendly manner,

+“We are on the eve of a public disaster and I haven’t time to be polite

+to everybody who has business with me. My head is sometimes in a whirl.

+Well, mon cher, what are you doing personally?”

+

+“Why, nothing,” answered Pierre without raising his eyes or changing the

+thoughtful expression of his face.

+

+The count frowned.

+

+“A word of friendly advice, mon cher. Be off as soon as you can, that’s

+all I have to tell you. Happy he who has ears to hear. Good-by, my dear

+fellow. Oh, by the by!” he shouted through the doorway after Pierre,

+“is it true that the countess has fallen into the clutches of the holy

+fathers of the Society of Jesus?”

+

+Pierre did not answer and left Rostopchín’s room more sullen and angry

+than he had ever before shown himself.

+

+When he reached home it was already getting dark. Some eight people had

+come to see him that evening: the secretary of a committee, the colonel

+of his battalion, his steward, his major-domo, and various petitioners.

+They all had business with Pierre and wanted decisions from him. Pierre

+did not understand and was not interested in any of these questions and

+only answered them in order to get rid of these people. When left alone

+at last he opened and read his wife’s letter.

+

+“They, the soldiers at the battery, Prince Andrew killed... that old

+man... Simplicity is submission to God. Suffering is necessary... the

+meaning of all... one must harness... my wife is getting married... One

+must forget and understand...” And going to his bed he threw himself on

+it without undressing and immediately fell asleep.

+

+When he awoke next morning the major-domo came to inform him that a

+special messenger, a police officer, had come from Count Rostopchín to

+know whether Count Bezúkhov had left or was leaving the town.

+

+A dozen persons who had business with Pierre were awaiting him in the

+drawing room. Pierre dressed hurriedly and, instead of going to see

+them, went to the back porch and out through the gate.

+

+From that time till the end of the destruction of Moscow no one of

+Bezúkhov’s household, despite all the search they made, saw Pierre again

+or knew where he was.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XII

+

+The Rostóvs remained in Moscow till the first of September, that is,

+till the eve of the enemy’s entry into the city.

+

+After Pétya had joined Obolénski’s regiment of Cossacks and left for

+Bélaya Tsérkov where that regiment was forming, the countess was seized

+with terror. The thought that both her sons were at the war, had both

+gone from under her wing, that today or tomorrow either or both of them

+might be killed like the three sons of one of her acquaintances, struck

+her that summer for the first time with cruel clearness. She tried to

+get Nicholas back and wished to go herself to join Pétya, or to get

+him an appointment somewhere in Petersburg, but neither of these proved

+possible. Pétya could not return unless his regiment did so or unless

+he was transferred to another regiment on active service. Nicholas was

+somewhere with the army and had not sent a word since his last letter,

+in which he had given a detailed account of his meeting with Princess

+Mary. The countess did not sleep at night, or when she did fall asleep

+dreamed that she saw her sons lying dead. After many consultations and

+conversations, the count at last devised means to tranquillize her. He

+got Pétya transferred from Obolénski’s regiment to Bezúkhov’s, which was

+in training near Moscow. Though Pétya would remain in the service, this

+transfer would give the countess the consolation of seeing at least one

+of her sons under her wing, and she hoped to arrange matters for her

+Pétya so as not to let him go again, but always get him appointed to

+places where he could not possibly take part in a battle. As long as

+Nicholas alone was in danger the countess imagined that she loved her

+first-born more than all her other children and even reproached herself

+for it; but when her youngest: the scapegrace who had been bad at

+lessons, was always breaking things in the house and making himself a

+nuisance to everybody, that snub-nosed Pétya with his merry black eyes

+and fresh rosy cheeks where soft down was just beginning to show—when

+he was thrown amid those big, dreadful, cruel men who were fighting

+somewhere about something and apparently finding pleasure in it—then

+his mother thought she loved him more, much more, than all her other

+children. The nearer the time came for Pétya to return, the more uneasy

+grew the countess. She began to think she would never live to see such

+happiness. The presence of Sónya, of her beloved Natásha, or even of

+her husband irritated her. “What do I want with them? I want no one but

+Pétya,” she thought.

+

+At the end of August the Rostóvs received another letter from Nicholas.

+He wrote from the province of Vorónezh where he had been sent to procure

+remounts, but that letter did not set the countess at ease. Knowing that

+one son was out of danger she became the more anxious about Pétya.

+

+Though by the twentieth of August nearly all the Rostóvs’ acquaintances

+had left Moscow, and though everybody tried to persuade the countess to

+get away as quickly as possible, she would not hear of leaving before

+her treasure, her adored Pétya, returned. On the twenty-eighth of August

+he arrived. The passionate tenderness with which his mother received him

+did not please the sixteen-year-old officer. Though she concealed from

+him her intention of keeping him under her wing, Pétya guessed her

+designs, and instinctively fearing that he might give way to emotion

+when with her—might “become womanish” as he termed it to himself—he

+treated her coldly, avoided her, and during his stay in Moscow attached

+himself exclusively to Natásha for whom he had always had a particularly

+brotherly tenderness, almost lover-like.

+

+Owing to the count’s customary carelessness nothing was ready for their

+departure by the twenty-eighth of August and the carts that were to

+come from their Ryazán and Moscow estates to remove their household

+belongings did not arrive till the thirtieth.

+

+From the twenty-eighth till the thirty-first all Moscow was in a bustle

+and commotion. Every day thousands of men wounded at Borodinó were

+brought in by the Dorogomílov gate and taken to various parts of Moscow,

+and thousands of carts conveyed the inhabitants and their possessions

+out by the other gates. In spite of Rostopchín’s broadsheets, or because

+of them or independently of them, the strangest and most contradictory

+rumors were current in the town. Some said that no one was to be allowed

+to leave the city, others on the contrary said that all the icons had

+been taken out of the churches and everybody was to be ordered to leave.

+Some said there had been another battle after Borodinó at which the

+French had been routed, while others on the contrary reported that the

+Russian army had been destroyed. Some talked about the Moscow militia

+which, preceded by the clergy, would go to the Three Hills; others

+whispered that Augustin had been forbidden to leave, that traitors had

+been seized, that the peasants were rioting and robbing people on their

+way from Moscow, and so on. But all this was only talk; in reality

+(though the Council of Filí, at which it was decided to abandon Moscow,

+had not yet been held) both those who went away and those who remained

+behind felt, though they did not show it, that Moscow would certainly

+be abandoned, and that they ought to get away as quickly as possible and

+save their belongings. It was felt that everything would suddenly break

+up and change, but up to the first of September nothing had done so.

+As a criminal who is being led to execution knows that he must die

+immediately, but yet looks about him and straightens the cap that is

+awry on his head, so Moscow involuntarily continued its wonted life,

+though it knew that the time of its destruction was near when the

+conditions of life to which its people were accustomed to submit would

+be completely upset.

+

+During the three days preceding the occupation of Moscow the whole

+Rostóv family was absorbed in various activities. The head of the

+family, Count Ilyá Rostóv, continually drove about the city collecting

+the current rumors from all sides and gave superficial and hasty orders

+at home about the preparations for their departure.

+

+The countess watched the things being packed, was dissatisfied with

+everything, was constantly in pursuit of Pétya who was always running

+away from her, and was jealous of Natásha with whom he spent all his

+time. Sónya alone directed the practical side of matters by getting

+things packed. But of late Sónya had been particularly sad and silent.

+Nicholas’ letter in which he mentioned Princess Mary had elicited, in

+her presence, joyous comments from the countess, who saw an intervention

+of Providence in this meeting of the princess and Nicholas.

+

+“I was never pleased at Bolkónski’s engagement to Natásha,” said the

+countess, “but I always wanted Nicholas to marry the princess, and had a

+presentiment that it would happen. What a good thing it would be!”

+

+Sónya felt that this was true: that the only possibility of retrieving

+the Rostóvs’ affairs was by Nicholas marrying a rich woman, and that the

+princess was a good match. It was very bitter for her. But despite

+her grief, or perhaps just because of it, she took on herself all the

+difficult work of directing the storing and packing of their things and

+was busy for whole days. The count and countess turned to her when they

+had any orders to give. Pétya and Natásha on the contrary, far from

+helping their parents, were generally a nuisance and a hindrance to

+everyone. Almost all day long the house resounded with their running

+feet, their cries, and their spontaneous laughter. They laughed and were

+gay not because there was any reason to laugh, but because gaiety and

+mirth were in their hearts and so everything that happened was a cause

+for gaiety and laughter to them. Pétya was in high spirits because

+having left home a boy he had returned (as everybody told him) a fine

+young man, because he was at home, because he had left Bélaya Tsérkov

+where there was no hope of soon taking part in a battle and had come to

+Moscow where there was to be fighting in a few days, and chiefly because

+Natásha, whose lead he always followed, was in high spirits. Natásha was

+gay because she had been sad too long and now nothing reminded her of

+the cause of her sadness, and because she was feeling well. She was also

+happy because she had someone to adore her: the adoration of others was

+a lubricant the wheels of her machine needed to make them run freely—and

+Pétya adored her. Above all, they were gay because there was a war near

+Moscow, there would be fighting at the town gates, arms were being

+given out, everybody was escaping—going away somewhere, and in general

+something extraordinary was happening, and that is always exciting,

+especially to the young.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XIII

+

+On Saturday, the thirty-first of August, everything in the Rostóvs’

+house seemed topsy-turvy. All the doors were open, all the furniture was

+being carried out or moved about, and the mirrors and pictures had been

+taken down. There were trunks in the rooms, and hay, wrapping paper, and

+ropes were scattered about. The peasants and house serfs carrying out

+the things were treading heavily on the parquet floors. The yard was

+crowded with peasant carts, some loaded high and already corded up,

+others still empty.

+

+The voices and footsteps of the many servants and of the peasants who

+had come with the carts resounded as they shouted to one another in

+the yard and in the house. The count had been out since morning. The

+countess had a headache brought on by all the noise and turmoil and was

+lying down in the new sitting room with a vinegar compress on her head.

+Pétya was not at home, he had gone to visit a friend with whom he meant

+to obtain a transfer from the militia to the active army. Sónya was in

+the ballroom looking after the packing of the glass and china. Natásha

+was sitting on the floor of her dismantled room with dresses, ribbons,

+and scarves strewn all about her, gazing fixedly at the floor and

+holding in her hands the old ball dress (already out of fashion) which

+she had worn at her first Petersburg ball.

+

+Natásha was ashamed of doing nothing when everyone else was so busy, and

+several times that morning had tried to set to work, but her heart was

+not in it, and she could not and did not know how to do anything except

+with all her heart and all her might. For a while she had stood beside

+Sónya while the china was being packed and tried to help, but soon gave

+it up and went to her room to pack her own things. At first she found it

+amusing to give away dresses and ribbons to the maids, but when that was

+done and what was left had still to be packed, she found it dull.

+

+“Dunyásha, you pack! You will, won’t you, dear?” And when Dunyásha

+willingly promised to do it all for her, Natásha sat down on the floor,

+took her old ball dress, and fell into a reverie quite unrelated to what

+ought to have occupied her thoughts now. She was roused from her reverie

+by the talk of the maids in the next room (which was theirs) and by the

+sound of their hurried footsteps going to the back porch. Natásha got

+up and looked out of the window. An enormously long row of carts full of

+wounded men had stopped in the street.

+

+The housekeeper, the old nurse, the cooks, coachmen, maids, footmen,

+postilions, and scullions stood at the gate, staring at the wounded.

+

+Natásha, throwing a clean pocket handkerchief over her hair and holding

+an end of it in each hand, went out into the street.

+

+The former housekeeper, old Mávra Kuzmínichna, had stepped out of the

+crowd by the gate, gone up to a cart with a hood constructed of bast

+mats, and was speaking to a pale young officer who lay inside.

+Natásha moved a few steps forward and stopped shyly, still holding her

+handkerchief, and listened to what the housekeeper was saying.

+

+“Then you have nobody in Moscow?” she was saying. “You would be more

+comfortable somewhere in a house... in ours, for instance... the family

+are leaving.”

+

+“I don’t know if it would be allowed,” replied the officer in a weak

+voice. “Here is our commanding officer... ask him,” and he pointed to a

+stout major who was walking back along the street past the row of carts.

+

+Natásha glanced with frightened eyes at the face of the wounded officer

+and at once went to meet the major.

+

+“May the wounded men stay in our house?” she asked.

+

+The major raised his hand to his cap with a smile.

+

+“Which one do you want, Ma’am’selle?” said he, screwing up his eyes and

+smiling.

+

+Natásha quietly repeated her question, and her face and whole

+manner were so serious, though she was still holding the ends of her

+handkerchief, that the major ceased smiling and after some reflection—as

+if considering in how far the thing was possible—replied in the

+affirmative.

+

+“Oh yes, why not? They may,” he said.

+

+With a slight inclination of her head, Natásha stepped back quickly to

+Mávra Kuzmínichna, who stood talking compassionately to the officer.

+

+“They may. He says they may!” whispered Natásha.

+

+The cart in which the officer lay was turned into the Rostóvs’ yard,

+and dozens of carts with wounded men began at the invitation of the

+townsfolk to turn into the yards and to draw up at the entrances of the

+houses in Povarskáya Street. Natásha was evidently pleased to be dealing

+with new people outside the ordinary routine of her life. She and Mávra

+Kuzmínichna tried to get as many of the wounded as possible into their

+yard.

+

+“Your Papa must be told, though,” said Mávra Kuzmínichna.

+

+“Never mind, never mind, what does it matter? For one day we can move

+into the drawing room. They can have all our half of the house.”

+

+“There now, young lady, you do take things into your head! Even if we

+put them into the wing, the men’s room, or the nurse’s room, we must ask

+permission.”

+

+“Well, I’ll ask.”

+

+Natásha ran into the house and went on tiptoe through the half-open door

+into the sitting room, where there was a smell of vinegar and Hoffman’s

+drops.

+

+“Are you asleep, Mamma?”

+

+“Oh, what sleep—?” said the countess, waking up just as she was dropping

+into a doze.

+

+“Mamma darling!” said Natásha, kneeling by her mother and bringing her

+face close to her mother’s, “I am sorry, forgive me, I’ll never do it

+again; I woke you up! Mávra Kuzmínichna has sent me: they have brought

+some wounded here—officers. Will you let them come? They have nowhere to

+go. I knew you’d let them come!” she said quickly all in one breath.

+

+“What officers? Whom have they brought? I don’t understand anything

+about it,” said the countess.

+

+Natásha laughed, and the countess too smiled slightly.

+

+“I knew you’d give permission... so I’ll tell them,” and, having kissed

+her mother, Natásha got up and went to the door.

+

+In the hall she met her father, who had returned with bad news.

+

+“We’ve stayed too long!” said the count with involuntary vexation. “The

+Club is closed and the police are leaving.”

+

+“Papa, is it all right—I’ve invited some of the wounded into the house?”

+said Natásha.

+

+“Of course it is,” he answered absently. “That’s not the point. I beg

+you not to indulge in trifles now, but to help to pack, and tomorrow we

+must go, go, go!...”

+

+And the count gave a similar order to the major-domo and the servants.

+

+At dinner Pétya having returned home told them the news he had heard.

+He said the people had been getting arms in the Krémlin, and that though

+Rostopchín’s broadsheet had said that he would sound a call two or three

+days in advance, the order had certainly already been given for everyone

+to go armed to the Three Hills tomorrow, and that there would be a big

+battle there.

+

+The countess looked with timid horror at her son’s eager, excited face

+as he said this. She realized that if she said a word about his not

+going to the battle (she knew he enjoyed the thought of the impending

+engagement) he would say something about men, honor, and the

+fatherland—something senseless, masculine, and obstinate which there

+would be no contradicting, and her plans would be spoiled; and so,

+hoping to arrange to leave before then and take Pétya with her as their

+protector and defender, she did not answer him, but after dinner called

+the count aside and implored him with tears to take her away quickly,

+that very night if possible. With a woman’s involuntary loving cunning

+she, who till then had not shown any alarm, said that she would die of

+fright if they did not leave that very night. Without any pretense she

+was now afraid of everything.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XIV

+

+Madame Schoss, who had been out to visit her daughter, increased the

+countess’ fears still more by telling what she had seen at a spirit

+dealer’s in Myasnítski Street. When returning by that street she had

+been unable to pass because of a drunken crowd rioting in front of

+the shop. She had taken a cab and driven home by a side street and the

+cabman had told her that the people were breaking open the barrels at

+the drink store, having received orders to do so.

+

+After dinner the whole Rostóv household set to work with enthusiastic

+haste packing their belongings and preparing for their departure. The

+old count, suddenly setting to work, kept passing from the yard to the

+house and back again, shouting confused instructions to the hurrying

+people, and flurrying them still more. Pétya directed things in the

+yard. Sónya, owing to the count’s contradictory orders, lost her head

+and did not know what to do. The servants ran noisily about the house

+and yard, shouting and disputing. Natásha, with the ardor characteristic

+of all she did suddenly set to work too. At first her intervention in

+the business of packing was received skeptically. Everybody expected

+some prank from her and did not wish to obey her; but she resolutely

+and passionately demanded obedience, grew angry and nearly cried because

+they did not heed her, and at last succeeded in making them believe her.

+Her first exploit, which cost her immense effort and established her

+authority, was the packing of the carpets. The count had valuable

+Gobelin tapestries and Persian carpets in the house. When Natásha set

+to work two cases were standing open in the ballroom, one almost full

+up with crockery, the other with carpets. There was also much china

+standing on the tables, and still more was being brought in from the

+storeroom. A third case was needed and servants had gone to fetch it.

+

+“Sónya, wait a bit—we’ll pack everything into these,” said Natásha.

+

+“You can’t, Miss, we have tried to,” said the butler’s assistant.

+

+“No, wait a minute, please.”

+

+And Natásha began rapidly taking out of the case dishes and plates

+wrapped in paper.

+

+“The dishes must go in here among the carpets,” said she.

+

+“Why, it’s a mercy if we can get the carpets alone into three cases,”

+said the butler’s assistant.

+

+“Oh, wait, please!” And Natásha began rapidly and deftly sorting out the

+things. “These aren’t needed,” said she, putting aside some plates

+of Kiev ware. “These—yes, these must go among the carpets,” she said,

+referring to the Saxony china dishes.

+

+“Don’t, Natásha! Leave it alone! We’ll get it all packed,” urged Sónya

+reproachfully.

+

+“What a young lady she is!” remarked the major-domo.

+

+But Natásha would not give in. She turned everything out and began

+quickly repacking, deciding that the inferior Russian carpets and

+unnecessary crockery should not be taken at all. When everything had

+been taken out of the cases, they recommenced packing, and it turned

+out that when the cheaper things not worth taking had nearly all been

+rejected, the valuable ones really did all go into the two cases. Only

+the lid of the case containing the carpets would not shut down. A few

+more things might have been taken out, but Natásha insisted on having

+her own way. She packed, repacked, pressed, made the butler’s assistant

+and Pétya—whom she had drawn into the business of packing—press on the

+lid, and made desperate efforts herself.

+

+“That’s enough, Natásha,” said Sónya. “I see you were right, but just

+take out the top one.”

+

+“I won’t!” cried Natásha, with one hand holding back the hair that hung

+over her perspiring face, while with the other she pressed down the

+carpets. “Now press, Pétya! Press, Vasílich, press hard!” she cried.

+

+The carpets yielded and the lid closed; Natásha, clapping her hands,

+screamed with delight and tears fell from her eyes. But this only

+lasted a moment. She at once set to work afresh and they now trusted her

+completely. The count was not angry even when they told him that Natásha

+had countermanded an order of his, and the servants now came to her

+to ask whether a cart was sufficiently loaded, and whether it might

+be corded up. Thanks to Natásha’s directions the work now went on

+expeditiously, unnecessary things were left, and the most valuable

+packed as compactly as possible.

+

+But hard as they all worked till quite late that night, they could not

+get everything packed. The countess had fallen asleep and the count,

+having put off their departure till next morning, went to bed.

+

+Sónya and Natásha slept in the sitting room without undressing.

+

+That night another wounded man was driven down the Povarskáya, and Mávra

+Kuzmínichna, who was standing at the gate, had him brought into the

+Rostóvs’ yard. Mávra Kuzmínichna concluded that he was a very important

+man. He was being conveyed in a calèche with a raised hood, and was

+quite covered by an apron. On the box beside the driver sat a venerable

+old attendant. A doctor and two soldiers followed the carriage in a

+cart.

+

+“Please come in here. The masters are going away and the whole house

+will be empty,” said the old woman to the old attendant.

+

+“Well, perhaps,” said he with a sigh. “We don’t expect to get him home

+alive! We have a house of our own in Moscow, but it’s a long way from

+here, and there’s nobody living in it.”

+

+“Do us the honor to come in, there’s plenty of everything in the

+master’s house. Come in,” said Mávra Kuzmínichna. “Is he very ill?” she

+asked.

+

+The attendant made a hopeless gesture.

+

+“We don’t expect to get him home! We must ask the doctor.”

+

+And the old servant got down from the box and went up to the cart.

+

+“All right!” said the doctor.

+

+The old servant returned to the calèche, looked into it, shook his

+head disconsolately, told the driver to turn into the yard, and stopped

+beside Mávra Kuzmínichna.

+

+“O, Lord Jesus Christ!” she murmured.

+

+She invited them to take the wounded man into the house.

+

+“The masters won’t object...” she said.

+

+But they had to avoid carrying the man upstairs, and so they took him

+into the wing and put him in the room that had been Madame Schoss’.

+

+This wounded man was Prince Andrew Bolkónski.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XV

+

+Moscow’s last day had come. It was a clear bright autumn day, a Sunday.

+The church bells everywhere were ringing for service, just as usual on

+Sundays. Nobody seemed yet to realize what awaited the city.

+

+Only two things indicated the social condition of Moscow—the rabble,

+that is the poor people, and the price of commodities. An enormous crowd

+of factory hands, house serfs, and peasants, with whom some officials,

+seminarists, and gentry were mingled, had gone early that morning to

+the Three Hills. Having waited there for Rostopchín who did not turn

+up, they became convinced that Moscow would be surrendered, and then

+dispersed all about the town to the public houses and cookshops. Prices

+too that day indicated the state of affairs. The price of weapons, of

+gold, of carts and horses, kept rising, but the value of paper money and

+city articles kept falling, so that by midday there were instances of

+carters removing valuable goods, such as cloth, and receiving in payment

+a half of what they carted, while peasant horses were fetching five

+hundred rubles each, and furniture, mirrors, and bronzes were being

+given away for nothing.

+

+In the Rostóvs’ staid old-fashioned house the dissolution of former

+conditions of life was but little noticeable. As to the serfs the only

+indication was that three out of their huge retinue disappeared

+during the night, but nothing was stolen; and as to the value of their

+possessions, the thirty peasant carts that had come in from their

+estates and which many people envied proved to be extremely valuable and

+they were offered enormous sums of money for them. Not only were huge

+sums offered for the horses and carts, but on the previous evening and

+early in the morning of the first of September, orderlies and servants

+sent by wounded officers came to the Rostóvs’ and wounded men dragged

+themselves there from the Rostóvs’ and from neighboring houses where

+they were accommodated, entreating the servants to try to get them

+a lift out of Moscow. The major-domo to whom these entreaties were

+addressed, though he was sorry for the wounded, resolutely refused,

+saying that he dare not even mention the matter to the count. Pity these

+wounded men as one might, it was evident that if they were given one

+cart there would be no reason to refuse another, or all the carts and

+one’s own carriages as well. Thirty carts could not save all the wounded

+and in the general catastrophe one could not disregard oneself and one’s

+own family. So thought the major-domo on his master’s behalf.

+

+On waking up that morning Count Ilyá Rostóv left his bedroom softly, so

+as not to wake the countess who had fallen asleep only toward morning,

+and came out to the porch in his lilac silk dressing gown. In the yard

+stood the carts ready corded. The carriages were at the front porch.

+The major-domo stood at the porch talking to an elderly orderly and to

+a pale young officer with a bandaged arm. On seeing the count the

+major-domo made a significant and stern gesture to them both to go away.

+

+“Well, Vasílich, is everything ready?” asked the count, and stroking his

+bald head he looked good-naturedly at the officer and the orderly and

+nodded to them. (He liked to see new faces.)

+

+“We can harness at once, your excellency.”

+

+“Well, that’s right. As soon as the countess wakes we’ll be off, God

+willing! What is it, gentlemen?” he added, turning to the officer. “Are

+you staying in my house?”

+

+The officer came nearer and suddenly his face flushed crimson.

+

+“Count, be so good as to allow me... for God’s sake, to get into some

+corner of one of your carts! I have nothing here with me.... I shall be

+all right on a loaded cart....”

+

+Before the officer had finished speaking the orderly made the same

+request on behalf of his master.

+

+“Oh, yes, yes, yes!” said the count hastily. “I shall be very pleased,

+very pleased. Vasílich, you’ll see to it. Just unload one or two carts.

+Well, what of it... do what’s necessary...” said the count, muttering

+some indefinite order.

+

+But at the same moment an expression of warm gratitude on the officer’s

+face had already sealed the order. The count looked around him. In the

+yard, at the gates, at the window of the wings, wounded officers and

+their orderlies were to be seen. They were all looking at the count and

+moving toward the porch.

+

+“Please step into the gallery, your excellency,” said the major-domo.

+“What are your orders about the pictures?”

+

+The count went into the house with him, repeating his order not to

+refuse the wounded who asked for a lift.

+

+“Well, never mind, some of the things can be unloaded,” he added in a

+soft, confidential voice, as though afraid of being overheard.

+

+At nine o’clock the countess woke up, and Matrëna Timoféevna, who had

+been her lady’s maid before her marriage and now performed a sort of

+chief gendarme’s duty for her, came to say that Madame Schoss was much

+offended and the young ladies’ summer dresses could not be left behind.

+On inquiry, the countess learned that Madame Schoss was offended because

+her trunk had been taken down from its cart, and all the loads were

+being uncorded and the luggage taken out of the carts to make room for

+wounded men whom the count in the simplicity of his heart had ordered

+that they should take with them. The countess sent for her husband.

+

+“What is this, my dear? I hear that the luggage is being unloaded.”

+

+“You know, love, I wanted to tell you... Countess dear... an officer

+came to me to ask for a few carts for the wounded. After all, ours are

+things that can be bought but think what being left behind means to

+them!... Really now, in our own yard—we asked them in ourselves and

+there are officers among them.... You know, I think, my dear... let them

+be taken... where’s the hurry?”

+

+The count spoke timidly, as he always did when talking of money matters.

+The countess was accustomed to this tone as a precursor of news of

+something detrimental to the children’s interests, such as the building

+of a new gallery or conservatory, the inauguration of a private theater

+or an orchestra. She was accustomed always to oppose anything announced

+in that timid tone and considered it her duty to do so.

+

+She assumed her dolefully submissive manner and said to her husband:

+“Listen to me, Count, you have managed matters so that we are getting

+nothing for the house, and now you wish to throw away all our—all the

+children’s property! You said yourself that we have a hundred thousand

+rubles’ worth of things in the house. I don’t consent, my dear, I don’t!

+Do as you please! It’s the government’s business to look after the

+wounded; they know that. Look at the Lopukhíns opposite, they cleared

+out everything two days ago. That’s what other people do. It’s only

+we who are such fools. If you have no pity on me, have some for the

+children.”

+

+Flourishing his arms in despair the count left the room without

+replying.

+

+“Papa, what are you doing that for?” asked Natásha, who had followed him

+into her mother’s room.

+

+“Nothing! What business is it of yours?” muttered the count angrily.

+

+“But I heard,” said Natásha. “Why does Mamma object?”

+

+“What business is it of yours?” cried the count.

+

+Natásha stepped up to the window and pondered.

+

+“Papa! Here’s Berg coming to see us,” said she, looking out of the

+window.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XVI

+

+Berg, the Rostóvs’ son-in-law, was already a colonel wearing the orders

+of Vladímir and Anna, and he still filled the quiet and agreeable post

+of assistant to the head of the staff of the assistant commander of the

+first division of the Second Army.

+

+On the first of September he had come to Moscow from the army.

+

+He had nothing to do in Moscow, but he had noticed that everyone in the

+army was asking for leave to visit Moscow and had something to do there.

+So he considered it necessary to ask for leave of absence for family and

+domestic reasons.

+

+Berg drove up to his father-in-law’s house in his spruce little trap

+with a pair of sleek roans, exactly like those of a certain prince. He

+looked attentively at the carts in the yard and while going up to the

+porch took out a clean pocket handkerchief and tied a knot in it.

+

+From the anteroom Berg ran with smooth though impatient steps into the

+drawing room, where he embraced the count, kissed the hands of Natásha

+and Sónya, and hastened to inquire after “Mamma’s” health.

+

+“Health, at a time like this?” said the count. “Come, tell us the news!

+Is the army retreating or will there be another battle?”

+

+“God Almighty alone can decide the fate of our fatherland, Papa,” said

+Berg. “The army is burning with a spirit of heroism and the leaders, so

+to say, have now assembled in council. No one knows what is coming. But

+in general I can tell you, Papa, that such a heroic spirit, the truly

+antique valor of the Russian army, which they—which it” (he corrected

+himself) “has shown or displayed in the battle of the twenty-sixth—there

+are no words worthy to do it justice! I tell you, Papa” (he smote

+himself on the breast as a general he had heard speaking had done, but

+Berg did it a trifle late for he should have struck his breast at the

+words “Russian army”), “I tell you frankly that we, the commanders, far

+from having to urge the men on or anything of that kind, could hardly

+restrain those... those... yes, those exploits of antique valor,” he

+went on rapidly. “General Barclay de Tolly risked his life everywhere at

+the head of the troops, I can assure you. Our corps was stationed on a

+hillside. You can imagine!”

+

+And Berg related all that he remembered of the various tales he had

+heard those days. Natásha watched him with an intent gaze that confused

+him, as if she were trying to find in his face the answer to some

+question.

+

+“Altogether such heroism as was displayed by the Russian warriors

+cannot be imagined or adequately praised!” said Berg, glancing round

+at Natásha, and as if anxious to conciliate her, replying to her intent

+look with a smile. “‘Russia is not in Moscow, she lives in the hearts of

+her sons!’ Isn’t it so, Papa?” said he.

+

+Just then the countess came in from the sitting room with a weary and

+dissatisfied expression. Berg hurriedly jumped up, kissed her hand,

+asked about her health, and, swaying his head from side to side to

+express sympathy, remained standing beside her.

+

+“Yes, Mamma, I tell you sincerely that these are hard and sad times for

+every Russian. But why are you so anxious? You have still time to get

+away....”

+

+“I can’t think what the servants are about,” said the countess, turning

+to her husband. “I have just been told that nothing is ready yet.

+Somebody after all must see to things. One misses Mítenka at such times.

+There won’t be any end to it.”

+

+The count was about to say something, but evidently restrained himself.

+He got up from his chair and went to the door.

+

+At that moment Berg drew out his handkerchief as if to blow his nose

+and, seeing the knot in it, pondered, shaking his head sadly and

+significantly.

+

+“And I have a great favor to ask of you, Papa,” said he.

+

+“Hm...” said the count, and stopped.

+

+“I was driving past Yusúpov’s house just now,” said Berg with a laugh,

+“when the steward, a man I know, ran out and asked me whether I wouldn’t

+buy something. I went in out of curiosity, you know, and there is a

+small chiffonier and a dressing table. You know how dear Véra wanted a

+chiffonier like that and how we had a dispute about it.” (At the mention

+of the chiffonier and dressing table Berg involuntarily changed his tone

+to one of pleasure at his admirable domestic arrangements.) “And it’s

+such a beauty! It pulls out and has a secret English drawer, you know!

+And dear Véra has long wanted one. I wish to give her a surprise, you

+see. I saw so many of those peasant carts in your yard. Please let me

+have one, I will pay the man well, and...”

+

+The count frowned and coughed.

+

+“Ask the countess, I don’t give orders.”

+

+“If it’s inconvenient, please don’t,” said Berg. “Only I so wanted it,

+for dear Véra’s sake.”

+

+“Oh, go to the devil, all of you! To the devil, the devil, the devil...”

+cried the old count. “My head’s in a whirl!”

+

+And he left the room. The countess began to cry.

+

+“Yes, Mamma! Yes, these are very hard times!” said Berg.

+

+Natásha left the room with her father and, as if finding it difficult to

+reach some decision, first followed him and then ran downstairs.

+

+Pétya was in the porch, engaged in giving out weapons to the servants

+who were to leave Moscow. The loaded carts were still standing in the

+yard. Two of them had been uncorded and a wounded officer was climbing

+into one of them helped by an orderly.

+

+“Do you know what it’s about?” Pétya asked Natásha.

+

+She understood that he meant what were their parents quarreling about.

+She did not answer.

+

+“It’s because Papa wanted to give up all the carts to the wounded,” said

+Pétya. “Vasílich told me. I consider...”

+

+“I consider,” Natásha suddenly almost shouted, turning her angry face to

+Pétya, “I consider it so horrid, so abominable, so... I don’t know what.

+Are we despicable Germans?”

+

+Her throat quivered with convulsive sobs and, afraid of weakening and

+letting the force of her anger run to waste, she turned and rushed

+headlong up the stairs.

+

+Berg was sitting beside the countess consoling her with the respectful

+attention of a relative. The count, pipe in hand, was pacing up and down

+the room, when Natásha, her face distorted by anger, burst in like a

+tempest and approached her mother with rapid steps.

+

+“It’s horrid! It’s abominable!” she screamed. “You can’t possibly have

+ordered it!”

+

+Berg and the countess looked at her, perplexed and frightened. The count

+stood still at the window and listened.

+

+“Mamma, it’s impossible: see what is going on in the yard!” she cried.

+“They will be left!...”

+

+“What’s the matter with you? Who are ‘they’? What do you want?”

+

+“Why, the wounded! It’s impossible, Mamma. It’s monstrous!... No, Mamma

+darling, it’s not the thing. Please forgive me, darling.... Mamma, what

+does it matter what we take away? Only look what is going on in the

+yard... Mamma!... It’s impossible!”

+

+The count stood by the window and listened without turning round.

+Suddenly he sniffed and put his face closer to the window.

+

+The countess glanced at her daughter, saw her face full of shame for her

+mother, saw her agitation, and understood why her husband did not turn

+to look at her now, and she glanced round quite disconcerted.

+

+“Oh, do as you like! Am I hindering anyone?” she said, not surrendering

+at once.

+

+“Mamma, darling, forgive me!”

+

+But the countess pushed her daughter away and went up to her husband.

+

+“My dear, you order what is right.... You know I don’t understand about

+it,” said she, dropping her eyes shamefacedly.

+

+“The eggs... the eggs are teaching the hen,” muttered the count through

+tears of joy, and he embraced his wife who was glad to hide her look of

+shame on his breast.

+

+“Papa! Mamma! May I see to it? May I?...” asked Natásha. “We will still

+take all the most necessary things.”

+

+The count nodded affirmatively, and Natásha, at the rapid pace at which

+she used to run when playing at tag, ran through the ballroom to the

+anteroom and downstairs into the yard.

+

+The servants gathered round Natásha, but could not believe the strange

+order she brought them until the count himself, in his wife’s name,

+confirmed the order to give up all the carts to the wounded and take the

+trunks to the storerooms. When they understood that order the servants

+set to work at this new task with pleasure and zeal. It no longer seemed

+strange to them but on the contrary it seemed the only thing that could

+be done, just as a quarter of an hour before it had not seemed strange

+to anyone that the wounded should be left behind and the goods carted

+away but that had seemed the only thing to do.

+

+The whole household, as if to atone for not having done it sooner, set

+eagerly to work at the new task of placing the wounded in the carts. The

+wounded dragged themselves out of their rooms and stood with pale but

+happy faces round the carts. The news that carts were to be had spread

+to the neighboring houses, from which wounded men began to come into the

+Rostóvs’ yard. Many of the wounded asked them not to unload the carts

+but only to let them sit on the top of the things. But the work of

+unloading, once started, could not be arrested. It seemed not to matter

+whether all or only half the things were left behind. Cases full of

+china, bronzes, pictures, and mirrors that had been so carefully

+packed the night before now lay about the yard, and still they went on

+searching for and finding possibilities of unloading this or that and

+letting the wounded have another and yet another cart.

+

+“We can take four more men,” said the steward. “They can have my trap,

+or else what is to become of them?”

+

+“Let them have my wardrobe cart,” said the countess. “Dunyásha can go

+with me in the carriage.”

+

+They unloaded the wardrobe cart and sent it to take wounded men from a

+house two doors off. The whole household, servants included, was bright

+and animated. Natásha was in a state of rapturous excitement such as she

+had not known for a long time.

+

+“What could we fasten this onto?” asked the servants, trying to fix a

+trunk on the narrow footboard behind a carriage. “We must keep at least

+one cart.”

+

+“What’s in it?” asked Natásha.

+

+“The count’s books.”

+

+“Leave it, Vasílich will put it away. It’s not wanted.”

+

+The phaeton was full of people and there was a doubt as to where Count

+Peter could sit.

+

+“On the box. You’ll sit on the box, won’t you, Pétya?” cried Natásha.

+

+Sónya too was busy all this time, but the aim of her efforts was quite

+different from Natásha’s. She was putting away the things that had to

+be left behind and making a list of them as the countess wished, and she

+tried to get as much taken away with them as possible.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XVII

+

+Before two o’clock in the afternoon the Rostóvs’ four carriages, packed

+full and with the horses harnessed, stood at the front door. One by one

+the carts with the wounded had moved out of the yard.

+

+The calèche in which Prince Andrew was being taken attracted Sónya’s

+attention as it passed the front porch. With the help of a maid she was

+arranging a seat for the countess in the huge high coach that stood at

+the entrance.

+

+“Whose calèche is that?” she inquired, leaning out of the carriage

+window.

+

+“Why, didn’t you know, Miss?” replied the maid. “The wounded prince: he

+spent the night in our house and is going with us.”

+

+“But who is it? What’s his name?”

+

+“It’s our intended that was—Prince Bolkónski himself! They say he is

+dying,” replied the maid with a sigh.

+

+Sónya jumped out of the coach and ran to the countess. The countess,

+tired out and already dressed in shawl and bonnet for her journey,

+was pacing up and down the drawing room, waiting for the household to

+assemble for the usual silent prayer with closed doors before starting.

+Natásha was not in the room.

+

+“Mamma,” said Sónya, “Prince Andrew is here, mortally wounded. He is

+going with us.”

+

+The countess opened her eyes in dismay and, seizing Sónya’s arm, glanced

+around.

+

+“Natásha?” she murmured.

+

+At that moment this news had only one significance for both of them.

+They knew their Natásha, and alarm as to what would happen if she heard

+this news stifled all sympathy for the man they both liked.

+

+“Natásha does not know yet, but he is going with us,” said Sónya.

+

+“You say he is dying?”

+

+Sónya nodded.

+

+The countess put her arms around Sónya and began to cry.

+

+“The ways of God are past finding out!” she thought, feeling that the

+Almighty Hand, hitherto unseen, was becoming manifest in all that was

+now taking place.

+

+“Well, Mamma? Everything is ready. What’s the matter?” asked Natásha, as

+with animated face she ran into the room.

+

+“Nothing,” answered the countess. “If everything is ready let us start.”

+

+And the countess bent over her reticule to hide her agitated face. Sónya

+embraced Natásha and kissed her.

+

+Natásha looked at her inquiringly.

+

+“What is it? What has happened?”

+

+“Nothing... No...”

+

+“Is it something very bad for me? What is it?” persisted Natásha with

+her quick intuition.

+

+Sónya sighed and made no reply. The count, Pétya, Madame Schoss, Mávra

+Kuzmínichna, and Vasílich came into the drawing room and, having closed

+the doors, they all sat down and remained for some moments silently

+seated without looking at one another.

+

+The count was the first to rise, and with a loud sigh crossed himself

+before the icon. All the others did the same. Then the count embraced

+Mávra Kuzmínichna and Vasílich, who were to remain in Moscow, and while

+they caught at his hand and kissed his shoulder he patted their backs

+lightly with some vaguely affectionate and comforting words. The

+countess went into the oratory and there Sónya found her on her knees

+before the icons that had been left here and there hanging on the wall.

+(The most precious ones, with which some family tradition was connected,

+were being taken with them.)

+

+In the porch and in the yard the men whom Pétya had armed with swords

+and daggers, with trousers tucked inside their high boots and with belts

+and girdles tightened, were taking leave of those remaining behind.

+

+As is always the case at a departure, much had been forgotten or put in

+the wrong place, and for a long time two menservants stood one on

+each side of the open door and the carriage steps waiting to help the

+countess in, while maids rushed with cushions and bundles from the house

+to the carriages, the calèche, the phaeton, and back again.

+

+“They always will forget everything!” said the countess. “Don’t you know

+I can’t sit like that?”

+

+And Dunyásha, with clenched teeth, without replying but with an

+aggrieved look on her face, hastily got into the coach to rearrange the

+seat.

+

+“Oh, those servants!” said the count, swaying his head.

+

+Efím, the old coachman, who was the only one the countess trusted to

+drive her, sat perched up high on the box and did not so much as glance

+round at what was going on behind him. From thirty years’ experience

+he knew it would be some time yet before the order, “Be off, in God’s

+name!” would be given him: and he knew that even when it was said

+he would be stopped once or twice more while they sent back to fetch

+something that had been forgotten, and even after that he would again

+be stopped and the countess herself would lean out of the window and beg

+him for the love of heaven to drive carefully down the hill. He knew

+all this and therefore waited calmly for what would happen, with more

+patience than the horses, especially the near one, the chestnut Falcon,

+who was pawing the ground and champing his bit. At last all were

+seated, the carriage steps were folded and pulled up, the door was shut,

+somebody was sent for a traveling case, and the countess leaned out

+and said what she had to say. Then Efím deliberately doffed his hat and

+began crossing himself. The postilion and all the other servants did the

+same. “Off, in God’s name!” said Efím, putting on his hat. “Start!” The

+postilion started the horses, the off pole horse tugged at his collar,

+the high springs creaked, and the body of the coach swayed. The footman

+sprang onto the box of the moving coach which jolted as it passed out

+of the yard onto the uneven roadway; the other vehicles jolted in

+their turn, and the procession of carriages moved up the street. In the

+carriages, the calèche, and the phaeton, all crossed themselves as they

+passed the church opposite the house. Those who were to remain in Moscow

+walked on either side of the vehicles seeing the travelers off.

+

+Rarely had Natásha experienced so joyful a feeling as now, sitting in

+the carriage beside the countess and gazing at the slowly receding

+walls of forsaken, agitated Moscow. Occasionally she leaned out of the

+carriage window and looked back and then forward at the long train of

+wounded in front of them. Almost at the head of the line she could see

+the raised hood of Prince Andrew’s calèche. She did not know who was

+in it, but each time she looked at the procession her eyes sought that

+calèche. She knew it was right in front.

+

+In Kúdrino, from the Nikítski, Présnya, and Podnovínsk Streets came

+several other trains of vehicles similar to the Rostóvs’, and as they

+passed along the Sadóvaya Street the carriages and carts formed two rows

+abreast.

+

+As they were going round the Súkharev water tower Natásha, who was

+inquisitively and alertly scrutinizing the people driving or walking

+past, suddenly cried out in joyful surprise:

+

+“Dear me! Mamma, Sónya, look, it’s he!”

+

+“Who? Who?”

+

+“Look! Yes, on my word, it’s Bezúkhov!” said Natásha, putting her head

+out of the carriage and staring at a tall, stout man in a coachman’s

+long coat, who from his manner of walking and moving was evidently

+a gentleman in disguise, and who was passing under the arch of the

+Súkharev tower accompanied by a small, sallow-faced, beardless old man

+in a frieze coat.

+

+“Yes, it really is Bezúkhov in a coachman’s coat, with a queer-looking

+old boy. Really,” said Natásha, “look, look!”

+

+“No, it’s not he. How can you talk such nonsense?”

+

+“Mamma,” screamed Natásha, “I’ll stake my head it’s he! I assure you!

+Stop, stop!” she cried to the coachman.

+

+But the coachman could not stop, for from the Meshchánski Street came

+more carts and carriages, and the Rostóvs were being shouted at to move

+on and not block the way.

+

+In fact, however, though now much farther off than before, the Rostóvs

+all saw Pierre—or someone extraordinarily like him—in a coachman’s coat,

+going down the street with head bent and a serious face beside a small,

+beardless old man who looked like a footman. That old man noticed a

+face thrust out of the carriage window gazing at them, and respectfully

+touching Pierre’s elbow said something to him and pointed to the

+carriage. Pierre, evidently engrossed in thought, could not at first

+understand him. At length when he had understood and looked in the

+direction the old man indicated, he recognized Natásha, and following

+his first impulse stepped instantly and rapidly toward the coach. But

+having taken a dozen steps he seemed to remember something and stopped.

+

+Natásha’s face, leaning out of the window, beamed with quizzical

+kindliness.

+

+“Peter Kirílovich, come here! We have recognized you! This is

+wonderful!” she cried, holding out her hand to him. “What are you doing?

+Why are you like this?”

+

+Pierre took her outstretched hand and kissed it awkwardly as he walked

+along beside her while the coach still moved on.

+

+“What is the matter, Count?” asked the countess in a surprised and

+commiserating tone.

+

+“What? What? Why? Don’t ask me,” said Pierre, and looked round at

+Natásha whose radiant, happy expression—of which he was conscious

+without looking at her—filled him with enchantment.

+

+“Are you remaining in Moscow, then?”

+

+Pierre hesitated.

+

+“In Moscow?” he said in a questioning tone. “Yes, in Moscow. Good-by!”

+

+“Ah, if only I were a man! I’d certainly stay with you. How splendid!”

+said Natásha. “Mamma, if you’ll let me, I’ll stay!”

+

+Pierre glanced absently at Natásha and was about to say something, but

+the countess interrupted him.

+

+“You were at the battle, we heard.”

+

+“Yes, I was,” Pierre answered. “There will be another battle

+tomorrow...” he began, but Natásha interrupted him.

+

+“But what is the matter with you, Count? You are not like yourself....”

+

+“Oh, don’t ask me, don’t ask me! I don’t know myself. Tomorrow... But

+no! Good-by, good-by!” he muttered. “It’s an awful time!” and dropping

+behind the carriage he stepped onto the pavement.

+

+Natásha continued to lean out of the window for a long time, beaming at

+him with her kindly, slightly quizzical, happy smile.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XVIII

+

+For the last two days, ever since leaving home, Pierre had been living

+in the empty house of his deceased benefactor, Bazdéev. This is how it

+happened.

+

+When he woke up on the morning after his return to Moscow and his

+interview with Count Rostopchín, he could not for some time make out

+where he was and what was expected of him. When he was informed that

+among others awaiting him in his reception room there was a Frenchman

+who had brought a letter from his wife, the Countess Hélène, he felt

+suddenly overcome by that sense of confusion and hopelessness to which

+he was apt to succumb. He felt that everything was now at an end, all

+was in confusion and crumbling to pieces, that nobody was right or

+wrong, the future held nothing, and there was no escape from this

+position. Smiling unnaturally and muttering to himself, he first sat

+down on the sofa in an attitude of despair, then rose, went to the door

+of the reception room and peeped through the crack, returned flourishing

+his arms, and took up a book. His major-domo came in a second time to

+say that the Frenchman who had brought the letter from the countess

+was very anxious to see him if only for a minute, and that someone from

+Bazdéev’s widow had called to ask Pierre to take charge of her husband’s

+books, as she herself was leaving for the country.

+

+“Oh, yes, in a minute; wait... or no! No, of course... go and say I will

+come directly,” Pierre replied to the major-domo.

+

+But as soon as the man had left the room Pierre took up his hat which

+was lying on the table and went out of his study by the other door.

+There was no one in the passage. He went along the whole length of this

+passage to the stairs and, frowning and rubbing his forehead with

+both hands, went down as far as the first landing. The hall porter was

+standing at the front door. From the landing where Pierre stood there

+was a second staircase leading to the back entrance. He went down that

+staircase and out into the yard. No one had seen him. But there were

+some carriages waiting, and as soon as Pierre stepped out of the gate

+the coachmen and the yard porter noticed him and raised their caps to

+him. When he felt he was being looked at he behaved like an ostrich

+which hides its head in a bush in order not to be seen: he hung his head

+and quickening his pace went down the street.

+

+Of all the affairs awaiting Pierre that day the sorting of Joseph

+Bazdéev’s books and papers appeared to him the most necessary.

+

+He hired the first cab he met and told the driver to go to the

+Patriarch’s Ponds, where the widow Bazdéev’s house was.

+

+Continually turning round to look at the rows of loaded carts that were

+making their way from all sides out of Moscow, and balancing his bulky

+body so as not to slip out of the ramshackle old vehicle, Pierre,

+experiencing the joyful feeling of a boy escaping from school, began to

+talk to his driver.

+

+The man told him that arms were being distributed today at the Krémlin

+and that tomorrow everyone would be sent out beyond the Three Hills

+gates and a great battle would be fought there.

+

+Having reached the Patriarch’s Ponds Pierre found the Bazdéevs’ house,

+where he had not been for a long time past. He went up to the gate.

+Gerásim, that sallow beardless old man Pierre had seen at Torzhók five

+years before with Joseph Bazdéev, came out in answer to his knock.

+

+“At home?” asked Pierre.

+

+“Owing to the present state of things Sophia Danílovna has gone to the

+Torzhók estate with the children, your excellency.”

+

+“I will come in all the same, I have to look through the books,” said

+Pierre.

+

+“Be so good as to step in. Makár Alexéevich, the brother of my late

+master—may the kingdom of heaven be his—has remained here, but he is in

+a weak state as you know,” said the old servant.

+

+Pierre knew that Makár Alexéevich was Joseph Bazdéev’s half-insane

+brother and a hard drinker.

+

+“Yes, yes, I know. Let us go in...” said Pierre and entered the house.

+

+A tall, bald-headed old man with a red nose, wearing a dressing gown and

+with galoshes on his bare feet, stood in the anteroom. On seeing Pierre

+he muttered something angrily and went away along the passage.

+

+“He was a very clever man but has now grown quite feeble, as your honor

+sees,” said Gerásim. “Will you step into the study?” Pierre nodded. “As

+it was sealed up so it has remained, but Sophia Danílovna gave orders

+that if anyone should come from you they were to have the books.”

+

+Pierre went into that gloomy study which he had entered with such

+trepidation in his benefactor’s lifetime. The room, dusty and untouched

+since the death of Joseph Bazdéev was now even gloomier.

+

+Gerásim opened one of the shutters and left the room on tiptoe. Pierre

+went round the study, approached the cupboard in which the manuscripts

+were kept, and took out what had once been one of the most important,

+the holy of holies of the order. This was the authentic Scotch Acts

+with Bazdéev’s notes and explanations. He sat down at the dusty writing

+table, and, having laid the manuscripts before him, opened them out,

+closed them, finally pushed them away, and resting his head on his hand

+sank into meditation.

+

+Gerásim looked cautiously into the study several times and saw Pierre

+always sitting in the same attitude.

+

+More than two hours passed and Gerásim took the liberty of making a

+slight noise at the door to attract his attention, but Pierre did not

+hear him.

+

+“Is the cabman to be discharged, your honor?”

+

+“Oh yes!” said Pierre, rousing himself and rising hurriedly. “Look

+here,” he added, taking Gerásim by a button of his coat and looking down

+at the old man with moist, shining, and ecstatic eyes, “I say, do you

+know that there is going to be a battle tomorrow?”

+

+“We heard so,” replied the man.

+

+“I beg you not to tell anyone who I am, and to do what I ask you.”

+

+“Yes, your excellency,” replied Gerásim. “Will you have something to

+eat?”

+

+“No, but I want something else. I want peasant clothes and a pistol,”

+said Pierre, unexpectedly blushing.

+

+“Yes, your excellency,” said Gerásim after thinking for a moment.

+

+All the rest of that day Pierre spent alone in his benefactor’s study,

+and Gerásim heard him pacing restlessly from one corner to another and

+talking to himself. And he spent the night on a bed made up for him

+there.

+

+Gerásim, being a servant who in his time had seen many strange things,

+accepted Pierre’s taking up his residence in the house without surprise,

+and seemed pleased to have someone to wait on. That same evening—without

+even asking himself what they were wanted for—he procured a coachman’s

+coat and cap for Pierre, and promised to get him the pistol next day.

+Makár Alexéevich came twice that evening shuffling along in his galoshes

+as far as the door and stopped and looked ingratiatingly at Pierre. But

+as soon as Pierre turned toward him he wrapped his dressing gown around

+him with a shamefaced and angry look and hurried away. It was when

+Pierre (wearing the coachman’s coat which Gerásim had procured for him

+and had disinfected by steam) was on his way with the old man to buy the

+pistol at the Súkharev market that he met the Rostóvs.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XIX

+

+Kutúzov’s order to retreat through Moscow to the Ryazán road was issued

+at night on the first of September.

+

+The first troops started at once, and during the night they marched

+slowly and steadily without hurry. At daybreak, however, those nearing

+the town at the Dorogomílov bridge saw ahead of them masses of soldiers

+crowding and hurrying across the bridge, ascending on the opposite side

+and blocking the streets and alleys, while endless masses of troops were

+bearing down on them from behind, and an unreasoning hurry and alarm

+overcame them. They all rushed forward to the bridge, onto it, and

+to the fords and the boats. Kutúzov himself had driven round by side

+streets to the other side of Moscow.

+

+By ten o’clock in the morning of the second of September, only the rear

+guard remained in the Dorogomílov suburb, where they had ample room. The

+main army was on the other side of Moscow or beyond it.

+

+At that very time, at ten in the morning of the second of September,

+Napoleon was standing among his troops on the Poklónny Hill looking at

+the panorama spread out before him. From the twenty-sixth of August

+to the second of September, that is from the battle of Borodinó to the

+entry of the French into Moscow, during the whole of that agitating,

+memorable week, there had been the extraordinary autumn weather that

+always comes as a surprise, when the sun hangs low and gives more heat

+than in spring, when everything shines so brightly in the rare clear

+atmosphere that the eyes smart, when the lungs are strengthened and

+refreshed by inhaling the aromatic autumn air, when even the nights

+are warm, and when in those dark warm nights, golden stars startle and

+delight us continually by falling from the sky.

+

+At ten in the morning of the second of September this weather still

+held.

+

+The brightness of the morning was magical. Moscow seen from the Poklónny

+Hill lay spaciously spread out with her river, her gardens, and her

+churches, and she seemed to be living her usual life, her cupolas

+glittering like stars in the sunlight.

+

+The view of the strange city with its peculiar architecture, such as

+he had never seen before, filled Napoleon with the rather envious and

+uneasy curiosity men feel when they see an alien form of life that has

+no knowledge of them. This city was evidently living with the full force

+of its own life. By the indefinite signs which, even at a distance,

+distinguish a living body from a dead one, Napoleon from the Poklónny

+Hill perceived the throb of life in the town and felt, as it were, the

+breathing of that great and beautiful body.

+

+Every Russian looking at Moscow feels her to be a mother; every

+foreigner who sees her, even if ignorant of her significance as the

+mother city, must feel her feminine character, and Napoleon felt it.

+

+“Cette ville asiatique aux innombrables églises, Moscou la sainte. La

+voilà donc enfin, cette fameuse ville! Il était temps,” * said he, and

+dismounting he ordered a plan of Moscow to be spread out before him, and

+summoned Lelorgne d’Ideville, the interpreter.

+

+     * “That Asiatic city of the innumerable churches, holy

+     Moscow! Here it is then at last, that famous city. It was

+     high time.”

+

+

+“A town captured by the enemy is like a maid who has lost her honor,”

+thought he (he had said so to Túchkov at Smolénsk). From that point of

+view he gazed at the Oriental beauty he had not seen before. It seemed

+strange to him that his long-felt wish, which had seemed unattainable,

+had at last been realized. In the clear morning light he gazed now at

+the city and now at the plan, considering its details, and the assurance

+of possessing it agitated and awed him.

+

+“But could it be otherwise?” he thought. “Here is this capital at my

+feet. Where is Alexander now, and of what is he thinking? A strange,

+beautiful, and majestic city; and a strange and majestic moment! In what

+light must I appear to them!” thought he, thinking of his troops.

+“Here she is, the reward for all those fainthearted men,” he reflected,

+glancing at those near him and at the troops who were approaching and

+forming up. “One word from me, one movement of my hand, and that ancient

+capital of the Tsars would perish. But my clemency is always ready to

+descend upon the vanquished. I must be magnanimous and truly great. But

+no, it can’t be true that I am in Moscow,” he suddenly thought.

+“Yet here she is lying at my feet, with her golden domes and crosses

+scintillating and twinkling in the sunshine. But I shall spare her. On

+the ancient monuments of barbarism and despotism I will inscribe great

+words of justice and mercy.... It is just this which Alexander will

+feel most painfully, I know him.” (It seemed to Napoleon that the chief

+import of what was taking place lay in the personal struggle between

+himself and Alexander.) “From the height of the Krémlin—yes, there

+is the Krémlin, yes—I will give them just laws; I will teach them the

+meaning of true civilization, I will make generations of boyars remember

+their conqueror with love. I will tell the deputation that I did not,

+and do not, desire war, that I have waged war only against the false

+policy of their court; that I love and respect Alexander and that in

+Moscow I will accept terms of peace worthy of myself and of my people.

+I do not wish to utilize the fortunes of war to humiliate an honored

+monarch. ‘Boyars,’ I will say to them, ‘I do not desire war, I desire

+the peace and welfare of all my subjects.’ However, I know their

+presence will inspire me, and I shall speak to them as I always do:

+clearly, impressively, and majestically. But can it be true that I am in

+Moscow? Yes, there she lies.”

+

+“Qu’on m’amène les boyars,” * said he to his suite.

+

+    * “Bring the boyars to me.”

+

+

+A general with a brilliant suite galloped off at once to fetch the

+boyars.

+

+Two hours passed. Napoleon had lunched and was again standing in the

+same place on the Poklónny Hill awaiting the deputation. His speech to

+the boyars had already taken definite shape in his imagination. That

+speech was full of dignity and greatness as Napoleon understood it.

+

+He was himself carried away by the tone of magnanimity he intended to

+adopt toward Moscow. In his imagination he appointed days for assemblies

+at the palace of the Tsars, at which Russian notables and his own would

+mingle. He mentally appointed a governor, one who would win the

+hearts of the people. Having learned that there were many charitable

+institutions in Moscow he mentally decided that he would shower favors

+on them all. He thought that, as in Africa he had to put on a burnoose

+and sit in a mosque, so in Moscow he must be beneficent like the Tsars.

+And in order finally to touch the hearts of the Russians—and being like

+all Frenchmen unable to imagine anything sentimental without a reference

+to ma chère, ma tendre, ma pauvre mère * —he decided that he would

+place an inscription on all these establishments in large letters:

+“This establishment is dedicated to my dear mother.” Or no, it should

+be simply: Maison de ma Mère, *(2) he concluded. “But am I really in

+Moscow? Yes, here it lies before me, but why is the deputation from the

+city so long in appearing?” he wondered.

+

+     * “My dear, my tender, my poor mother.”

+

+     * (2) “House of my Mother.”

+

+

+Meanwhile an agitated consultation was being carried on in whispers

+among his generals and marshals at the rear of his suite. Those sent to

+fetch the deputation had returned with the news that Moscow was empty,

+that everyone had left it. The faces of those who were not conferring

+together were pale and perturbed. They were not alarmed by the fact

+that Moscow had been abandoned by its inhabitants (grave as that fact

+seemed), but by the question how to tell the Emperor—without putting

+him in the terrible position of appearing ridiculous—that he had been

+awaiting the boyars so long in vain: that there were drunken mobs left

+in Moscow but no one else. Some said that a deputation of some sort must

+be scraped together, others disputed that opinion and maintained that

+the Emperor should first be carefully and skillfully prepared, and then

+told the truth.

+

+“He will have to be told, all the same,” said some gentlemen of the

+suite. “But, gentlemen...”

+

+The position was the more awkward because the Emperor, meditating upon

+his magnanimous plans, was pacing patiently up and down before the

+outspread map, occasionally glancing along the road to Moscow from under

+his lifted hand with a bright and proud smile.

+

+“But it’s impossible...” declared the gentlemen of the suite, shrugging

+their shoulders but not venturing to utter the implied word—le

+ridicule....

+

+At last the Emperor, tired of futile expectation, his actor’s instinct

+suggesting to him that the sublime moment having been too long drawn out

+was beginning to lose its sublimity, gave a sign with his hand. A single

+report of a signaling gun followed, and the troops, who were already

+spread out on different sides of Moscow, moved into the city through the

+Tver, Kalúga, and Dorogomílov gates. Faster and faster, vying with

+one another, they moved at the double or at a trot, vanishing amid the

+clouds of dust they raised and making the air ring with a deafening roar

+of mingling shouts.

+

+Drawn on by the movement of his troops Napoleon rode with them as far as

+the Dorogomílov gate, but there again stopped and, dismounting from his

+horse, paced for a long time by the Kámmer-Kollézski rampart, awaiting

+the deputation.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XX

+

+Meanwhile Moscow was empty. There were still people in it, perhaps a

+fiftieth part of its former inhabitants had remained, but it was empty.

+It was empty in the sense that a dying queenless hive is empty.

+

+In a queenless hive no life is left though to a superficial glance it

+seems as much alive as other hives.

+

+The bees circle round a queenless hive in the hot beams of the midday

+sun as gaily as around the living hives; from a distance it smells of

+honey like the others, and bees fly in and out in the same way. But one

+has only to observe that hive to realize that there is no longer any

+life in it. The bees do not fly in the same way, the smell and the sound

+that meet the beekeeper are not the same. To the beekeeper’s tap on the

+wall of the sick hive, instead of the former instant unanimous

+humming of tens of thousands of bees with their abdomens threateningly

+compressed, and producing by the rapid vibration of their wings an

+aerial living sound, the only reply is a disconnected buzzing from

+different parts of the deserted hive. From the alighting board, instead

+of the former spirituous fragrant smell of honey and venom, and the warm

+whiffs of crowded life, comes an odor of emptiness and decay mingling

+with the smell of honey. There are no longer sentinels sounding the

+alarm with their abdomens raised, and ready to die in defense of the

+hive. There is no longer the measured quiet sound of throbbing activity,

+like the sound of boiling water, but diverse discordant sounds of

+disorder. In and out of the hive long black robber bees smeared with

+honey fly timidly and shiftily. They do not sting, but crawl away from

+danger. Formerly only bees laden with honey flew into the hive, and they

+flew out empty; now they fly out laden. The beekeeper opens the lower

+part of the hive and peers in. Instead of black, glossy bees—tamed by

+toil, clinging to one another’s legs and drawing out the wax, with a

+ceaseless hum of labor—that used to hang in long clusters down to the

+floor of the hive, drowsy shriveled bees crawl about separately in

+various directions on the floor and walls of the hive. Instead of a

+neatly glued floor, swept by the bees with the fanning of their wings,

+there is a floor littered with bits of wax, excrement, dying bees

+scarcely moving their legs, and dead ones that have not been cleared

+away.

+

+The beekeeper opens the upper part of the hive and examines the super.

+Instead of serried rows of bees sealing up every gap in the combs and

+keeping the brood warm, he sees the skillful complex structures of the

+combs, but no longer in their former state of purity. All is neglected

+and foul. Black robber bees are swiftly and stealthily prowling about

+the combs, and the short home bees, shriveled and listless as if they

+were old, creep slowly about without trying to hinder the robbers,

+having lost all motive and all sense of life. Drones, bumblebees, wasps,

+and butterflies knock awkwardly against the walls of the hive in their

+flight. Here and there among the cells containing dead brood and honey

+an angry buzzing can sometimes be heard. Here and there a couple of

+bees, by force of habit and custom cleaning out the brood cells, with

+efforts beyond their strength laboriously drag away a dead bee or

+bumblebee without knowing why they do it. In another corner two old bees

+are languidly fighting, or cleaning themselves, or feeding one another,

+without themselves knowing whether they do it with friendly or hostile

+intent. In a third place a crowd of bees, crushing one another, attack

+some victim and fight and smother it, and the victim, enfeebled or

+killed, drops from above slowly and lightly as a feather, among the heap

+of corpses. The keeper opens the two center partitions to examine

+the brood cells. In place of the former close dark circles formed by

+thousands of bees sitting back to back and guarding the high mystery

+of generation, he sees hundreds of dull, listless, and sleepy shells of

+bees. They have almost all died unawares, sitting in the sanctuary they

+had guarded and which is now no more. They reek of decay and death. Only

+a few of them still move, rise, and feebly fly to settle on the enemy’s

+hand, lacking the spirit to die stinging him; the rest are dead and fall

+as lightly as fish scales. The beekeeper closes the hive, chalks a mark

+on it, and when he has time tears out its contents and burns it clean.

+

+So in the same way Moscow was empty when Napoleon, weary, uneasy, and

+morose, paced up and down in front of the Kámmer-Kollézski rampart,

+awaiting what to his mind was a necessary, if but formal, observance of

+the proprieties—a deputation.

+

+In various corners of Moscow there still remained a few people aimlessly

+moving about, following their old habits and hardly aware of what they

+were doing.

+

+When with due circumspection Napoleon was informed that Moscow was

+empty, he looked angrily at his informant, turned away, and silently

+continued to walk to and fro.

+

+“My carriage!” he said.

+

+He took his seat beside the aide-de-camp on duty and drove into the

+suburb. “Moscow deserted!” he said to himself. “What an incredible

+event!”

+

+He did not drive into the town, but put up at an inn in the Dorogomílov

+suburb.

+

+The coup de théâtre had not come off.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XXI

+

+The Russian troops were passing through Moscow from two o’clock at night

+till two in the afternoon and bore away with them the wounded and the

+last of the inhabitants who were leaving.

+

+The greatest crush during the movement of the troops took place at the

+Stone, Moskvá, and Yaúza bridges.

+

+While the troops, dividing into two parts when passing around the

+Krémlin, were thronging the Moskvá and the Stone bridges, a great many

+soldiers, taking advantage of the stoppage and congestion, turned back

+from the bridges and slipped stealthily and silently past the church of

+Vasíli the Beatified and under the Borovítski gate, back up the hill

+to the Red Square where some instinct told them they could easily take

+things not belonging to them. Crowds of the kind seen at cheap sales

+filled all the passages and alleys of the Bazaar. But there were no

+dealers with voices of ingratiating affability inviting customers to

+enter; there were no hawkers, nor the usual motley crowd of female

+purchasers—but only soldiers, in uniforms and overcoats though without

+muskets, entering the Bazaar empty-handed and silently making their way

+out through its passages with bundles. Tradesmen and their assistants

+(of whom there were but few) moved about among the soldiers quite

+bewildered. They unlocked their shops and locked them up again, and

+themselves carried goods away with the help of their assistants. On the

+square in front of the Bazaar were drummers beating the muster call.

+But the roll of the drums did not make the looting soldiers run in the

+direction of the drum as formerly, but made them, on the contrary, run

+farther away. Among the soldiers in the shops and passages some men were

+to be seen in gray coats, with closely shaven heads. Two officers, one

+with a scarf over his uniform and mounted on a lean, dark-gray horse,

+the other in an overcoat and on foot, stood at the corner of Ilyínka

+Street, talking. A third officer galloped up to them.

+

+“The general orders them all to be driven out at once, without fail.

+This is outrageous! Half the men have dispersed.”

+

+“Where are you off to?... Where?...” he shouted to three infantrymen

+without muskets who, holding up the skirts of their overcoats, were

+slipping past him into the Bazaar passage. “Stop, you rascals!”

+

+“But how are you going to stop them?” replied another officer. “There is

+no getting them together. The army should push on before the rest bolt,

+that’s all!”

+

+“How can one push on? They are stuck there, wedged on the bridge, and

+don’t move. Shouldn’t we put a cordon round to prevent the rest from

+running away?”

+

+“Come, go in there and drive them out!” shouted the senior officer.

+

+The officer in the scarf dismounted, called up a drummer, and went with

+him into the arcade. Some soldiers started running away in a group. A

+shopkeeper with red pimples on his cheeks near the nose, and a calm,

+persistent, calculating expression on his plump face, hurriedly and

+ostentatiously approached the officer, swinging his arms.

+

+“Your honor!” said he. “Be so good as to protect us! We won’t grudge

+trifles, you are welcome to anything—we shall be delighted! Pray!...

+I’ll fetch a piece of cloth at once for such an honorable gentleman,

+or even two pieces with pleasure. For we feel how it is; but what’s all

+this—sheer robbery! If you please, could not guards be placed if only to

+let us close the shop....”

+

+Several shopkeepers crowded round the officer.

+

+“Eh, what twaddle!” said one of them, a thin, stern-looking man. “When

+one’s head is gone one doesn’t weep for one’s hair! Take what any of you

+like!” And flourishing his arm energetically he turned sideways to the

+officer.

+

+“It’s all very well for you, Iván Sidórych, to talk,” said the first

+tradesman angrily. “Please step inside, your honor!”

+

+“Talk indeed!” cried the thin one. “In my three shops here I have a

+hundred thousand rubles’ worth of goods. Can they be saved when the army

+has gone? Eh, what people! ‘Against God’s might our hands can’t fight.’”

+

+“Come inside, your honor!” repeated the tradesman, bowing.

+

+The officer stood perplexed and his face showed indecision.

+

+“It’s not my business!” he exclaimed, and strode on quickly down one of

+the passages.

+

+From one open shop came the sound of blows and vituperation, and just

+as the officer came up to it a man in a gray coat with a shaven head was

+flung out violently.

+

+This man, bent double, rushed past the tradesman and the officer. The

+officer pounced on the soldiers who were in the shops, but at that

+moment fearful screams reached them from the huge crowd on the Moskvá

+bridge and the officer ran out into the square.

+

+“What is it? What is it?” he asked, but his comrade was already

+galloping off past Vasíli the Beatified in the direction from which the

+screams came.

+

+The officer mounted his horse and rode after him. When he reached the

+bridge he saw two unlimbered guns, the infantry crossing the bridge,

+several overturned carts, and frightened and laughing faces among the

+troops. Beside the cannon a cart was standing to which two horses were

+harnessed. Four borzois with collars were pressing close to the wheels.

+The cart was loaded high, and at the very top, beside a child’s chair

+with its legs in the air, sat a peasant woman uttering piercing and

+desperate shrieks. He was told by his fellow officers that the screams

+of the crowd and the shrieks of the woman were due to the fact that

+General Ermólov, coming up to the crowd and learning that soldiers were

+dispersing among the shops while crowds of civilians blocked the bridge,

+had ordered two guns to be unlimbered and made a show of firing at the

+bridge. The crowd, crushing one another, upsetting carts, and shouting

+and squeezing desperately, had cleared off the bridge and the troops

+were now moving forward.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XXII

+

+Meanwhile, the city itself was deserted. There was hardly anyone in the

+streets. The gates and shops were all closed, only here and there round

+the taverns solitary shouts or drunken songs could be heard. Nobody

+drove through the streets and footsteps were rarely heard. The

+Povarskáya was quite still and deserted. The huge courtyard of the

+Rostóvs’ house was littered with wisps of hay and with dung from the

+horses, and not a soul was to be seen there. In the great drawing

+room of the house, which had been left with all it contained, were

+two people. They were the yard porter Ignát, and the page boy Míshka,

+Vasílich’s grandson who had stayed in Moscow with his grandfather.

+Míshka had opened the clavichord and was strumming on it with

+one finger. The yard porter, his arms akimbo, stood smiling with

+satisfaction before the large mirror.

+

+“Isn’t it fine, eh, Uncle Ignát?” said the boy, suddenly beginning to

+strike the keyboard with both hands.

+

+“Only fancy!” answered Ignát, surprised at the broadening grin on his

+face in the mirror.

+

+“Impudence! Impudence!” they heard behind them the voice of Mávra

+Kuzmínichna who had entered silently. “How he’s grinning, the fat mug!

+Is that what you’re here for? Nothing’s cleared away down there and

+Vasílich is worn out. Just you wait a bit!”

+

+Ignát left off smiling, adjusted his belt, and went out of the room with

+meekly downcast eyes.

+

+“Aunt, I did it gently,” said the boy.

+

+“I’ll give you something gently, you monkey you!” cried Mávra

+Kuzmínichna, raising her arm threateningly. “Go and get the samovar to

+boil for your grandfather.”

+

+Mávra Kuzmínichna flicked the dust off the clavichord and closed it, and

+with a deep sigh left the drawing room and locked its main door.

+

+Going out into the yard she paused to consider where she should go

+next—to drink tea in the servants’ wing with Vasílich, or into the

+storeroom to put away what still lay about.

+

+She heard the sound of quick footsteps in the quiet street. Someone

+stopped at the gate, and the latch rattled as someone tried to open it.

+Mávra Kuzmínichna went to the gate.

+

+“Who do you want?”

+

+“The count—Count Ilyá Andréevich Rostóv.”

+

+“And who are you?”

+

+“An officer, I have to see him,” came the reply in a pleasant, well-bred

+Russian voice.

+

+Mávra Kuzmínichna opened the gate and an officer of eighteen, with the

+round face of a Rostóv, entered the yard.

+

+“They have gone away, sir. Went away yesterday at vespertime,” said

+Mávra Kuzmínichna cordially.

+

+The young officer standing in the gateway, as if hesitating whether to

+enter or not, clicked his tongue.

+

+“Ah, how annoying!” he muttered. “I should have come yesterday.... Ah,

+what a pity.”

+

+Meanwhile, Mávra Kuzmínichna was attentively and sympathetically

+examining the familiar Rostóv features of the young man’s face, his

+tattered coat and trodden-down boots.

+

+“What did you want to see the count for?” she asked.

+

+“Oh well... it can’t be helped!” said he in a tone of vexation and

+placed his hand on the gate as if to leave.

+

+He again paused in indecision.

+

+“You see,” he suddenly said, “I am a kinsman of the count’s and he has

+been very kind to me. As you see” (he glanced with an amused air and

+good-natured smile at his coat and boots) “my things are worn out and I

+have no money, so I was going to ask the count...”

+

+Mávra Kuzmínichna did not let him finish.

+

+“Just wait a minute, sir. One little moment,” said she.

+

+And as soon as the officer let go of the gate handle she turned and,

+hurrying away on her old legs, went through the back yard to the

+servants’ quarters.

+

+While Mávra Kuzmínichna was running to her room the officer walked about

+the yard gazing at his worn-out boots with lowered head and a faint

+smile on his lips. “What a pity I’ve missed Uncle! What a nice old

+woman! Where has she run off to? And how am I to find the nearest way

+to overtake my regiment, which must by now be getting near the Rogózhski

+gate?” thought he. Just then Mávra Kuzmínichna appeared from behind

+the corner of the house with a frightened yet resolute look, carrying a

+rolled-up check kerchief in her hand. While still a few steps from

+the officer she unfolded the kerchief and took out of it a white

+twenty-five-ruble assignat and hastily handed it to him.

+

+“If his excellency had been at home, as a kinsman he would of course...

+but as it is...”

+

+Mávra Kuzmínichna grew abashed and confused. The officer did not

+decline, but took the note quietly and thanked her.

+

+“If the count had been at home...” Mávra Kuzmínichna went on

+apologetically. “Christ be with you, sir! May God preserve you!” said

+she, bowing as she saw him out.

+

+Swaying his head and smiling as if amused at himself, the officer ran

+almost at a trot through the deserted streets toward the Yaúza bridge to

+overtake his regiment.

+

+But Mávra Kuzmínichna stood at the closed gate for some time with moist

+eyes, pensively swaying her head and feeling an unexpected flow of

+motherly tenderness and pity for the unknown young officer.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XXIII

+

+From an unfinished house on the Varvárka, the ground floor of which was

+a dramshop, came drunken shouts and songs. On benches round the tables

+in a dirty little room sat some ten factory hands. Tipsy and perspiring,

+with dim eyes and wide-open mouths, they were all laboriously singing

+some song or other. They were singing discordantly, arduously, and with

+great effort, evidently not because they wished to sing, but because

+they wanted to show they were drunk and on a spree. One, a tall,

+fair-haired lad in a clean blue coat, was standing over the others. His

+face with its fine straight nose would have been handsome had it not

+been for his thin, compressed, twitching lips and dull, gloomy, fixed

+eyes. Evidently possessed by some idea, he stood over those who were

+singing, and solemnly and jerkily flourished above their heads his white

+arm with the sleeve turned up to the elbow, trying unnaturally to spread

+out his dirty fingers. The sleeve of his coat kept slipping down and he

+always carefully rolled it up again with his left hand, as if it were

+most important that the sinewy white arm he was flourishing should be

+bare. In the midst of the song cries were heard, and fighting and blows

+in the passage and porch. The tall lad waved his arm.

+

+“Stop it!” he exclaimed peremptorily. “There’s a fight, lads!” And,

+still rolling up his sleeve, he went out to the porch.

+

+The factory hands followed him. These men, who under the leadership of

+the tall lad were drinking in the dramshop that morning, had brought the

+publican some skins from the factory and for this had had drink served

+them. The blacksmiths from a neighboring smithy, hearing the sounds of

+revelry in the tavern and supposing it to have been broken into, wished

+to force their way in too and a fight in the porch had resulted.

+

+The publican was fighting one of the smiths at the door, and when the

+workmen came out the smith, wrenching himself free from the tavern

+keeper, fell face downward on the pavement.

+

+Another smith tried to enter the doorway, pressing against the publican

+with his chest.

+

+The lad with the turned-up sleeve gave the smith a blow in the face and

+cried wildly: “They’re fighting us, lads!”

+

+At that moment the first smith got up and, scratching his bruised

+face to make it bleed, shouted in a tearful voice: “Police! Murder!...

+They’ve killed a man, lads!”

+

+“Oh, gracious me, a man beaten to death—killed!...” screamed a woman

+coming out of a gate close by.

+

+A crowd gathered round the bloodstained smith.

+

+“Haven’t you robbed people enough—taking their last shirts?” said a

+voice addressing the publican. “What have you killed a man for, you

+thief?”

+

+The tall lad, standing in the porch, turned his bleared eyes from the

+publican to the smith and back again as if considering whom he ought to

+fight now.

+

+“Murderer!” he shouted suddenly to the publican. “Bind him, lads!”

+

+“I daresay you would like to bind me!” shouted the publican, pushing

+away the men advancing on him, and snatching his cap from his head he

+flung it on the ground.

+

+As if this action had some mysterious and menacing significance, the

+workmen surrounding the publican paused in indecision.

+

+“I know the law very well, mates! I’ll take the matter to the captain

+of police. You think I won’t get to him? Robbery is not permitted to

+anybody nowadays!” shouted the publican, picking up his cap.

+

+“Come along then! Come along then!” the publican and the tall young

+fellow repeated one after the other, and they moved up the street

+together.

+

+The bloodstained smith went beside them. The factory hands and others

+followed behind, talking and shouting.

+

+At the corner of the Moroséyka, opposite a large house with closed

+shutters and bearing a bootmaker’s signboard, stood a score of thin,

+worn-out, gloomy-faced bootmakers, wearing overalls and long tattered

+coats.

+

+“He should pay folks off properly,” a thin workingman, with frowning

+brows and a straggly beard, was saying.

+

+“But he’s sucked our blood and now he thinks he’s quit of us. He’s been

+misleading us all the week and now that he’s brought us to this pass

+he’s made off.”

+

+On seeing the crowd and the bloodstained man the workman ceased

+speaking, and with eager curiosity all the bootmakers joined the moving

+crowd.

+

+“Where are all the folks going?”

+

+“Why, to the police, of course!”

+

+“I say, is it true that we have been beaten?” “And what did you think?

+Look what folks are saying.”

+

+Questions and answers were heard. The publican, taking advantage of the

+increased crowd, dropped behind and returned to his tavern.

+

+The tall youth, not noticing the disappearance of his foe, waved his

+bare arm and went on talking incessantly, attracting general attention

+to himself. It was around him that the people chiefly crowded, expecting

+answers from him to the questions that occupied all their minds.

+

+“He must keep order, keep the law, that’s what the government is there

+for. Am I not right, good Christians?” said the tall youth, with a

+scarcely perceptible smile. “He thinks there’s no government! How can

+one do without government? Or else there would be plenty who’d rob us.”

+

+“Why talk nonsense?” rejoined voices in the crowd. “Will they give

+up Moscow like this? They told you that for fun, and you believed it!

+Aren’t there plenty of troops on the march? Let him in, indeed! That’s

+what the government is for. You’d better listen to what people are

+saying,” said some of the mob pointing to the tall youth.

+

+By the wall of China-Town a smaller group of people were gathered round

+a man in a frieze coat who held a paper in his hand.

+

+“An ukáse, they are reading an ukáse! Reading an ukáse!” cried voices in

+the crowd, and the people rushed toward the reader.

+

+The man in the frieze coat was reading the broadsheet of August 31. When

+the crowd collected round him he seemed confused, but at the demand

+of the tall lad who had pushed his way up to him, he began in a rather

+tremulous voice to read the sheet from the beginning.

+

+“Early tomorrow I shall go to his Serene Highness,” he read (“Sirin

+Highness,” said the tall fellow with a triumphant smile on his lips and

+a frown on his brow), “to consult with him to act, and to aid the army

+to exterminate these scoundrels. We too will take part...” the reader

+went on, and then paused (“Do you see,” shouted the youth victoriously,

+“he’s going to clear up the whole affair for you....”), “in destroying

+them, and will send these visitors to the devil. I will come back to

+dinner, and we’ll set to work. We will do, completely do, and undo these

+scoundrels.”

+

+The last words were read out in the midst of complete silence. The tall

+lad hung his head gloomily. It was evident that no one had understood

+the last part. In particular, the words “I will come back to dinner,”

+evidently displeased both reader and audience. The people’s minds

+were tuned to a high pitch and this was too simple and needlessly

+comprehensible—it was what anyone of them might have said and therefore

+was what an ukáse emanating from the highest authority should not say.

+

+They all stood despondent and silent. The tall youth moved his lips and

+swayed from side to side.

+

+“We should ask him... that’s he himself?”... “Yes, ask him indeed!...

+Why not? He’ll explain”... voices in the rear of the crowd were

+suddenly heard saying, and the general attention turned to the police

+superintendent’s trap which drove into the square attended by two

+mounted dragoons.

+

+The superintendent of police, who had gone that morning by Count

+Rostopchín’s orders to burn the barges and had in connection with that

+matter acquired a large sum of money which was at that moment in his

+pocket, on seeing a crowd bearing down upon him told his coachman to

+stop.

+

+“What people are these?” he shouted to the men, who were moving singly

+and timidly in the direction of his trap.

+

+“What people are these?” he shouted again, receiving no answer.

+

+“Your honor...” replied the shopman in the frieze coat, “your honor, in

+accord with the proclamation of his highest excellency the count, they

+desire to serve, not sparing their lives, and it is not any kind of

+riot, but as his highest excellence said...”

+

+“The count has not left, he is here, and an order will be issued

+concerning you,” said the superintendent of police. “Go on!” he ordered

+his coachman.

+

+The crowd halted, pressing around those who had heard what the

+superintendent had said, and looking at the departing trap.

+

+The superintendent of police turned round at that moment with a scared

+look, said something to his coachman, and his horses increased their

+speed.

+

+“It’s a fraud, lads! Lead the way to him, himself!” shouted the tall

+youth. “Don’t let him go, lads! Let him answer us! Keep him!” shouted

+different people and the people dashed in pursuit of the trap.

+

+Following the superintendent of police and talking loudly the crowd went

+in the direction of the Lubyánka Street.

+

+“There now, the gentry and merchants have gone away and left us to

+perish. Do they think we’re dogs?” voices in the crowd were heard saying

+more and more frequently.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XXIV

+

+On the evening of the first of September, after his interview with

+Kutúzov, Count Rostopchín had returned to Moscow mortified and offended

+because he had not been invited to attend the council of war, and

+because Kutúzov had paid no attention to his offer to take part in the

+defense of the city; amazed also at the novel outlook revealed to him

+at the camp, which treated the tranquillity of the capital and its

+patriotic fervor as not merely secondary but quite irrelevant and

+unimportant matters. Distressed, offended, and surprised by all this,

+Rostopchín had returned to Moscow. After supper he lay down on a sofa

+without undressing, and was awakened soon after midnight by a courier

+bringing him a letter from Kutúzov. This letter requested the count to

+send police officers to guide the troops through the town, as the army

+was retreating to the Ryazán road beyond Moscow. This was not news to

+Rostopchín. He had known that Moscow would be abandoned not merely since

+his interview the previous day with Kutúzov on the Poklónny Hill but

+ever since the battle of Borodinó, for all the generals who came to

+Moscow after that battle had said unanimously that it was impossible to

+fight another battle, and since then the government property had been

+removed every night, and half the inhabitants had left the city

+with Rostopchín’s own permission. Yet all the same this information

+astonished and irritated the count, coming as it did in the form of a

+simple note with an order from Kutúzov, and received at night, breaking

+in on his beauty sleep.

+

+When later on in his memoirs Count Rostopchín explained his actions at

+this time, he repeatedly says that he was then actuated by two important

+considerations: to maintain tranquillity in Moscow and expedite the

+departure of the inhabitants. If one accepts this twofold aim all

+Rostopchín’s actions appear irreproachable. “Why were the holy relics,

+the arms, ammunition, gunpowder, and stores of corn not removed? Why

+were thousands of inhabitants deceived into believing that Moscow would

+not be given up—and thereby ruined?” “To preserve the tranquillity

+of the city,” explains Count Rostopchín. “Why were bundles of useless

+papers from the government offices, and Leppich’s balloon and other

+articles removed?” “To leave the town empty,” explains Count Rostopchín.

+One need only admit that public tranquillity is in danger and any action

+finds a justification.

+

+All the horrors of the reign of terror were based only on solicitude for

+public tranquillity.

+

+On what, then, was Count Rostopchín’s fear for the tranquillity of

+Moscow based in 1812? What reason was there for assuming any probability

+of an uprising in the city? The inhabitants were leaving it and the

+retreating troops were filling it. Why should that cause the masses to

+riot?

+

+Neither in Moscow nor anywhere in Russia did anything resembling an

+insurrection ever occur when the enemy entered a town. More than

+ten thousand people were still in Moscow on the first and second of

+September, and except for a mob in the governor’s courtyard, assembled

+there at his bidding, nothing happened. It is obvious that there would

+have been even less reason to expect a disturbance among the people

+if after the battle of Borodinó, when the surrender of Moscow became

+certain or at least probable, Rostopchín instead of exciting the people

+by distributing arms and broadsheets had taken steps to remove all

+the holy relics, the gunpowder, munitions, and money, and had told the

+population plainly that the town would be abandoned.

+

+Rostopchín, though he had patriotic sentiments, was a sanguine and

+impulsive man who had always moved in the highest administrative circles

+and had no understanding at all of the people he supposed himself to

+be guiding. Ever since the enemy’s entry into Smolénsk he had in

+imagination been playing the role of director of the popular feeling

+of “the heart of Russia.” Not only did it seem to him (as to all

+administrators) that he controlled the external actions of Moscow’s

+inhabitants, but he also thought he controlled their mental attitude by

+means of his broadsheets and posters, written in a coarse tone which the

+people despise in their own class and do not understand from those in

+authority. Rostopchín was so pleased with the fine role of leader of

+popular feeling, and had grown so used to it, that the necessity of

+relinquishing that role and abandoning Moscow without any heroic display

+took him unawares and he suddenly felt the ground slip away from under

+his feet, so that he positively did not know what to do. Though he knew

+it was coming, he did not till the last moment wholeheartedly believe

+that Moscow would be abandoned, and did not prepare for it. The

+inhabitants left against his wishes. If the government offices were

+removed, this was only done on the demand of officials to whom the count

+yielded reluctantly. He was absorbed in the role he had created

+for himself. As is often the case with those gifted with an ardent

+imagination, though he had long known that Moscow would be abandoned he

+knew it only with his intellect, he did not believe it in his heart and

+did not adapt himself mentally to this new position of affairs.

+

+All his painstaking and energetic activity (in how far it was useful

+and had any effect on the people is another question) had been simply

+directed toward arousing in the masses his own feeling of patriotic

+hatred of the French.

+

+But when events assumed their true historical character, when expressing

+hatred for the French in words proved insufficient, when it was not

+even possible to express that hatred by fighting a battle, when

+self-confidence was of no avail in relation to the one question before

+Moscow, when the whole population streamed out of Moscow as one man,

+abandoning their belongings and proving by that negative action all

+the depth of their national feeling, then the role chosen by Rostopchín

+suddenly appeared senseless. He unexpectedly felt himself ridiculous,

+weak, and alone, with no ground to stand on.

+

+When, awakened from his sleep, he received that cold, peremptory note

+from Kutúzov, he felt the more irritated the more he felt himself

+to blame. All that he had been specially put in charge of, the state

+property which he should have removed, was still in Moscow and it was no

+longer possible to take the whole of it away.

+

+“Who is to blame for it? Who has let things come to such a pass?” he

+ruminated. “Not I, of course. I had everything ready. I had Moscow

+firmly in hand. And this is what they have let it come to! Villains!

+Traitors!” he thought, without clearly defining who the villains and

+traitors were, but feeling it necessary to hate those traitors whoever

+they might be who were to blame for the false and ridiculous position in

+which he found himself.

+

+All that night Count Rostopchín issued orders, for which people came to

+him from all parts of Moscow. Those about him had never seen the count

+so morose and irritable.

+

+“Your excellency, the Director of the Registrar’s Department has sent

+for instructions.... From the Consistory, from the Senate, from the

+University, from the Foundling Hospital, the Suffragan has sent...

+asking for information.... What are your orders about the Fire Brigade?

+From the governor of the prison... from the superintendent of the

+lunatic asylum...” All night long such announcements were continually

+being received by the count.

+

+To all these inquiries he gave brief and angry replies indicating that

+orders from him were not now needed, that the whole affair, carefully

+prepared by him, had now been ruined by somebody, and that that somebody

+would have to bear the whole responsibility for all that might happen.

+

+“Oh, tell that blockhead,” he said in reply to the question from the

+Registrar’s Department, “that he should remain to guard his documents.

+Now why are you asking silly questions about the Fire Brigade? They have

+horses, let them be off to Vladímir, and not leave them to the French.”

+

+“Your excellency, the superintendent of the lunatic asylum has come:

+what are your commands?”

+

+“My commands? Let them go away, that’s all.... And let the lunatics

+out into the town. When lunatics command our armies God evidently means

+these other madmen to be free.”

+

+In reply to an inquiry about the convicts in the prison, Count

+Rostopchín shouted angrily at the governor:

+

+“Do you expect me to give you two battalions—which we have not got—for a

+convoy? Release them, that’s all about it!”

+

+“Your excellency, there are some political prisoners, Meshkóv,

+Vereshchágin...”

+

+“Vereshchágin! Hasn’t he been hanged yet?” shouted Rostopchín. “Bring

+him to me!”

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XXV

+

+Toward nine o’clock in the morning, when the troops were already moving

+through Moscow, nobody came to the count any more for instructions.

+Those who were able to get away were going of their own accord, those

+who remained behind decided for themselves what they must do.

+

+The count ordered his carriage that he might drive to Sokólniki, and sat

+in his study with folded hands, morose, sallow, and taciturn.

+

+In quiet and untroubled times it seems to every administrator that it

+is only by his efforts that the whole population under his rule is

+kept going, and in this consciousness of being indispensable every

+administrator finds the chief reward of his labor and efforts. While the

+sea of history remains calm the ruler-administrator in his frail bark,

+holding on with a boat hook to the ship of the people and himself

+moving, naturally imagines that his efforts move the ship he is holding

+on to. But as soon as a storm arises and the sea begins to heave and

+the ship to move, such a delusion is no longer possible. The ship moves

+independently with its own enormous motion, the boat hook no longer

+reaches the moving vessel, and suddenly the administrator, instead

+of appearing a ruler and a source of power, becomes an insignificant,

+useless, feeble man.

+

+Rostopchín felt this, and it was this which exasperated him.

+

+The superintendent of police, whom the crowd had stopped, went in to

+see him at the same time as an adjutant who informed the count that the

+horses were harnessed. They were both pale, and the superintendent of

+police, after reporting that he had executed the instructions he had

+received, informed the count that an immense crowd had collected in the

+courtyard and wished to see him.

+

+Without saying a word Rostopchín rose and walked hastily to his light,

+luxurious drawing room, went to the balcony door, took hold of the

+handle, let it go again, and went to the window from which he had a

+better view of the whole crowd. The tall lad was standing in front,

+flourishing his arm and saying something with a stern look. The

+blood-stained smith stood beside him with a gloomy face. A drone of

+voices was audible through the closed window.

+

+“Is my carriage ready?” asked Rostopchín, stepping back from the window.

+

+“It is, your excellency,” replied the adjutant.

+

+Rostopchín went again to the balcony door.

+

+“But what do they want?” he asked the superintendent of police.

+

+“Your excellency, they say they have got ready, according to your

+orders, to go against the French, and they shouted something about

+treachery. But it is a turbulent crowd, your excellency—I hardly managed

+to get away from it. Your excellency, I venture to suggest...”

+

+“You may go. I don’t need you to tell me what to do!” exclaimed

+Rostopchín angrily.

+

+He stood by the balcony door looking at the crowd.

+

+“This is what they have done with Russia! This is what they have done

+with me!” thought he, full of an irrepressible fury that welled up

+within him against the someone to whom what was happening might be

+attributed. As often happens with passionate people, he was mastered by

+anger but was still seeking an object on which to vent it. “Here is

+that mob, the dregs of the people,” he thought as he gazed at the crowd:

+“this rabble they have roused by their folly! They want a victim,”

+he thought as he looked at the tall lad flourishing his arm. And this

+thought occurred to him just because he himself desired a victim,

+something on which to vent his rage.

+

+“Is the carriage ready?” he asked again.

+

+“Yes, your excellency. What are your orders about Vereshchágin? He is

+waiting at the porch,” said the adjutant.

+

+“Ah!” exclaimed Rostopchín, as if struck by an unexpected recollection.

+

+And rapidly opening the door he went resolutely out onto the balcony.

+The talking instantly ceased, hats and caps were doffed, and all eyes

+were raised to the count.

+

+“Good morning, lads!” said the count briskly and loudly. “Thank you for

+coming. I’ll come out to you in a moment, but we must first settle

+with the villain. We must punish the villain who has caused the ruin of

+Moscow. Wait for me!”

+

+And the count stepped as briskly back into the room and slammed the door

+behind him.

+

+A murmur of approbation and satisfaction ran through the crowd. “He’ll

+settle with all the villains, you’ll see! And you said the French...

+He’ll show you what law is!” the mob were saying as if reproving one

+another for their lack of confidence.

+

+A few minutes later an officer came hurriedly out of the front door,

+gave an order, and the dragoons formed up in line. The crowd moved

+eagerly from the balcony toward the porch. Rostopchín, coming out there

+with quick angry steps, looked hastily around as if seeking someone.

+

+“Where is he?” he inquired. And as he spoke he saw a young man coming

+round the corner of the house between two dragoons. He had a long thin

+neck, and his head, that had been half shaved, was again covered by

+short hair. This young man was dressed in a threadbare blue cloth coat

+lined with fox fur, that had once been smart, and dirty hempen convict

+trousers, over which were pulled his thin, dirty, trodden-down boots.

+On his thin, weak legs were heavy chains which hampered his irresolute

+movements.

+

+“Ah!” said Rostopchín, hurriedly turning away his eyes from the young

+man in the fur-lined coat and pointing to the bottom step of the porch.

+“Put him there.”

+

+The young man in his clattering chains stepped clumsily to the spot

+indicated, holding away with one finger the coat collar which chafed

+his neck, turned his long neck twice this way and that, sighed, and

+submissively folded before him his thin hands, unused to work.

+

+For several seconds while the young man was taking his place on the step

+the silence continued. Only among the back rows of the people, who were

+all pressing toward the one spot, could sighs, groans, and the shuffling

+of feet be heard.

+

+While waiting for the young man to take his place on the step Rostopchín

+stood frowning and rubbing his face with his hand.

+

+“Lads!” said he, with a metallic ring in his voice. “This man,

+Vereshchágin, is the scoundrel by whose doing Moscow is perishing.”

+

+The young man in the fur-lined coat, stooping a little, stood in a

+submissive attitude, his fingers clasped before him. His emaciated young

+face, disfigured by the half-shaven head, hung down hopelessly. At

+the count’s first words he raised it slowly and looked up at him as if

+wishing to say something or at least to meet his eye. But Rostopchín did

+not look at him. A vein in the young man’s long thin neck swelled like a

+cord and went blue behind the ear, and suddenly his face flushed.

+

+All eyes were fixed on him. He looked at the crowd, and rendered more

+hopeful by the expression he read on the faces there, he smiled sadly

+and timidly, and lowering his head shifted his feet on the step.

+

+“He has betrayed his Tsar and his country, he has gone over to

+Bonaparte. He alone of all the Russians has disgraced the Russian name,

+he has caused Moscow to perish,” said Rostopchín in a sharp, even voice,

+but suddenly he glanced down at Vereshchágin who continued to stand in

+the same submissive attitude. As if inflamed by the sight, he raised his

+arm and addressed the people, almost shouting:

+

+“Deal with him as you think fit! I hand him over to you.”

+

+The crowd remained silent and only pressed closer and closer to

+one another. To keep one another back, to breathe in that stifling

+atmosphere, to be unable to stir, and to await something unknown,

+uncomprehended, and terrible, was becoming unbearable. Those standing

+in front, who had seen and heard what had taken place before them, all

+stood with wide-open eyes and mouths, straining with all their strength,

+and held back the crowd that was pushing behind them.

+

+“Beat him!... Let the traitor perish and not disgrace the Russian name!”

+shouted Rostopchín. “Cut him down. I command it.”

+

+Hearing not so much the words as the angry tone of Rostopchín’s voice,

+the crowd moaned and heaved forward, but again paused.

+

+“Count!” exclaimed the timid yet theatrical voice of Vereshchágin in the

+midst of the momentary silence that ensued, “Count! One God is above us

+both....” He lifted his head and again the thick vein in his thin neck

+filled with blood and the color rapidly came and went in his face.

+

+He did not finish what he wished to say.

+

+“Cut him down! I command it...” shouted Rostopchín, suddenly growing

+pale like Vereshchágin.

+

+“Draw sabers!” cried the dragoon officer, drawing his own.

+

+Another still stronger wave flowed through the crowd and reaching the

+front ranks carried it swaying to the very steps of the porch. The tall

+youth, with a stony look on his face, and rigid and uplifted arm, stood

+beside Vereshchágin.

+

+“Saber him!” the dragoon officer almost whispered.

+

+And one of the soldiers, his face all at once distorted with fury,

+struck Vereshchágin on the head with the blunt side of his saber.

+

+“Ah!” cried Vereshchágin in meek surprise, looking round with a

+frightened glance as if not understanding why this was done to him. A

+similar moan of surprise and horror ran through the crowd. “O Lord!”

+exclaimed a sorrowful voice.

+

+But after the exclamation of surprise that had escaped from Vereshchágin

+he uttered a plaintive cry of pain, and that cry was fatal. The barrier

+of human feeling, strained to the utmost, that had held the crowd in

+check suddenly broke. The crime had begun and must now be completed. The

+plaintive moan of reproach was drowned by the threatening and angry roar

+of the crowd. Like the seventh and last wave that shatters a ship, that

+last irresistible wave burst from the rear and reached the front ranks,

+carrying them off their feet and engulfing them all. The dragoon was

+about to repeat his blow. Vereshchágin with a cry of horror, covering

+his head with his hands, rushed toward the crowd. The tall youth,

+against whom he stumbled, seized his thin neck with his hands and,

+yelling wildly, fell with him under the feet of the pressing, struggling

+crowd.

+

+Some beat and tore at Vereshchágin, others at the tall youth. And the

+screams of those that were being trampled on and of those who tried to

+rescue the tall lad only increased the fury of the crowd. It was a long

+time before the dragoons could extricate the bleeding youth, beaten

+almost to death. And for a long time, despite the feverish haste with

+which the mob tried to end the work that had been begun, those who were

+hitting, throttling, and tearing at Vereshchágin were unable to kill

+him, for the crowd pressed from all sides, swaying as one mass with them

+in the center and rendering it impossible for them either to kill him or

+let him go.

+

+“Hit him with an ax, eh!... Crushed?... Traitor, he sold Christ....

+Still alive... tenacious... serves him right! Torture serves a thief

+right. Use the hatchet!... What—still alive?”

+

+Only when the victim ceased to struggle and his cries changed to a

+long-drawn, measured death rattle did the crowd around his prostrate,

+bleeding corpse begin rapidly to change places. Each one came

+up, glanced at what had been done, and with horror, reproach, and

+astonishment pushed back again.

+

+“O Lord! The people are like wild beasts! How could he be alive?” voices

+in the crowd could be heard saying. “Quite a young fellow too... must

+have been a merchant’s son. What men!... and they say he’s not the right

+one.... How not the right one?... O Lord! And there’s another has been

+beaten too—they say he’s nearly done for.... Oh, the people... Aren’t

+they afraid of sinning?...” said the same mob now, looking with pained

+distress at the dead body with its long, thin, half-severed neck and its

+livid face stained with blood and dust.

+

+A painstaking police officer, considering the presence of a corpse in

+his excellency’s courtyard unseemly, told the dragoons to take it away.

+Two dragoons took it by its distorted legs and dragged it along the

+ground. The gory, dust-stained, half-shaven head with its long neck

+trailed twisting along the ground. The crowd shrank back from it.

+

+At the moment when Vereshchágin fell and the crowd closed in with savage

+yells and swayed about him, Rostopchín suddenly turned pale and, instead

+of going to the back entrance where his carriage awaited him, went

+with hurried steps and bent head, not knowing where and why, along the

+passage leading to the rooms on the ground floor. The count’s face was

+white and he could not control the feverish twitching of his lower jaw.

+

+“This way, your excellency... Where are you going?... This way,

+please...” said a trembling, frightened voice behind him.

+

+Count Rostopchín was unable to reply and, turning obediently, went in

+the direction indicated. At the back entrance stood his calèche. The

+distant roar of the yelling crowd was audible even there. He hastily

+took his seat and told the coachman to drive him to his country house in

+Sokólniki.

+

+When they reached the Myasnítski Street and could no longer hear

+the shouts of the mob, the count began to repent. He remembered with

+dissatisfaction the agitation and fear he had betrayed before his

+subordinates. “The mob is terrible—disgusting,” he said to himself

+in French. “They are like wolves whom nothing but flesh can appease.”

+“Count! One God is above us both!”—Vereshchágin’s words suddenly

+recurred to him, and a disagreeable shiver ran down his back. But this

+was only a momentary feeling and Count Rostopchín smiled disdainfully

+at himself. “I had other duties,” thought he. “The people had to be

+appeased. Many other victims have perished and are perishing for the

+public good”—and he began thinking of his social duties to his family

+and to the city entrusted to him, and of himself—not himself as Theodore

+Vasílyevich Rostopchín (he fancied that Theodore Vasílyevich Rostopchín

+was sacrificing himself for the public good) but himself as governor,

+the representative of authority and of the Tsar. “Had I been simply

+Theodore Vasílyevich my course of action would have been quite

+different, but it was my duty to safeguard my life and dignity as

+commander in chief.”

+

+Lightly swaying on the flexible springs of his carriage and no longer

+hearing the terrible sounds of the crowd, Rostopchín grew physically

+calm and, as always happens, as soon as he became physically tranquil

+his mind devised reasons why he should be mentally tranquil too. The

+thought which tranquillized Rostopchín was not a new one. Since the

+world began and men have killed one another no one has ever committed

+such a crime against his fellow man without comforting himself with

+this same idea. This idea is le bien public, the hypothetical welfare of

+other people.

+

+To a man not swayed by passion that welfare is never certain, but he

+who commits such a crime always knows just where that welfare lies. And

+Rostopchín now knew it.

+

+Not only did his reason not reproach him for what he had done, but

+he even found cause for self-satisfaction in having so successfully

+contrived to avail himself of a convenient opportunity to punish a

+criminal and at the same time pacify the mob.

+

+“Vereshchágin was tried and condemned to death,” thought Rostopchín

+(though the Senate had only condemned Vereshchágin to hard labor), “he

+was a traitor and a spy. I could not let him go unpunished and so I have

+killed two birds with one stone: to appease the mob I gave them a victim

+and at the same time punished a miscreant.”

+

+Having reached his country house and begun to give orders about domestic

+arrangements, the count grew quite tranquil.

+

+Half an hour later he was driving with his fast horses across the

+Sokólniki field, no longer thinking of what had occurred but considering

+what was to come. He was driving to the Yaúza bridge where he had heard

+that Kutúzov was. Count Rostopchín was mentally preparing the angry and

+stinging reproaches he meant to address to Kutúzov for his deception. He

+would make that foxy old courtier feel that the responsibility for all

+the calamities that would follow the abandonment of the city and the

+ruin of Russia (as Rostopchín regarded it) would fall upon his doting

+old head. Planning beforehand what he would say to Kutúzov, Rostopchín

+turned angrily in his calèche and gazed sternly from side to side.

+

+The Sokólniki field was deserted. Only at the end of it, in front of the

+almshouse and the lunatic asylum, could be seen some people in white

+and others like them walking singly across the field shouting and

+gesticulating.

+

+One of these was running to cross the path of Count Rostopchín’s

+carriage, and the count himself, his coachman, and his dragoons

+looked with vague horror and curiosity at these released lunatics and

+especially at the one running toward them.

+

+Swaying from side to side on his long, thin legs in his fluttering

+dressing gown, this lunatic was running impetuously, his gaze fixed on

+Rostopchín, shouting something in a hoarse voice and making signs to him

+to stop. The lunatic’s solemn, gloomy face was thin and yellow, with

+its beard growing in uneven tufts. His black, agate pupils with

+saffron-yellow whites moved restlessly near the lower eyelids.

+

+“Stop! Pull up, I tell you!” he cried in a piercing voice, and again

+shouted something breathlessly with emphatic intonations and gestures.

+

+Coming abreast of the calèche he ran beside it.

+

+“Thrice have they slain me, thrice have I risen from the dead. They

+stoned me, crucified me... I shall rise... shall rise... shall rise.

+They have torn my body. The kingdom of God will be overthrown... Thrice

+will I overthrow it and thrice re-establish it!” he cried, raising his

+voice higher and higher.

+

+Count Rostopchín suddenly grew pale as he had done when the crowd closed

+in on Vereshchágin. He turned away. “Go fas... faster!” he cried in a

+trembling voice to his coachman. The calèche flew over the ground as

+fast as the horses could draw it, but for a long time Count Rostopchín

+still heard the insane despairing screams growing fainter in the

+distance, while his eyes saw nothing but the astonished, frightened,

+bloodstained face of “the traitor” in the fur-lined coat.

+

+Recent as that mental picture was, Rostopchín already felt that it had

+cut deep into his heart and drawn blood. Even now he felt clearly that

+the gory trace of that recollection would not pass with time, but that

+the terrible memory would, on the contrary, dwell in his heart ever more

+cruelly and painfully to the end of his life. He seemed still to hear

+the sound of his own words: “Cut him down! I command it....”

+

+“Why did I utter those words? It was by some accident I said them....

+I need not have said them,” he thought. “And then nothing would have

+happened.” He saw the frightened and then infuriated face of the dragoon

+who dealt the blow, the look of silent, timid reproach that boy in the

+fur-lined coat had turned upon him. “But I did not do it for my own

+sake. I was bound to act that way.... The mob, the traitor... the public

+welfare,” thought he.

+

+Troops were still crowding at the Yaúza bridge. It was hot. Kutúzov,

+dejected and frowning, sat on a bench by the bridge toying with his

+whip in the sand when a calèche dashed up noisily. A man in a general’s

+uniform with plumes in his hat went up to Kutúzov and said something

+in French. It was Count Rostopchín. He told Kutúzov that he had come

+because Moscow, the capital, was no more and only the army remained.

+

+“Things would have been different if your Serene Highness had not told

+me that you would not abandon Moscow without another battle; all this

+would not have happened,” he said.

+

+Kutúzov looked at Rostopchín as if, not grasping what was said to him,

+he was trying to read something peculiar written at that moment on the

+face of the man addressing him. Rostopchín grew confused and became

+silent. Kutúzov slightly shook his head and not taking his penetrating

+gaze from Rostopchín’s face muttered softly:

+

+“No! I shall not give up Moscow without a battle!”

+

+Whether Kutúzov was thinking of something entirely different when

+he spoke those words, or uttered them purposely, knowing them to be

+meaningless, at any rate Rostopchín made no reply and hastily left him.

+And strange to say, the Governor of Moscow, the proud Count Rostopchín,

+took up a Cossack whip and went to the bridge where he began with shouts

+to drive on the carts that blocked the way.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XXVI

+

+Toward four o’clock in the afternoon Murat’s troops were entering

+Moscow. In front rode a detachment of Württemberg hussars and behind

+them rode the King of Naples himself accompanied by a numerous suite.

+

+About the middle of the Arbát Street, near the Church of the Miraculous

+Icon of St. Nicholas, Murat halted to await news from the advanced

+detachment as to the condition in which they had found the citadel, le

+Kremlin.

+

+Around Murat gathered a group of those who had remained in Moscow. They

+all stared in timid bewilderment at the strange, long-haired commander

+dressed up in feathers and gold.

+

+“Is that their Tsar himself? He’s not bad!” low voices could be heard

+saying.

+

+An interpreter rode up to the group.

+

+“Take off your cap... your caps!” These words went from one to another

+in the crowd. The interpreter addressed an old porter and asked if

+it was far to the Krémlin. The porter, listening in perplexity to the

+unfamiliar Polish accent and not realizing that the interpreter was

+speaking Russian, did not understand what was being said to him and

+slipped behind the others.

+

+Murat approached the interpreter and told him to ask where the Russian

+army was. One of the Russians understood what was asked and several

+voices at once began answering the interpreter. A French officer,

+returning from the advanced detachment, rode up to Murat and reported

+that the gates of the citadel had been barricaded and that there was

+probably an ambuscade there.

+

+“Good!” said Murat and, turning to one of the gentlemen in his suite,

+ordered four light guns to be moved forward to fire at the gates.

+

+The guns emerged at a trot from the column following Murat and advanced

+up the Arbát. When they reached the end of the Vozdvízhenka Street they

+halted and drew in the Square. Several French officers superintended the

+placing of the guns and looked at the Krémlin through field glasses.

+

+The bells in the Krémlin were ringing for vespers, and this sound

+troubled the French. They imagined it to be a call to arms. A few

+infantrymen ran to the Kutáfyev Gate. Beams and wooden screens had been

+put there, and two musket shots rang out from under the gate as soon as

+an officer and men began to run toward it. A general who was standing

+by the guns shouted some words of command to the officer, and the latter

+ran back again with his men.

+

+The sound of three more shots came from the gate.

+

+One shot struck a French soldier’s foot, and from behind the screens

+came the strange sound of a few voices shouting. Instantly as at a

+word of command the expression of cheerful serenity on the faces of

+the French general, officers, and men changed to one of determined

+concentrated readiness for strife and suffering. To all of them from

+the marshal to the least soldier, that place was not the Vozdvízhenka,

+Mokhaváya, or Kutáfyev Street, nor the Tróitsa Gate (places familiar in

+Moscow), but a new battlefield which would probably prove sanguinary.

+And all made ready for that battle. The cries from the gates ceased. The

+guns were advanced, the artillerymen blew the ash off their linstocks,

+and an officer gave the word “Fire!” This was followed by two whistling

+sounds of canister shot, one after another. The shot rattled against

+the stone of the gate and upon the wooden beams and screens, and two

+wavering clouds of smoke rose over the Square.

+

+A few instants after the echo of the reports resounding over the

+stone-built Krémlin had died away the French heard a strange sound above

+their head. Thousands of crows rose above the walls and circled in the

+air, cawing and noisily flapping their wings. Together with that sound

+came a solitary human cry from the gateway and amid the smoke appeared

+the figure of a bareheaded man in a peasant’s coat. He grasped a musket

+and took aim at the French. “Fire!” repeated the officer once more,

+and the reports of a musket and of two cannon shots were heard

+simultaneously. The gate was again hidden by smoke.

+

+Nothing more stirred behind the screens and the French infantry soldiers

+and officers advanced to the gate. In the gateway lay three wounded and

+four dead. Two men in peasant coats ran away at the foot of the wall,

+toward the Známenka.

+

+“Clear that away!” said the officer, pointing to the beams and the

+corpses, and the French soldiers, after dispatching the wounded, threw

+the corpses over the parapet.

+

+Who these men were nobody knew. “Clear that away!” was all that was said

+of them, and they were thrown over the parapet and removed later on that

+they might not stink. Thiers alone dedicates a few eloquent lines to

+their memory: “These wretches had occupied the sacred citadel, having

+supplied themselves with guns from the arsenal, and fired” (the

+wretches) “at the French. Some of them were sabered and the Krémlin was

+purged of their presence.”

+

+Murat was informed that the way had been cleared. The French entered

+the gates and began pitching their camp in the Senate Square. Out of the

+windows of the Senate House the soldiers threw chairs into the Square

+for fuel and kindled fires there.

+

+Other detachments passed through the Krémlin and encamped along

+the Moroséyka, the Lubyánka, and Pokróvka Streets. Others quartered

+themselves along the Vozdvízhenka, the Nikólski, and the Tverskóy

+Streets. No masters of the houses being found anywhere, the French were

+not billeted on the inhabitants as is usual in towns but lived in it as

+in a camp.

+

+Though tattered, hungry, worn out, and reduced to a third of their

+original number, the French entered Moscow in good marching order. It

+was a weary and famished, but still a fighting and menacing army. But

+it remained an army only until its soldiers had dispersed into their

+different lodgings. As soon as the men of the various regiments began

+to disperse among the wealthy and deserted houses, the army was lost

+forever and there came into being something nondescript, neither

+citizens nor soldiers but what are known as marauders. When five weeks

+later these same men left Moscow, they no longer formed an army. They

+were a mob of marauders, each carrying a quantity of articles which

+seemed to him valuable or useful. The aim of each man when he left

+Moscow was no longer, as it had been, to conquer, but merely to keep

+what he had acquired. Like a monkey which puts its paw into the narrow

+neck of a jug, and having seized a handful of nuts will not open its

+fist for fear of losing what it holds, and therefore perishes, the

+French when they left Moscow had inevitably to perish because they

+carried their loot with them, yet to abandon what they had stolen was as

+impossible for them as it is for the monkey to open its paw and let

+go of its nuts. Ten minutes after each regiment had entered a Moscow

+district, not a soldier or officer was left. Men in military uniforms

+and Hessian boots could be seen through the windows, laughing and

+walking through the rooms. In cellars and storerooms similar men were

+busy among the provisions, and in the yards unlocking or breaking open

+coach house and stable doors, lighting fires in kitchens and kneading

+and baking bread with rolled-up sleeves, and cooking; or frightening,

+amusing, or caressing women and children. There were many such men both

+in the shops and houses—but there was no army.

+

+Order after order was issued by the French commanders that day

+forbidding the men to disperse about the town, sternly forbidding any

+violence to the inhabitants or any looting, and announcing a roll call

+for that very evening. But despite all these measures the men, who had

+till then constituted an army, flowed all over the wealthy, deserted

+city with its comforts and plentiful supplies. As a hungry herd of

+cattle keeps well together when crossing a barren field, but gets out

+of hand and at once disperses uncontrollably as soon as it reaches rich

+pastures, so did the army disperse all over the wealthy city.

+

+No residents were left in Moscow, and the soldiers—like water

+percolating through sand—spread irresistibly through the city in all

+directions from the Krémlin into which they had first marched. The

+cavalry, on entering a merchant’s house that had been abandoned and

+finding there stabling more than sufficient for their horses, went on,

+all the same, to the next house which seemed to them better. Many of

+them appropriated several houses, chalked their names on them, and

+quarreled and even fought with other companies for them. Before they had

+had time to secure quarters the soldiers ran out into the streets to

+see the city and, hearing that everything had been abandoned, rushed

+to places where valuables were to be had for the taking. The officers

+followed to check the soldiers and were involuntarily drawn into doing

+the same. In Carriage Row carriages had been left in the shops, and

+generals flocked there to select calèches and coaches for themselves.

+The few inhabitants who had remained invited commanding officers to

+their houses, hoping thereby to secure themselves from being plundered.

+There were masses of wealth and there seemed no end to it. All around

+the quarters occupied by the French were other regions still unexplored

+and unoccupied where, they thought, yet greater riches might be found.

+And Moscow engulfed the army ever deeper and deeper. When water is

+spilled on dry ground both the dry ground and the water disappear and

+mud results; and in the same way the entry of the famished army into the

+rich and deserted city resulted in fires and looting and the destruction

+of both the army and the wealthy city.

+

+

+The French attributed the Fire of Moscow au patriotisme féroce de

+Rostopchíne, * the Russians to the barbarity of the French. In reality,

+however, it was not, and could not be, possible to explain the burning

+of Moscow by making any individual, or any group of people, responsible

+for it. Moscow was burned because it found itself in a position in which

+any town built of wood was bound to burn, quite apart from whether it

+had, or had not, a hundred and thirty inferior fire engines. Deserted

+Moscow had to burn as inevitably as a heap of shavings has to burn on

+which sparks continually fall for several days. A town built of wood,

+where scarcely a day passes without conflagrations when the house owners

+are in residence and a police force is present, cannot help burning when

+its inhabitants have left it and it is occupied by soldiers who smoke

+pipes, make campfires of the Senate chairs in the Senate Square, and

+cook themselves meals twice a day. In peacetime it is only necessary to

+billet troops in the villages of any district and the number of fires in

+that district immediately increases. How much then must the probability

+of fire be increased in an abandoned, wooden town where foreign troops

+are quartered. “Le patriotisme féroce de Rostopchíne” and the barbarity

+of the French were not to blame in the matter. Moscow was set on fire by

+the soldiers’ pipes, kitchens, and campfires, and by the carelessness of

+enemy soldiers occupying houses they did not own. Even if there was any

+arson (which is very doubtful, for no one had any reason to burn the

+houses—in any case a troublesome and dangerous thing to do), arson

+cannot be regarded as the cause, for the same thing would have happened

+without any incendiarism.

+

+    * To Rostopchín’s ferocious patriotism.

+

+However tempting it might be for the French to blame Rostopchín’s

+ferocity and for Russians to blame the scoundrel Bonaparte, or later

+on to place an heroic torch in the hands of their own people, it is

+impossible not to see that there could be no such direct cause of the

+fire, for Moscow had to burn as every village, factory, or house must

+burn which is left by its owners and in which strangers are allowed to

+live and cook their porridge. Moscow was burned by its inhabitants, it

+is true, but by those who had abandoned it and not by those who remained

+in it. Moscow when occupied by the enemy did not remain intact like

+Berlin, Vienna, and other towns, simply because its inhabitants

+abandoned it and did not welcome the French with bread and salt, nor

+bring them the keys of the city.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XXVII

+

+The absorption of the French by Moscow, radiating starwise as it did,

+only reached the quarter where Pierre was staying by the evening of the

+second of September.

+

+After the last two days spent in solitude and unusual circumstances,

+Pierre was in a state bordering on insanity. He was completely obsessed

+by one persistent thought. He did not know how or when this thought had

+taken such possession of him, but he remembered nothing of the past,

+understood nothing of the present, and all he saw and heard appeared to

+him like a dream.

+

+He had left home only to escape the intricate tangle of life’s demands

+that enmeshed him, and which in his present condition he was unable

+to unravel. He had gone to Joseph Alexéevich’s house, on the plea of

+sorting the deceased’s books and papers, only in search of rest from

+life’s turmoil, for in his mind the memory of Joseph Alexéevich was

+connected with a world of eternal, solemn, and calm thoughts, quite

+contrary to the restless confusion into which he felt himself being

+drawn. He sought a quiet refuge, and in Joseph Alexéevich’s study he

+really found it. When he sat with his elbows on the dusty writing table

+in the deathlike stillness of the study, calm and significant memories

+of the last few days rose one after another in his imagination,

+particularly of the battle of Borodinó and of that vague sense of his

+own insignificance and insincerity compared with the truth, simplicity,

+and strength of the class of men he mentally classed as they. When

+Gerásim roused him from his reverie the idea occurred to him of taking

+part in the popular defense of Moscow which he knew was projected. And

+with that object he had asked Gerásim to get him a peasant’s coat and

+a pistol, confiding to him his intentions of remaining in Joseph

+Alexéevich’s house and keeping his name secret. Then during the first

+day spent in inaction and solitude (he tried several times to fix his

+attention on the Masonic manuscripts, but was unable to do so) the idea

+that had previously occurred to him of the cabalistic significance of

+his name in connection with Bonaparte’s more than once vaguely presented

+itself. But the idea that he, L’russe Besuhof, was destined to set a

+limit to the power of the Beast was as yet only one of the fancies that

+often passed through his mind and left no trace behind.

+

+When, having bought the coat merely with the object of taking part among

+the people in the defense of Moscow, Pierre had met the Rostóvs and

+Natásha had said to him: “Are you remaining in Moscow?... How splendid!”

+the thought flashed into his mind that it really would be a good thing,

+even if Moscow were taken, for him to remain there and do what he was

+predestined to do.

+

+Next day, with the sole idea of not sparing himself and not lagging in

+any way behind them, Pierre went to the Three Hills gate. But when he

+returned to the house convinced that Moscow would not be defended, he

+suddenly felt that what before had seemed to him merely a possibility

+had now become absolutely necessary and inevitable. He must remain in

+Moscow, concealing his name, and must meet Napoleon and kill him, and

+either perish or put an end to the misery of all Europe—which it seemed

+to him was solely due to Napoleon.

+

+Pierre knew all the details of the attempt on Bonaparte’s life in 1809

+by a German student in Vienna, and knew that the student had been shot.

+And the risk to which he would expose his life by carrying out his

+design excited him still more.

+

+Two equally strong feelings drew Pierre irresistibly to this purpose.

+The first was a feeling of the necessity of sacrifice and suffering in

+view of the common calamity, the same feeling that had caused him to go

+to Mozháysk on the twenty-fifth and to make his way to the very thick

+of the battle and had now caused him to run away from his home and, in

+place of the luxury and comfort to which he was accustomed, to sleep

+on a hard sofa without undressing and eat the same food as Gerásim.

+The other was that vague and quite Russian feeling of contempt for

+everything conventional, artificial, and human—for everything the

+majority of men regard as the greatest good in the world. Pierre had

+first experienced this strange and fascinating feeling at the Slobóda

+Palace, when he had suddenly felt that wealth, power, and life—all that

+men so painstakingly acquire and guard—if it has any worth has so only

+by reason of the joy with which it can all be renounced.

+

+It was the feeling that induces a volunteer recruit to spend his last

+penny on drink, and a drunken man to smash mirrors or glasses for no

+apparent reason and knowing that it will cost him all the money he

+possesses: the feeling which causes a man to perform actions which from

+an ordinary point of view are insane, to test, as it were, his personal

+power and strength, affirming the existence of a higher, nonhuman

+criterion of life.

+

+From the very day Pierre had experienced this feeling for the first time

+at the Slobóda Palace he had been continuously under its influence, but

+only now found full satisfaction for it. Moreover, at this moment Pierre

+was supported in his design and prevented from renouncing it by what he

+had already done in that direction. If he were now to leave Moscow like

+everyone else, his flight from home, the peasant coat, the pistol, and

+his announcement to the Rostóvs that he would remain in Moscow would all

+become not merely meaningless but contemptible and ridiculous, and to

+this Pierre was very sensitive.

+

+Pierre’s physical condition, as is always the case, corresponded to his

+mental state. The unaccustomed coarse food, the vodka he drank during

+those days, the absence of wine and cigars, his dirty unchanged linen,

+two almost sleepless nights passed on a short sofa without bedding—all

+this kept him in a state of excitement bordering on insanity.

+

+It was two o’clock in the afternoon. The French had already entered

+Moscow. Pierre knew this, but instead of acting he only thought about

+his undertaking, going over its minutest details in his mind. In his

+fancy he did not clearly picture to himself either the striking of the

+blow or the death of Napoleon, but with extraordinary vividness and

+melancholy enjoyment imagined his own destruction and heroic endurance.

+

+“Yes, alone, for the sake of all, I must do it or perish!” he thought.

+“Yes, I will approach... and then suddenly... with pistol or dagger?

+But that is all the same! ‘It is not I but the hand of Providence that

+punishes thee,’ I shall say,” thought he, imagining what he would say

+when killing Napoleon. “Well then, take me and execute me!” he went on,

+speaking to himself and bowing his head with a sad but firm expression.

+

+While Pierre, standing in the middle of the room, was talking to himself

+in this way, the study door opened and on the threshold appeared

+the figure of Makár Alexéevich, always so timid before but now quite

+transformed.

+

+His dressing gown was unfastened, his face red and distorted. He

+was obviously drunk. On seeing Pierre he grew confused at first, but

+noticing embarrassment on Pierre’s face immediately grew bold and,

+staggering on his thin legs, advanced into the middle of the room.

+

+“They’re frightened,” he said confidentially in a hoarse voice. “I say I

+won’t surrender, I say... Am I not right, sir?”

+

+He paused and then suddenly seeing the pistol on the table seized it

+with unexpected rapidity and ran out into the corridor.

+

+Gerásim and the porter, who had followed Makár Alexéevich, stopped him

+in the vestibule and tried to take the pistol from him. Pierre, coming

+out into the corridor, looked with pity and repulsion at the half-crazy

+old man. Makár Alexéevich, frowning with exertion, held on to the pistol

+and screamed hoarsely, evidently with some heroic fancy in his head.

+

+“To arms! Board them! No, you shan’t get it,” he yelled.

+

+“That will do, please, that will do. Have the goodness—please, sir, to

+let go! Please, sir...” pleaded Gerásim, trying carefully to steer Makár

+Alexéevich by the elbows back to the door.

+

+“Who are you? Bonaparte!...” shouted Makár Alexéevich.

+

+“That’s not right, sir. Come to your room, please, and rest. Allow me to

+have the pistol.”

+

+“Be off, thou base slave! Touch me not! See this?” shouted Makár

+Alexéevich, brandishing the pistol. “Board them!”

+

+“Catch hold!” whispered Gerásim to the porter.

+

+They seized Makár Alexéevich by the arms and dragged him to the door.

+

+The vestibule was filled with the discordant sounds of a struggle and of

+a tipsy, hoarse voice.

+

+Suddenly a fresh sound, a piercing feminine scream, reverberated from

+the porch and the cook came running into the vestibule.

+

+“It’s them! Gracious heavens! O Lord, four of them, horsemen!” she

+cried.

+

+Gerásim and the porter let Makár Alexéevich go, and in the now silent

+corridor the sound of several hands knocking at the front door could be

+heard.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XXVIII

+

+Pierre, having decided that until he had carried out his design he would

+disclose neither his identity nor his knowledge of French, stood at the

+half-open door of the corridor, intending to conceal himself as soon

+as the French entered. But the French entered and still Pierre did not

+retire—an irresistible curiosity kept him there.

+

+There were two of them. One was an officer—a tall, soldierly, handsome

+man—the other evidently a private or an orderly, sunburned, short, and

+thin, with sunken cheeks and a dull expression. The officer walked in

+front, leaning on a stick and slightly limping. When he had advanced

+a few steps he stopped, having apparently decided that these were good

+quarters, turned round to the soldiers standing at the entrance, and in

+a loud voice of command ordered them to put up the horses. Having done

+that, the officer, lifting his elbow with a smart gesture, stroked his

+mustache and lightly touched his hat.

+

+“Bonjour, la compagnie!” * said he gaily, smiling and looking about him.

+

+    * “Good day, everybody!”

+

+

+No one gave any reply.

+

+“Vous êtes le bourgeois?” * the officer asked Gerásim.

+

+    * “Are you the master here?”

+

+

+Gerásim gazed at the officer with an alarmed and inquiring look.

+

+“Quartier, quartier, logement!” said the officer, looking down at the

+little man with a condescending and good-natured smile. “Les français

+sont de bons enfants. Que diable! Voyons! Ne nous fâchons pas, mon

+vieux!” * added he, clapping the scared and silent Gerásim on the

+shoulder. “Well, does no one speak French in this establishment?” he

+asked again in French, looking around and meeting Pierre’s eyes. Pierre

+moved away from the door.

+

+     * “Quarters, quarters, lodgings! The French are good

+     fellows. What the devil! There, don’t let us be cross, old

+     fellow!”

+

+

+Again the officer turned to Gerásim and asked him to show him the rooms

+in the house.

+

+“Master, not here—don’t understand... me, you...” said Gerásim, trying

+to render his words more comprehensible by contorting them.

+

+Still smiling, the French officer spread out his hands before Gerásim’s

+nose, intimating that he did not understand him either, and moved,

+limping, to the door at which Pierre was standing. Pierre wished to go

+away and conceal himself, but at that moment he saw Makár Alexéevich

+appearing at the open kitchen door with the pistol in his hand. With

+a madman’s cunning, Makár Alexéevich eyed the Frenchman, raised his

+pistol, and took aim.

+

+“Board them!” yelled the tipsy man, trying to press the trigger. Hearing

+the yell the officer turned round, and at the same moment Pierre threw

+himself on the drunkard. Just when Pierre snatched at and struck up the

+pistol Makár Alexéevich at last got his fingers on the trigger, there

+was a deafening report, and all were enveloped in a cloud of smoke. The

+Frenchman turned pale and rushed to the door.

+

+Forgetting his intention of concealing his knowledge of French, Pierre,

+snatching away the pistol and throwing it down, ran up to the officer

+and addressed him in French.

+

+“You are not wounded?” he asked.

+

+“I think not,” answered the Frenchman, feeling himself over. “But I have

+had a lucky escape this time,” he added, pointing to the damaged plaster

+of the wall. “Who is that man?” said he, looking sternly at Pierre.

+

+“Oh, I am really in despair at what has occurred,” said Pierre rapidly,

+quite forgetting the part he had intended to play. “He is an unfortunate

+madman who did not know what he was doing.”

+

+The officer went up to Makár Alexéevich and took him by the collar.

+

+Makár Alexéevich was standing with parted lips, swaying, as if about to

+fall asleep, as he leaned against the wall.

+

+“Brigand! You shall pay for this,” said the Frenchman, letting go

+of him. “We French are merciful after victory, but we do not pardon

+traitors,” he added, with a look of gloomy dignity and a fine energetic

+gesture.

+

+Pierre continued, in French, to persuade the officer not to hold that

+drunken imbecile to account. The Frenchman listened in silence with the

+same gloomy expression, but suddenly turned to Pierre with a smile. For

+a few seconds he looked at him in silence. His handsome face assumed a

+melodramatically gentle expression and he held out his hand.

+

+“You have saved my life. You are French,” said he.

+

+For a Frenchman that deduction was indubitable. Only a Frenchman could

+perform a great deed, and to save his life—the life of M. Ramballe,

+captain of the 13th Light Regiment—was undoubtedly a very great deed.

+

+But however indubitable that conclusion and the officer’s conviction

+based upon it, Pierre felt it necessary to disillusion him.

+

+“I am Russian,” he said quickly.

+

+“Tut, tut, tut! Tell that to others,” said the officer, waving his

+finger before his nose and smiling. “You shall tell me all about that

+presently. I am delighted to meet a compatriot. Well, and what are we

+to do with this man?” he added, addressing himself to Pierre as to a

+brother.

+

+Even if Pierre were not a Frenchman, having once received that loftiest

+of human appellations he could not renounce it, said the officer’s look

+and tone. In reply to his last question Pierre again explained who Makár

+Alexéevich was and how just before their arrival that drunken imbecile

+had seized the loaded pistol which they had not had time to recover from

+him, and begged the officer to let the deed go unpunished.

+

+The Frenchman expanded his chest and made a majestic gesture with his

+arm.

+

+“You have saved my life! You are French. You ask his pardon? I grant it

+you. Lead that man away!” said he quickly and energetically, and taking

+the arm of Pierre whom he had promoted to be a Frenchman for saving his

+life, he went with him into the room.

+

+The soldiers in the yard, hearing the shot, came into the passage asking

+what had happened, and expressed their readiness to punish the culprits,

+but the officer sternly checked them.

+

+“You will be called in when you are wanted,” he said.

+

+The soldiers went out again, and the orderly, who had meanwhile had time

+to visit the kitchen, came up to his officer.

+

+“Captain, there is soup and a leg of mutton in the kitchen,” said he.

+“Shall I serve them up?”

+

+“Yes, and some wine,” answered the captain.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XXIX

+

+When the French officer went into the room with Pierre the latter again

+thought it his duty to assure him that he was not French and wished to

+go away, but the officer would not hear of it. He was so very polite,

+amiable, good-natured, and genuinely grateful to Pierre for saving his

+life that Pierre had not the heart to refuse, and sat down with him in

+the parlor—the first room they entered. To Pierre’s assurances that he

+was not a Frenchman, the captain, evidently not understanding how anyone

+could decline so flattering an appellation, shrugged his shoulders and

+said that if Pierre absolutely insisted on passing for a Russian let it

+be so, but for all that he would be forever bound to Pierre by gratitude

+for saving his life.

+

+Had this man been endowed with the slightest capacity for perceiving the

+feelings of others, and had he at all understood what Pierre’s feelings

+were, the latter would probably have left him, but the man’s animated

+obtuseness to everything other than himself disarmed Pierre.

+

+“A Frenchman or a Russian prince incognito,” said the officer, looking

+at Pierre’s fine though dirty linen and at the ring on his finger.

+“I owe my life to you and offer you my friendship. A Frenchman never

+forgets either an insult or a service. I offer you my friendship. That

+is all I can say.”

+

+There was so much good nature and nobility (in the French sense of the

+word) in the officer’s voice, in the expression of his face and in

+his gestures, that Pierre, unconsciously smiling in response to the

+Frenchman’s smile, pressed the hand held out to him.

+

+“Captain Ramballe, of the 13th Light Regiment, Chevalier of the Legion

+of Honor for the affair on the seventh of September,” he introduced

+himself, a self-satisfied irrepressible smile puckering his lips under

+his mustache. “Will you now be so good as to tell me with whom I have

+the honor of conversing so pleasantly, instead of being in the ambulance

+with that maniac’s bullet in my body?”

+

+Pierre replied that he could not tell him his name and, blushing,

+began to try to invent a name and to say something about his reason for

+concealing it, but the Frenchman hastily interrupted him.

+

+“Oh, please!” said he. “I understand your reasons. You are an officer...

+a superior officer perhaps. You have borne arms against us. That’s not

+my business. I owe you my life. That is enough for me. I am quite at

+your service. You belong to the gentry?” he concluded with a shade of

+inquiry in his tone. Pierre bent his head. “Your baptismal name, if you

+please. That is all I ask. Monsieur Pierre, you say.... That’s all I

+want to know.”

+

+When the mutton and an omelet had been served and a samovar and vodka

+brought, with some wine which the French had taken from a Russian cellar

+and brought with them, Ramballe invited Pierre to share his dinner, and

+himself began to eat greedily and quickly like a healthy and hungry man,

+munching his food rapidly with his strong teeth, continually smacking

+his lips, and repeating—“Excellent! Delicious!” His face grew red and

+was covered with perspiration. Pierre was hungry and shared the dinner

+with pleasure. Morel, the orderly, brought some hot water in a saucepan

+and placed a bottle of claret in it. He also brought a bottle of kvass,

+taken from the kitchen for them to try. That beverage was already known

+to the French and had been given a special name. They called it limonade

+de cochon (pig’s lemonade), and Morel spoke well of the limonade de

+cochon he had found in the kitchen. But as the captain had the wine they

+had taken while passing through Moscow, he left the kvass to Morel and

+applied himself to the bottle of Bordeaux. He wrapped the bottle up

+to its neck in a table napkin and poured out wine for himself and for

+Pierre. The satisfaction of his hunger and the wine rendered the captain

+still more lively and he chatted incessantly all through dinner.

+

+“Yes, my dear Monsieur Pierre, I owe you a fine votive candle for

+saving me from that maniac.... You see, I have bullets enough in my

+body already. Here is one I got at Wagram” (he touched his side) “and a

+second at Smolénsk”—he showed a scar on his cheek—“and this leg which as

+you see does not want to march, I got that on the seventh at the great

+battle of la Moskowa. Sacré Dieu! It was splendid! That deluge of fire

+was worth seeing. It was a tough job you set us there, my word! You may

+be proud of it! And on my honor, in spite of the cough I caught there, I

+should be ready to begin again. I pity those who did not see it.”

+

+“I was there,” said Pierre.

+

+“Bah, really? So much the better! You are certainly brave foes. The

+great redoubt held out well, by my pipe!” continued the Frenchman. “And

+you made us pay dear for it. I was at it three times—sure as I sit here.

+Three times we reached the guns and three times we were thrown back

+like cardboard figures. Oh, it was beautiful, Monsieur Pierre! Your

+grenadiers were splendid, by heaven! I saw them close up their ranks six

+times in succession and march as if on parade. Fine fellows! Our King of

+Naples, who knows what’s what, cried ‘Bravo!’ Ha, ha! So you are one of

+us soldiers!” he added, smiling, after a momentary pause. “So much

+the better, so much the better, Monsieur Pierre! Terrible in battle...

+gallant... with the fair” (he winked and smiled), “that’s what the

+French are, Monsieur Pierre, aren’t they?”

+

+The captain was so naïvely and good-humoredly gay, so real, and so

+pleased with himself that Pierre almost winked back as he looked merrily

+at him. Probably the word “gallant” turned the captain’s thoughts to the

+state of Moscow.

+

+“Apropos, tell me please, is it true that the women have all left

+Moscow? What a queer idea! What had they to be afraid of?”

+

+“Would not the French ladies leave Paris if the Russians entered it?”

+asked Pierre.

+

+“Ha, ha, ha!” The Frenchman emitted a merry, sanguine chuckle, patting

+Pierre on the shoulder. “What a thing to say!” he exclaimed. “Paris?...

+But Paris, Paris...”

+

+“Paris—the capital of the world,” Pierre finished his remark for him.

+

+The captain looked at Pierre. He had a habit of stopping short in the

+middle of his talk and gazing intently with his laughing, kindly eyes.

+

+“Well, if you hadn’t told me you were Russian, I should have wagered

+that you were Parisian! You have that... I don’t know what, that...” and

+having uttered this compliment, he again gazed at him in silence.

+

+“I have been in Paris. I spent years there,” said Pierre.

+

+“Oh yes, one sees that plainly. Paris!... A man who doesn’t know Paris

+is a savage. You can tell a Parisian two leagues off. Paris is Talma, la

+Duchénois, Potier, the Sorbonne, the boulevards,” and noticing that

+his conclusion was weaker than what had gone before, he added quickly:

+“There is only one Paris in the world. You have been to Paris and have

+remained Russian. Well, I don’t esteem you the less for it.”

+

+Under the influence of the wine he had drunk, and after the days he had

+spent alone with his depressing thoughts, Pierre involuntarily enjoyed

+talking with this cheerful and good-natured man.

+

+“To return to your ladies—I hear they are lovely. What a wretched idea

+to go and bury themselves in the steppes when the French army is in

+Moscow. What a chance those girls have missed! Your peasants, now—that’s

+another thing; but you civilized people, you ought to know us better

+than that. We took Vienna, Berlin, Madrid, Naples, Rome, Warsaw, all

+the world’s capitals.... We are feared, but we are loved. We are nice to

+know. And then the Emperor...” he began, but Pierre interrupted him.

+

+“The Emperor,” Pierre repeated, and his face suddenly became sad and

+embarrassed, “is the Emperor...?”

+

+“The Emperor? He is generosity, mercy, justice, order, genius—that’s

+what the Emperor is! It is I, Ramballe, who tell you so.... I assure you

+I was his enemy eight years ago. My father was an emigrant count.... But

+that man has vanquished me. He has taken hold of me. I could not resist

+the sight of the grandeur and glory with which he has covered France.

+When I understood what he wanted—when I saw that he was preparing a bed

+of laurels for us, you know, I said to myself: ‘That is a monarch,’ and

+I devoted myself to him! So there! Oh yes, mon cher, he is the greatest

+man of the ages past or future.”

+

+“Is he in Moscow?” Pierre stammered with a guilty look.

+

+The Frenchman looked at his guilty face and smiled.

+

+“No, he will make his entry tomorrow,” he replied, and continued his

+talk.

+

+Their conversation was interrupted by the cries of several voices at

+the gate and by Morel, who came to say that some Württemberg hussars had

+come and wanted to put up their horses in the yard where the captain’s

+horses were. This difficulty had arisen chiefly because the hussars did

+not understand what was said to them in French.

+

+The captain had their senior sergeant called in, and in a stern voice

+asked him to what regiment he belonged, who was his commanding officer,

+and by what right he allowed himself to claim quarters that were already

+occupied. The German who knew little French, answered the two first

+questions by giving the names of his regiment and of his commanding

+officer, but in reply to the third question which he did not understand

+said, introducing broken French into his own German, that he was the

+quartermaster of the regiment and his commander had ordered him to

+occupy all the houses one after another. Pierre, who knew German,

+translated what the German said to the captain and gave the captain’s

+reply to the Württemberg hussar in German. When he had understood what

+was said to him, the German submitted and took his men elsewhere. The

+captain went out into the porch and gave some orders in a loud voice.

+

+When he returned to the room Pierre was sitting in the same place as

+before, with his head in his hands. His face expressed suffering. He

+really was suffering at that moment. When the captain went out and he

+was left alone, suddenly he came to himself and realized the position

+he was in. It was not that Moscow had been taken or that the happy

+conquerors were masters in it and were patronizing him. Painful as

+that was it was not that which tormented Pierre at the moment. He was

+tormented by the consciousness of his own weakness. The few glasses of

+wine he had drunk and the conversation with this good-natured man had

+destroyed the mood of concentrated gloom in which he had spent the last

+few days and which was essential for the execution of his design. The

+pistol, dagger, and peasant coat were ready. Napoleon was to enter the

+town next day. Pierre still considered that it would be a useful and

+worthy action to slay the evildoer, but now he felt that he would not

+do it. He did not know why, but he felt a foreboding that he would not

+carry out his intention. He struggled against the confession of his

+weakness but dimly felt that he could not overcome it and that his

+former gloomy frame of mind, concerning vengeance, killing, and

+self-sacrifice, had been dispersed like dust by contact with the first

+man he met.

+

+The captain returned to the room, limping slightly and whistling a tune.

+

+The Frenchman’s chatter which had previously amused Pierre now repelled

+him. The tune he was whistling, his gait, and the gesture with which

+he twirled his mustache, all now seemed offensive. “I will go away

+immediately. I won’t say another word to him,” thought Pierre. He

+thought this, but still sat in the same place. A strange feeling of

+weakness tied him to the spot; he wished to get up and go away, but

+could not do so.

+

+The captain, on the other hand, seemed very cheerful. He paced up and

+down the room twice. His eyes shone and his mustache twitched as if he

+were smiling to himself at some amusing thought.

+

+“The colonel of those Württembergers is delightful,” he suddenly said.

+“He’s a German, but a nice fellow all the same.... But he’s a German.”

+He sat down facing Pierre. “By the way, you know German, then?”

+

+Pierre looked at him in silence.

+

+“What is the German for ‘shelter’?”

+

+“Shelter?” Pierre repeated. “The German for shelter is Unterkunft.”

+

+“How do you say it?” the captain asked quickly and doubtfully.

+

+“Unterkunft,” Pierre repeated.

+

+“Onterkoff,” said the captain and looked at Pierre for some seconds with

+laughing eyes. “These Germans are first-rate fools, don’t you think so,

+Monsieur Pierre?” he concluded.

+

+“Well, let’s have another bottle of this Moscow Bordeaux, shall we?

+Morel will warm us up another little bottle. Morel!” he called out

+gaily.

+

+Morel brought candles and a bottle of wine. The captain looked at Pierre

+by the candlelight and was evidently struck by the troubled expression

+on his companion’s face. Ramballe, with genuine distress and sympathy in

+his face, went up to Pierre and bent over him.

+

+“There now, we’re sad,” said he, touching Pierre’s hand. “Have I

+upset you? No, really, have you anything against me?” he asked Pierre.

+“Perhaps it’s the state of affairs?”

+

+Pierre did not answer, but looked cordially into the Frenchman’s eyes

+whose expression of sympathy was pleasing to him.

+

+“Honestly, without speaking of what I owe you, I feel friendship for

+you. Can I do anything for you? Dispose of me. It is for life and death.

+I say it with my hand on my heart!” said he, striking his chest.

+

+“Thank you,” said Pierre.

+

+The captain gazed intently at him as he had done when he learned that

+“shelter” was Unterkunft in German, and his face suddenly brightened.

+

+“Well, in that case, I drink to our friendship!” he cried gaily, filling

+two glasses with wine.

+

+Pierre took one of the glasses and emptied it. Ramballe emptied his too,

+again pressed Pierre’s hand, and leaned his elbows on the table in a

+pensive attitude.

+

+“Yes, my dear friend,” he began, “such is fortune’s caprice. Who would

+have said that I should be a soldier and a captain of dragoons in the

+service of Bonaparte, as we used to call him? Yet here I am in Moscow

+with him. I must tell you, mon cher,” he continued in the sad and

+measured tones of a man who intends to tell a long story, “that our name

+is one of the most ancient in France.”

+

+And with a Frenchman’s easy and naïve frankness the captain told Pierre

+the story of his ancestors, his childhood, youth, and manhood, and all

+about his relations and his financial and family affairs, “ma pauvre

+mère” playing of course an important part in the story.

+

+“But all that is only life’s setting, the real thing is love—love! Am I

+not right, Monsieur Pierre?” said he, growing animated. “Another glass?”

+

+Pierre again emptied his glass and poured himself out a third.

+

+“Oh, women, women!” and the captain, looking with glistening eyes at

+Pierre, began talking of love and of his love affairs.

+

+There were very many of these, as one could easily believe, looking

+at the officer’s handsome, self-satisfied face, and noting the eager

+enthusiasm with which he spoke of women. Though all Ramballe’s love

+stories had the sensual character which Frenchmen regard as the special

+charm and poetry of love, yet he told his story with such sincere

+conviction that he alone had experienced and known all the charm of love

+and he described women so alluringly that Pierre listened to him with

+curiosity.

+

+It was plain that l’amour which the Frenchman was so fond of was not

+that low and simple kind that Pierre had once felt for his wife, nor

+was it the romantic love stimulated by himself that he experienced for

+Natásha. (Ramballe despised both these kinds of love equally: the one

+he considered the “love of clodhoppers” and the other the “love

+of simpletons.”) L’amour which the Frenchman worshiped consisted

+principally in the unnaturalness of his relation to the woman and in a

+combination of incongruities giving the chief charm to the feeling.

+

+Thus the captain touchingly recounted the story of his love for a

+fascinating marquise of thirty-five and at the same time for a charming,

+innocent child of seventeen, daughter of the bewitching marquise. The

+conflict of magnanimity between the mother and the daughter, ending in

+the mother’s sacrificing herself and offering her daughter in marriage

+to her lover, even now agitated the captain, though it was the memory of

+a distant past. Then he recounted an episode in which the husband played

+the part of the lover, and he—the lover—assumed the role of the husband,

+as well as several droll incidents from his recollections of Germany,

+where “shelter” is called Unterkunft and where the husbands eat

+sauerkraut and the young girls are “too blonde.”

+

+Finally, the latest episode in Poland still fresh in the captain’s

+memory, and which he narrated with rapid gestures and glowing face, was

+of how he had saved the life of a Pole (in general, the saving of

+life continually occurred in the captain’s stories) and the Pole had

+entrusted to him his enchanting wife (parisienne de cœur) while himself

+entering the French service. The captain was happy, the enchanting

+Polish lady wished to elope with him, but, prompted by magnanimity, the

+captain restored the wife to the husband, saying as he did so: “I have

+saved your life, and I save your honor!” Having repeated these words the

+captain wiped his eyes and gave himself a shake, as if driving away the

+weakness which assailed him at this touching recollection.

+

+Listening to the captain’s tales, Pierre—as often happens late in the

+evening and under the influence of wine—followed all that was told him,

+understood it all, and at the same time followed a train of personal

+memories which, he knew not why, suddenly arose in his mind. While

+listening to these love stories his own love for Natásha unexpectedly

+rose to his mind, and going over the pictures of that love in his

+imagination he mentally compared them with Ramballe’s tales. Listening

+to the story of the struggle between love and duty, Pierre saw before

+his eyes every minutest detail of his last meeting with the object of

+his love at the Súkharev water tower. At the time of that meeting it had

+not produced an effect upon him—he had not even once recalled it. But

+now it seemed to him that that meeting had had in it something very

+important and poetic.

+

+“Peter Kirílovich, come here! We have recognized you,” he now seemed

+to hear the words she had uttered and to see before him her eyes, her

+smile, her traveling hood, and a stray lock of her hair... and there

+seemed to him something pathetic and touching in all this.

+

+Having finished his tale about the enchanting Polish lady, the captain

+asked Pierre if he had ever experienced a similar impulse to sacrifice

+himself for love and a feeling of envy of the legitimate husband.

+

+Challenged by this question Pierre raised his head and felt a need to

+express the thoughts that filled his mind. He began to explain that he

+understood love for a woman somewhat differently. He said that in all

+his life he had loved and still loved only one woman, and that she could

+never be his.

+

+“Tiens!” said the captain.

+

+Pierre then explained that he had loved this woman from his earliest

+years, but that he had not dared to think of her because she was too

+young, and because he had been an illegitimate son without a name.

+Afterwards when he had received a name and wealth he dared not think of

+her because he loved her too well, placing her far above everything in

+the world, and especially therefore above himself.

+

+When he had reached this point, Pierre asked the captain whether he

+understood that.

+

+The captain made a gesture signifying that even if he did not understand

+it he begged Pierre to continue.

+

+“Platónic love, clouds...” he muttered.

+

+Whether it was the wine he had drunk, or an impulse of frankness, or the

+thought that this man did not, and never would, know any of those who

+played a part in his story, or whether it was all these things together,

+something loosened Pierre’s tongue. Speaking thickly and with a faraway

+look in his shining eyes, he told the whole story of his life: his

+marriage, Natásha’s love for his best friend, her betrayal of him, and

+all his own simple relations with her. Urged on by Ramballe’s questions

+he also told what he had at first concealed—his own position and even

+his name.

+

+More than anything else in Pierre’s story the captain was impressed by

+the fact that Pierre was very rich, had two mansions in Moscow, and that

+he had abandoned everything and not left the city, but remained there

+concealing his name and station.

+

+When it was late at night they went out together into the street. The

+night was warm and light. To the left of the house on the Pokróvka a

+fire glowed—the first of those that were beginning in Moscow. To the

+right and high up in the sky was the sickle of the waning moon and

+opposite to it hung that bright comet which was connected in Pierre’s

+heart with his love. At the gate stood Gerásim, the cook, and two

+Frenchmen. Their laughter and their mutually incomprehensible remarks in

+two languages could be heard. They were looking at the glow seen in the

+town.

+

+There was nothing terrible in the one small, distant fire in the immense

+city.

+

+Gazing at the high starry sky, at the moon, at the comet, and at the

+glow from the fire, Pierre experienced a joyful emotion. “There now,

+how good it is, what more does one need?” thought he. And suddenly

+remembering his intention he grew dizzy and felt so faint that he leaned

+against the fence to save himself from falling.

+

+Without taking leave of his new friend, Pierre left the gate with

+unsteady steps and returning to his room lay down on the sofa and

+immediately fell asleep.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XXX

+

+The glow of the first fire that began on the second of September was

+watched from the various roads by the fugitive Muscovites and by the

+retreating troops, with many different feelings.

+

+The Rostóv party spent the night at Mytíshchi, fourteen miles from

+Moscow. They had started so late on the first of September, the road

+had been so blocked by vehicles and troops, so many things had been

+forgotten for which servants were sent back, that they had decided to

+spend that night at a place three miles out of Moscow. The next morning

+they woke late and were again delayed so often that they only got as far

+as Great Mytíshchi. At ten o’clock that evening the Rostóv family and

+the wounded traveling with them were all distributed in the yards and

+huts of that large village. The Rostóvs’ servants and coachmen and the

+orderlies of the wounded officers, after attending to their masters, had

+supper, fed the horses, and came out into the porches.

+

+In a neighboring hut lay Raévski’s adjutant with a fractured wrist. The

+awful pain he suffered made him moan incessantly and piteously, and his

+moaning sounded terrible in the darkness of the autumn night. He had

+spent the first night in the same yard as the Rostóvs. The countess said

+she had been unable to close her eyes on account of his moaning, and at

+Mytíshchi she moved into a worse hut simply to be farther away from the

+wounded man.

+

+In the darkness of the night one of the servants noticed, above the high

+body of a coach standing before the porch, the small glow of another

+fire. One glow had long been visible and everybody knew that it was

+Little Mytíshchi burning—set on fire by Mamónov’s Cossacks.

+

+“But look here, brothers, there’s another fire!” remarked an orderly.

+

+All turned their attention to the glow.

+

+“But they told us Little Mytíshchi had been set on fire by Mamónov’s

+Cossacks.”

+

+“But that’s not Mytíshchi, it’s farther away.”

+

+“Look, it must be in Moscow!”

+

+Two of the gazers went round to the other side of the coach and sat down

+on its steps.

+

+“It’s more to the left, why, Little Mytíshchi is over there, and this is

+right on the other side.”

+

+Several men joined the first two.

+

+“See how it’s flaring,” said one. “That’s a fire in Moscow: either in

+the Sushchévski or the Rogózhski quarter.”

+

+No one replied to this remark and for some time they all gazed silently

+at the spreading flames of the second fire in the distance.

+

+Old Daniel Teréntich, the count’s valet (as he was called), came up to

+the group and shouted at Míshka.

+

+“What are you staring at, you good-for-nothing?... The count will be

+calling and there’s nobody there; go and gather the clothes together.”

+

+“I only ran out to get some water,” said Míshka.

+

+“But what do you think, Daniel Teréntich? Doesn’t it look as if that

+glow were in Moscow?” remarked one of the footmen.

+

+Daniel Teréntich made no reply, and again for a long time they were all

+silent. The glow spread, rising and falling, farther and farther still.

+

+“God have mercy.... It’s windy and dry...” said another voice.

+

+“Just look! See what it’s doing now. O Lord! You can even see the crows

+flying. Lord have mercy on us sinners!”

+

+“They’ll put it out, no fear!”

+

+“Who’s to put it out?” Daniel Teréntich, who had hitherto been silent,

+was heard to say. His voice was calm and deliberate. “Moscow it is,

+brothers,” said he. “Mother Moscow, the white...” his voice faltered,

+and he gave way to an old man’s sob.

+

+And it was as if they had all only waited for this to realize the

+significance for them of the glow they were watching. Sighs were heard,

+words of prayer, and the sobbing of the count’s old valet.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XXXI

+

+The valet, returning to the cottage, informed the count that Moscow was

+burning. The count donned his dressing gown and went out to look. Sónya

+and Madame Schoss, who had not yet undressed, went out with him. Only

+Natásha and the countess remained in the room. Pétya was no longer

+with the family, he had gone on with his regiment which was making for

+Tróitsa.

+

+The countess, on hearing that Moscow was on fire, began to cry. Natásha,

+pale, with a fixed look, was sitting on the bench under the icons just

+where she had sat down on arriving and paid no attention to her father’s

+words. She was listening to the ceaseless moaning of the adjutant, three

+houses off.

+

+“Oh, how terrible,” said Sónya returning from the yard chilled and

+frightened. “I believe the whole of Moscow will burn, there’s an awful

+glow! Natásha, do look! You can see it from the window,” she said to her

+cousin, evidently wishing to distract her mind.

+

+But Natásha looked at her as if not understanding what was said to her

+and again fixed her eyes on the corner of the stove. She had been in

+this condition of stupor since the morning, when Sónya, to the surprise

+and annoyance of the countess, had for some unaccountable reason found

+it necessary to tell Natásha of Prince Andrew’s wound and of his being

+with their party. The countess had seldom been so angry with anyone as

+she was with Sónya. Sónya had cried and begged to be forgiven and now,

+as if trying to atone for her fault, paid unceasing attention to her

+cousin.

+

+“Look, Natásha, how dreadfully it is burning!” said she.

+

+“What’s burning?” asked Natásha. “Oh, yes, Moscow.”

+

+And as if in order not to offend Sónya and to get rid of her, she turned

+her face to the window, looked out in such a way that it was evident

+that she could not see anything, and again settled down in her former

+attitude.

+

+“But you didn’t see it!”

+

+“Yes, really I did,” Natásha replied in a voice that pleaded to be left

+in peace.

+

+Both the countess and Sónya understood that, naturally, neither Moscow

+nor the burning of Moscow nor anything else could seem of importance to

+Natásha.

+

+The count returned and lay down behind the partition. The countess went

+up to her daughter and touched her head with the back of her hand as she

+was wont to do when Natásha was ill, then touched her forehead with her

+lips as if to feel whether she was feverish, and finally kissed her.

+

+“You are cold. You are trembling all over. You’d better lie down,” said

+the countess.

+

+“Lie down? All right, I will. I’ll lie down at once,” said Natásha.

+

+When Natásha had been told that morning that Prince Andrew was seriously

+wounded and was traveling with their party, she had at first asked many

+questions: Where was he going? How was he wounded? Was it serious? And

+could she see him? But after she had been told that she could not see

+him, that he was seriously wounded but that his life was not in danger,

+she ceased to ask questions or to speak at all, evidently disbelieving

+what they told her, and convinced that say what she might she would

+still be told the same. All the way she had sat motionless in a corner

+of the coach with wide open eyes, and the expression in them which the

+countess knew so well and feared so much, and now she sat in the same

+way on the bench where she had seated herself on arriving. She was

+planning something and either deciding or had already decided something

+in her mind. The countess knew this, but what it might be she did not

+know, and this alarmed and tormented her.

+

+“Natásha, undress, darling; lie down on my bed.”

+

+A bed had been made on a bedstead for the countess only. Madame Schoss

+and the two girls were to sleep on some hay on the floor.

+

+“No, Mamma, I will lie down here on the floor,” Natásha replied

+irritably and she went to the window and opened it. Through the open

+window the moans of the adjutant could be heard more distinctly. She put

+her head out into the damp night air, and the countess saw her slim neck

+shaking with sobs and throbbing against the window frame. Natásha knew

+it was not Prince Andrew who was moaning. She knew Prince Andrew was in

+the same yard as themselves and in a part of the hut across the passage;

+but this dreadful incessant moaning made her sob. The countess exchanged

+a look with Sónya.

+

+“Lie down, darling; lie down, my pet,” said the countess, softly

+touching Natásha’s shoulders. “Come, lie down.”

+

+“Oh, yes... I’ll lie down at once,” said Natásha, and began hurriedly

+undressing, tugging at the tapes of her petticoat.

+

+When she had thrown off her dress and put on a dressing jacket, she sat

+down with her foot under her on the bed that had been made up on the

+floor, jerked her thin and rather short plait of hair to the front,

+and began replaiting it. Her long, thin, practiced fingers rapidly

+unplaited, replaited, and tied up her plait. Her head moved from side

+to side from habit, but her eyes, feverishly wide, looked fixedly before

+her. When her toilet for the night was finished she sank gently onto the

+sheet spread over the hay on the side nearest the door.

+

+“Natásha, you’d better lie in the middle,” said Sónya.

+

+“I’ll stay here,” muttered Natásha. “Do lie down,” she added crossly,

+and buried her face in the pillow.

+

+The countess, Madame Schoss, and Sónya undressed hastily and lay down.

+The small lamp in front of the icons was the only light left in

+the room. But in the yard there was a light from the fire at Little

+Mytíshchi a mile and a half away, and through the night came the noise

+of people shouting at a tavern Mamónov’s Cossacks had set up across the

+street, and the adjutant’s unceasing moans could still be heard.

+

+For a long time Natásha listened attentively to the sounds that reached

+her from inside and outside the room and did not move. First she heard

+her mother praying and sighing and the creaking of her bed under

+her, then Madame Schoss’ familiar whistling snore and Sónya’s gentle

+breathing. Then the countess called to Natásha. Natásha did not answer.

+

+“I think she’s asleep, Mamma,” said Sónya softly.

+

+After a short silence the countess spoke again but this time no one

+replied.

+

+Soon after that Natásha heard her mother’s even breathing. Natásha did

+not move, though her little bare foot, thrust out from under the quilt,

+was growing cold on the bare floor.

+

+As if to celebrate a victory over everybody, a cricket chirped in a

+crack in the wall. A cock crowed far off and another replied near

+by. The shouting in the tavern had died down; only the moaning of the

+adjutant was heard. Natásha sat up.

+

+“Sónya, are you asleep? Mamma?” she whispered.

+

+No one replied. Natásha rose slowly and carefully, crossed herself, and

+stepped cautiously on the cold and dirty floor with her slim, supple,

+bare feet. The boards of the floor creaked. Stepping cautiously from one

+foot to the other she ran like a kitten the few steps to the door and

+grasped the cold door handle.

+

+It seemed to her that something heavy was beating rhythmically against

+all the walls of the room: it was her own heart, sinking with alarm and

+terror and overflowing with love.

+

+She opened the door and stepped across the threshold and onto the cold,

+damp earthen floor of the passage. The cold she felt refreshed her. With

+her bare feet she touched a sleeping man, stepped over him, and opened

+the door into the part of the hut where Prince Andrew lay. It was dark

+in there. In the farthest corner, on a bench beside a bed on which

+something was lying, stood a tallow candle with a long, thick, and

+smoldering wick.

+

+From the moment she had been told that morning of Prince Andrew’s wound

+and his presence there, Natásha had resolved to see him. She did not

+know why she had to, she knew the meeting would be painful, but felt the

+more convinced that it was necessary.

+

+All day she had lived only in hope of seeing him that night. But now

+that the moment had come she was filled with dread of what she might

+see. How was he maimed? What was left of him? Was he like that incessant

+moaning of the adjutant’s? Yes, he was altogether like that. In her

+imagination he was that terrible moaning personified. When she saw an

+indistinct shape in the corner, and mistook his knees raised under the

+quilt for his shoulders, she imagined a horrible body there, and stood

+still in terror. But an irresistible impulse drew her forward. She

+cautiously took one step and then another, and found herself in the

+middle of a small room containing baggage. Another man—Timókhin—was

+lying in a corner on the benches beneath the icons, and two others—the

+doctor and a valet—lay on the floor.

+

+The valet sat up and whispered something. Timókhin, kept awake by the

+pain in his wounded leg, gazed with wide-open eyes at this strange

+apparition of a girl in a white chemise, dressing jacket, and nightcap.

+The valet’s sleepy, frightened exclamation, “What do you want? What’s

+the matter?” made Natásha approach more swiftly to what was lying in the

+corner. Horribly unlike a man as that body looked, she must see him.

+She passed the valet, the snuff fell from the candle wick, and she saw

+Prince Andrew clearly with his arms outside the quilt, and such as she

+had always seen him.

+

+He was the same as ever, but the feverish color of his face, his

+glittering eyes rapturously turned toward her, and especially his neck,

+delicate as a child’s, revealed by the turn-down collar of his shirt,

+gave him a peculiarly innocent, childlike look, such as she had never

+seen on him before. She went up to him and with a swift, flexible,

+youthful movement dropped on her knees.

+

+He smiled and held out his hand to her.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XXXII

+

+Seven days had passed since Prince Andrew found himself in the

+ambulance station on the field of Borodinó. His feverish state and the

+inflammation of his bowels, which were injured, were in the doctor’s

+opinion sure to carry him off. But on the seventh day he ate with

+pleasure a piece of bread with some tea, and the doctor noticed that his

+temperature was lower. He had regained consciousness that morning.

+The first night after they left Moscow had been fairly warm and he had

+remained in the calèche, but at Mytíshchi the wounded man himself asked

+to be taken out and given some tea. The pain caused by his removal into

+the hut had made him groan aloud and again lose consciousness. When he

+had been placed on his camp bed he lay for a long time motionless with

+closed eyes. Then he opened them and whispered softly: “And the tea?”

+His remembering such a small detail of everyday life astonished

+the doctor. He felt Prince Andrew’s pulse, and to his surprise and

+dissatisfaction found it had improved. He was dissatisfied because he

+knew by experience that if his patient did not die now, he would do so

+a little later with greater suffering. Timókhin, the red-nosed major of

+Prince Andrew’s regiment, had joined him in Moscow and was being

+taken along with him, having been wounded in the leg at the battle of

+Borodinó. They were accompanied by a doctor, Prince Andrew’s valet, his

+coachman, and two orderlies.

+

+They gave Prince Andrew some tea. He drank it eagerly, looking with

+feverish eyes at the door in front of him as if trying to understand and

+remember something.

+

+“I don’t want any more. Is Timókhin here?” he asked.

+

+Timókhin crept along the bench to him.

+

+“I am here, your excellency.”

+

+“How’s your wound?”

+

+“Mine, sir? All right. But how about you?”

+

+Prince Andrew again pondered as if trying to remember something.

+

+“Couldn’t one get a book?” he asked.

+

+“What book?”

+

+“The Gospels. I haven’t one.”

+

+The doctor promised to procure it for him and began to ask how he

+was feeling. Prince Andrew answered all his questions reluctantly but

+reasonably, and then said he wanted a bolster placed under him as he was

+uncomfortable and in great pain. The doctor and valet lifted the cloak

+with which he was covered and, making wry faces at the noisome smell of

+mortifying flesh that came from the wound, began examining that dreadful

+place. The doctor was very much displeased about something and made a

+change in the dressings, turning the wounded man over so that he groaned

+again and grew unconscious and delirious from the agony. He kept asking

+them to get him the book and put it under him.

+

+“What trouble would it be to you?” he said. “I have not got one. Please

+get it for me and put it under for a moment,” he pleaded in a piteous

+voice.

+

+The doctor went into the passage to wash his hands.

+

+“You fellows have no conscience,” said he to the valet who was pouring

+water over his hands. “For just one moment I didn’t look after you...

+It’s such pain, you know, that I wonder how he can bear it.”

+

+“By the Lord Jesus Christ, I thought we had put something under him!”

+said the valet.

+

+The first time Prince Andrew understood where he was and what was the

+matter with him and remembered being wounded and how was when he asked

+to be carried into the hut after his calèche had stopped at Mytíshchi.

+After growing confused from pain while being carried into the hut he

+again regained consciousness, and while drinking tea once more recalled

+all that had happened to him, and above all vividly remembered the

+moment at the ambulance station when, at the sight of the sufferings of

+a man he disliked, those new thoughts had come to him which promised him

+happiness. And those thoughts, though now vague and indefinite, again

+possessed his soul. He remembered that he had now a new source of

+happiness and that this happiness had something to do with the Gospels.

+That was why he asked for a copy of them. The uncomfortable position in

+which they had put him and turned him over again confused his thoughts,

+and when he came to himself a third time it was in the complete

+stillness of the night. Everybody near him was sleeping. A cricket

+chirped from across the passage; someone was shouting and singing in

+the street; cockroaches rustled on the table, on the icons, and on

+the walls, and a big fly flopped at the head of the bed and around the

+candle beside him, the wick of which was charred and had shaped itself

+like a mushroom.

+

+His mind was not in a normal state. A healthy man usually thinks of,

+feels, and remembers innumerable things simultaneously, but has the

+power and will to select one sequence of thoughts or events on which to

+fix his whole attention. A healthy man can tear himself away from the

+deepest reflections to say a civil word to someone who comes in and can

+then return again to his own thoughts. But Prince Andrew’s mind was not

+in a normal state in that respect. All the powers of his mind were more

+active and clearer than ever, but they acted apart from his will. Most

+diverse thoughts and images occupied him simultaneously. At times his

+brain suddenly began to work with a vigor, clearness, and depth it had

+never reached when he was in health, but suddenly in the midst of its

+work it would turn to some unexpected idea and he had not the strength

+to turn it back again.

+

+“Yes, a new happiness was revealed to me of which man cannot be

+deprived,” he thought as he lay in the semidarkness of the quiet hut,

+gazing fixedly before him with feverish wide open eyes. “A happiness

+lying beyond material forces, outside the material influences that act

+on man—a happiness of the soul alone, the happiness of loving. Every man

+can understand it, but to conceive it and enjoin it was possible only

+for God. But how did God enjoin that law? And why was the Son...?”

+

+And suddenly the sequence of these thoughts broke off, and Prince Andrew

+heard (without knowing whether it was a delusion or reality) a

+soft whispering voice incessantly and rhythmically repeating

+“piti-piti-piti,” and then “titi,” and then again “piti-piti-piti,” and

+“ti-ti” once more. At the same time he felt that above his face, above

+the very middle of it, some strange airy structure was being erected out

+of slender needles or splinters, to the sound of this whispered music.

+He felt that he had to balance carefully (though it was difficult) so

+that this airy structure should not collapse; but nevertheless it kept

+collapsing and again slowly rising to the sound of whispered rhythmic

+music—“it stretches, stretches, spreading out and stretching,” said

+Prince Andrew to himself. While listening to this whispering and feeling

+the sensation of this drawing out and the construction of this edifice

+of needles, he also saw by glimpses a red halo round the candle, and

+heard the rustle of the cockroaches and the buzzing of the fly that

+flopped against his pillow and his face. Each time the fly touched his

+face it gave him a burning sensation and yet to his surprise it did not

+destroy the structure, though it knocked against the very region of his

+face where it was rising. But besides this there was something else of

+importance. It was something white by the door—the statue of a sphinx,

+which also oppressed him.

+

+“But perhaps that’s my shirt on the table,” he thought, “and that’s my

+legs, and that is the door, but why is it always stretching and drawing

+itself out, and ‘piti-piti-piti’ and ‘ti-ti’ and ‘piti-piti-piti’...?

+That’s enough, please leave off!” Prince Andrew painfully entreated

+someone. And suddenly thoughts and feelings again swam to the surface of

+his mind with peculiar clearness and force.

+

+“Yes—love,” he thought again quite clearly. “But not love which loves

+for something, for some quality, for some purpose, or for some reason,

+but the love which I—while dying—first experienced when I saw my enemy

+and yet loved him. I experienced that feeling of love which is the very

+essence of the soul and does not require an object. Now again I feel

+that bliss. To love one’s neighbors, to love one’s enemies, to love

+everything, to love God in all His manifestations. It is possible to

+love someone dear to you with human love, but an enemy can only be loved

+by divine love. That is why I experienced such joy when I felt that I

+loved that man. What has become of him? Is he alive?...

+

+“When loving with human love one may pass from love to hatred, but

+divine love cannot change. No, neither death nor anything else can

+destroy it. It is the very essence of the soul. Yet how many people have

+I hated in my life? And of them all, I loved and hated none as I did

+her.” And he vividly pictured to himself Natásha, not as he had done in

+the past with nothing but her charms which gave him delight, but for

+the first time picturing to himself her soul. And he understood her

+feelings, her sufferings, shame, and remorse. He now understood for the

+first time all the cruelty of his rejection of her, the cruelty of his

+rupture with her. “If only it were possible for me to see her once more!

+Just once, looking into those eyes to say...”

+

+“Piti-piti-piti and ti-ti and piti-piti-piti boom!” flopped the fly....

+And his attention was suddenly carried into another world, a world of

+reality and delirium in which something particular was happening. In

+that world some structure was still being erected and did not fall,

+something was still stretching out, and the candle with its red halo

+was still burning, and the same shirtlike sphinx lay near the door; but

+besides all this something creaked, there was a whiff of fresh air, and

+a new white sphinx appeared, standing at the door. And that sphinx had

+the pale face and shining eyes of the very Natásha of whom he had just

+been thinking.

+

+“Oh, how oppressive this continual delirium is,” thought Prince Andrew,

+trying to drive that face from his imagination. But the face remained

+before him with the force of reality and drew nearer. Prince Andrew

+wished to return to that former world of pure thought, but he could not,

+and delirium drew him back into its domain. The soft whispering voice

+continued its rhythmic murmur, something oppressed him and stretched

+out, and the strange face was before him. Prince Andrew collected all

+his strength in an effort to recover his senses, he moved a little, and

+suddenly there was a ringing in his ears, a dimness in his eyes, and

+like a man plunged into water he lost consciousness. When he came to

+himself, Natásha, that same living Natásha whom of all people he most

+longed to love with this new pure divine love that had been revealed to

+him, was kneeling before him. He realized that it was the real living

+Natásha, and he was not surprised but quietly happy. Natásha, motionless

+on her knees (she was unable to stir), with frightened eyes riveted on

+him, was restraining her sobs. Her face was pale and rigid. Only in the

+lower part of it something quivered.

+

+Prince Andrew sighed with relief, smiled, and held out his hand.

+

+“You?” he said. “How fortunate!”

+

+With a rapid but careful movement Natásha drew nearer to him on her

+knees and, taking his hand carefully, bent her face over it and began

+kissing it, just touching it lightly with her lips.

+

+“Forgive me!” she whispered, raising her head and glancing at him.

+“Forgive me!”

+

+“I love you,” said Prince Andrew.

+

+“Forgive...!”

+

+“Forgive what?” he asked.

+

+“Forgive me for what I ha-ve do-ne!” faltered Natásha in a scarcely

+audible, broken whisper, and began kissing his hand more rapidly, just

+touching it with her lips.

+

+“I love you more, better than before,” said Prince Andrew, lifting her

+face with his hand so as to look into her eyes.

+

+Those eyes, filled with happy tears, gazed at him timidly,

+compassionately, and with joyous love. Natásha’s thin pale face, with

+its swollen lips, was more than plain—it was dreadful. But Prince Andrew

+did not see that, he saw her shining eyes which were beautiful. They

+heard the sound of voices behind them.

+

+Peter the valet, who was now wide awake, had roused the doctor.

+Timókhin, who had not slept at all because of the pain in his leg, had

+long been watching all that was going on, carefully covering his bare

+body with the sheet as he huddled up on his bench.

+

+“What’s this?” said the doctor, rising from his bed. “Please go away,

+madam!”

+

+At that moment a maid sent by the countess, who had noticed her

+daughter’s absence, knocked at the door.

+

+Like a somnambulist aroused from her sleep Natásha went out of the room

+and, returning to her hut, fell sobbing on her bed.

+

+From that time, during all the rest of the Rostóvs’ journey, at every

+halting place and wherever they spent a night, Natásha never left the

+wounded Bolkónski, and the doctor had to admit that he had not expected

+from a young girl either such firmness or such skill in nursing a

+wounded man.

+

+Dreadful as the countess imagined it would be should Prince Andrew die

+in her daughter’s arms during the journey—as, judging by what the doctor

+said, it seemed might easily happen—she could not oppose Natásha. Though

+with the intimacy now established between the wounded man and Natásha

+the thought occurred that should he recover their former engagement

+would be renewed, no one—least of all Natásha and Prince Andrew—spoke of

+this: the unsettled question of life and death, which hung not only over

+Bolkónski but over all Russia, shut out all other considerations.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XXXIII

+

+On the third of September Pierre awoke late. His head was aching, the

+clothes in which he had slept without undressing felt uncomfortable on

+his body, and his mind had a dim consciousness of something shameful

+he had done the day before. That something shameful was his yesterday’s

+conversation with Captain Ramballe.

+

+It was eleven by the clock, but it seemed peculiarly dark out of doors.

+Pierre rose, rubbed his eyes, and seeing the pistol with an engraved

+stock which Gerásim had replaced on the writing table, he remembered

+where he was and what lay before him that very day.

+

+“Am I not too late?” he thought. “No, probably he won’t make his entry

+into Moscow before noon.”

+

+Pierre did not allow himself to reflect on what lay before him, but

+hastened to act.

+

+After arranging his clothes, he took the pistol and was about to go out.

+But it then occurred to him for the first time that he certainly could

+not carry the weapon in his hand through the streets. It was difficult

+to hide such a big pistol even under his wide coat. He could not

+carry it unnoticed in his belt or under his arm. Besides, it had been

+discharged, and he had not had time to reload it. “No matter, the dagger

+will do,” he said to himself, though when planning his design he had

+more than once come to the conclusion that the chief mistake made by the

+student in 1809 had been to try to kill Napoleon with a dagger. But as

+his chief aim consisted not in carrying out his design, but in proving

+to himself that he would not abandon his intention and was doing all he

+could to achieve it, Pierre hastily took the blunt jagged dagger in a

+green sheath which he had bought at the Súkharev market with the pistol,

+and hid it under his waistcoat.

+

+Having tied a girdle over his coat and pulled his cap low on his head,

+Pierre went down the corridor, trying to avoid making a noise or meeting

+the captain, and passed out into the street.

+

+The conflagration, at which he had looked with so much indifference the

+evening before, had greatly increased during the night. Moscow was on

+fire in several places. The buildings in Carriage Row, across the river,

+in the Bazaar and the Povarskóy, as well as the barges on the Moskvá

+River and the timber yards by the Dorogomílov Bridge, were all ablaze.

+

+Pierre’s way led through side streets to the Povarskóy and from there

+to the church of St. Nicholas on the Arbát, where he had long before

+decided that the deed should be done. The gates of most of the houses

+were locked and the shutters up. The streets and lanes were deserted.

+The air was full of smoke and the smell of burning. Now and then he met

+Russians with anxious and timid faces, and Frenchmen with an air not of

+the city but of the camp, walking in the middle of the streets. Both

+the Russians and the French looked at Pierre with surprise. Besides his

+height and stoutness, and the strange morose look of suffering in his

+face and whole figure, the Russians stared at Pierre because they could

+not make out to what class he could belong. The French followed him with

+astonishment in their eyes chiefly because Pierre, unlike all the

+other Russians who gazed at the French with fear and curiosity, paid no

+attention to them. At the gate of one house three Frenchmen, who were

+explaining something to some Russians who did not understand them,

+stopped Pierre asking if he did not know French.

+

+Pierre shook his head and went on. In another side street a sentinel

+standing beside a green caisson shouted at him, but only when the shout

+was threateningly repeated and he heard the click of the man’s musket as

+he raised it did Pierre understand that he had to pass on the other side

+of the street. He heard nothing and saw nothing of what went on around

+him. He carried his resolution within himself in terror and haste, like

+something dreadful and alien to him, for, after the previous night’s

+experience, he was afraid of losing it. But he was not destined to bring

+his mood safely to his destination. And even had he not been hindered by

+anything on the way, his intention could not now have been carried out,

+for Napoleon had passed the Arbát more than four hours previously on his

+way from the Dorogomílov suburb to the Krémlin, and was now sitting in

+a very gloomy frame of mind in a royal study in the Krémlin, giving

+detailed and exact orders as to measures to be taken immediately

+to extinguish the fire, to prevent looting, and to reassure the

+inhabitants. But Pierre did not know this; he was entirely absorbed

+in what lay before him, and was tortured—as those are who obstinately

+undertake a task that is impossible for them not because of its

+difficulty but because of its incompatibility with their natures—by the

+fear of weakening at the decisive moment and so losing his self-esteem.

+

+Though he heard and saw nothing around him he found his way by instinct

+and did not go wrong in the side streets that led to the Povarskóy.

+

+As Pierre approached that street the smoke became denser and denser—he

+even felt the heat of the fire. Occasionally curly tongues of flame rose

+from under the roofs of the houses. He met more people in the streets

+and they were more excited. But Pierre, though he felt that something

+unusual was happening around him, did not realize that he was

+approaching the fire. As he was going along a footpath across a

+wide-open space adjoining the Povarskóy on one side and the gardens

+of Prince Gruzínski’s house on the other, Pierre suddenly heard the

+desperate weeping of a woman close to him. He stopped as if awakening

+from a dream and lifted his head.

+

+By the side of the path, on the dusty dry grass, all sorts of household

+goods lay in a heap: featherbeds, a samovar, icons, and trunks. On the

+ground, beside the trunks, sat a thin woman no longer young, with long,

+prominent upper teeth, and wearing a black cloak and cap. This woman,

+swaying to and fro and muttering something, was choking with sobs. Two

+girls of about ten and twelve, dressed in dirty short frocks and cloaks,

+were staring at their mother with a look of stupefaction on their pale

+frightened faces. The youngest child, a boy of about seven, who wore an

+overcoat and an immense cap evidently not his own, was crying in his

+old nurse’s arms. A dirty, barefooted maid was sitting on a trunk,

+and, having undone her pale-colored plait, was pulling it straight

+and sniffing at her singed hair. The woman’s husband, a short,

+round-shouldered man in the undress uniform of a civilian official, with

+sausage-shaped whiskers and showing under his square-set cap the hair

+smoothly brushed forward over his temples, with expressionless face was

+moving the trunks, which were placed one on another, and was dragging

+some garments from under them.

+

+As soon as she saw Pierre, the woman almost threw herself at his feet.

+

+“Dear people, good Christians, save me, help me, dear friends... help

+us, somebody,” she muttered between her sobs. “My girl... My daughter!

+My youngest daughter is left behind. She’s burned! Ooh! Was it for this

+I nursed you.... Ooh!”

+

+“Don’t, Mary Nikoláevna!” said her husband to her in a low voice,

+evidently only to justify himself before the stranger. “Sister must have

+taken her, or else where can she be?” he added.

+

+“Monster! Villain!” shouted the woman angrily, suddenly ceasing to weep.

+“You have no heart, you don’t feel for your own child! Another man would

+have rescued her from the fire. But this is a monster and neither a

+man nor a father! You, honored sir, are a noble man,” she went on,

+addressing Pierre rapidly between her sobs. “The fire broke out

+alongside, and blew our way, the maid called out ‘Fire!’ and we rushed

+to collect our things. We ran out just as we were.... This is what we

+have brought away.... The icons, and my dowry bed, all the rest is lost.

+We seized the children. But not Katie! Ooh! O Lord!...” and again she

+began to sob. “My child, my dear one! Burned, burned!”

+

+“But where was she left?” asked Pierre.

+

+From the expression of his animated face the woman saw that this man

+might help her.

+

+“Oh, dear sir!” she cried, seizing him by the legs. “My benefactor, set

+my heart at ease.... Aníska, go, you horrid girl, show him the way!” she

+cried to the maid, angrily opening her mouth and still farther exposing

+her long teeth.

+

+“Show me the way, show me, I... I’ll do it,” gasped Pierre rapidly.

+

+The dirty maidservant stepped from behind the trunk, put up her plait,

+sighed, and went on her short, bare feet along the path. Pierre felt

+as if he had come back to life after a heavy swoon. He held his head

+higher, his eyes shone with the light of life, and with swift steps

+he followed the maid, overtook her, and came out on the Povarskóy. The

+whole street was full of clouds of black smoke. Tongues of flame here

+and there broke through that cloud. A great number of people crowded in

+front of the conflagration. In the middle of the street stood a French

+general saying something to those around him. Pierre, accompanied by the

+maid, was advancing to the spot where the general stood, but the French

+soldiers stopped him.

+

+“On ne passe pas!” * cried a voice.

+

+    * “You can’t pass!”

+

+

+“This way, uncle,” cried the girl. “We’ll pass through the side street,

+by the Nikúlins’!”

+

+Pierre turned back, giving a spring now and then to keep up with her.

+She ran across the street, turned down a side street to the left, and,

+passing three houses, turned into a yard on the right.

+

+“It’s here, close by,” said she and, running across the yard, opened a

+gate in a wooden fence and, stopping, pointed out to him a small wooden

+wing of the house, which was burning brightly and fiercely. One of its

+sides had fallen in, another was on fire, and bright flames issued from

+the openings of the windows and from under the roof.

+

+As Pierre passed through the fence gate, he was enveloped by hot air and

+involuntarily stopped.

+

+“Which is it? Which is your house?” he asked.

+

+“Ooh!” wailed the girl, pointing to the wing. “That’s it, that was our

+lodging. You’ve burned to death, our treasure, Katie, my precious little

+missy! Ooh!” lamented Aníska, who at the sight of the fire felt that she

+too must give expression to her feelings.

+

+Pierre rushed to the wing, but the heat was so great that he

+involuntarily passed round in a curve and came upon the large house

+that was as yet burning only at one end, just below the roof, and around

+which swarmed a crowd of Frenchmen. At first Pierre did not realize

+what these men, who were dragging something out, were about; but seeing

+before him a Frenchman hitting a peasant with a blunt saber and trying

+to take from him a fox-fur coat, he vaguely understood that looting was

+going on there, but he had no time to dwell on that idea.

+

+The sounds of crackling and the din of falling walls and ceilings, the

+whistle and hiss of the flames, the excited shouts of the people, and

+the sight of the swaying smoke, now gathering into thick black clouds

+and now soaring up with glittering sparks, with here and there dense

+sheaves of flame (now red and now like golden fish scales creeping along

+the walls), and the heat and smoke and rapidity of motion, produced

+on Pierre the usual animating effects of a conflagration. It had a

+peculiarly strong effect on him because at the sight of the fire he felt

+himself suddenly freed from the ideas that had weighed him down. He felt

+young, bright, adroit, and resolute. He ran round to the other side of

+the lodge and was about to dash into that part of it which was still

+standing, when just above his head he heard several voices shouting

+and then a cracking sound and the ring of something heavy falling close

+beside him.

+

+Pierre looked up and saw at a window of the large house some Frenchmen

+who had just thrown out the drawer of a chest, filled with metal

+articles. Other French soldiers standing below went up to the drawer.

+

+“What does this fellow want?” shouted one of them referring to Pierre.

+

+“There’s a child in that house. Haven’t you seen a child?” cried Pierre.

+

+“What’s he talking about? Get along!” said several voices, and one of

+the soldiers, evidently afraid that Pierre might want to take from

+them some of the plate and bronzes that were in the drawer, moved

+threateningly toward him.

+

+“A child?” shouted a Frenchman from above. “I did hear something

+squealing in the garden. Perhaps it’s his brat that the fellow is

+looking for. After all, one must be human, you know....”

+

+“Where is it? Where?” said Pierre.

+

+“There! There!” shouted the Frenchman at the window, pointing to the

+garden at the back of the house. “Wait a bit—I’m coming down.”

+

+And a minute or two later the Frenchman, a black-eyed fellow with a spot

+on his cheek, in shirt sleeves, really did jump out of a window on the

+ground floor, and clapping Pierre on the shoulder ran with him into the

+garden.

+

+“Hurry up, you others!” he called out to his comrades. “It’s getting

+hot.”

+

+When they reached a gravel path behind the house the Frenchman pulled

+Pierre by the arm and pointed to a round, graveled space where a

+three-year-old girl in a pink dress was lying under a seat.

+

+“There is your child! Oh, a girl, so much the better!” said the

+Frenchman. “Good-by, Fatty. We must be human, we are all mortal you

+know!” and the Frenchman with the spot on his cheek ran back to his

+comrades.

+

+Breathless with joy, Pierre ran to the little girl and was going to take

+her in his arms. But seeing a stranger the sickly, scrofulous-looking

+child, unattractively like her mother, began to yell and run away.

+Pierre, however, seized her and lifted her in his arms. She screamed

+desperately and angrily and tried with her little hands to pull Pierre’s

+hands away and to bite them with her slobbering mouth. Pierre was seized

+by a sense of horror and repulsion such as he had experienced when

+touching some nasty little animal. But he made an effort not to throw

+the child down and ran with her to the large house. It was now, however,

+impossible to get back the way he had come; the maid, Aníska, was no

+longer there, and Pierre with a feeling of pity and disgust pressed the

+wet, painfully sobbing child to himself as tenderly as he could and ran

+with her through the garden seeking another way out.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XXXIV

+

+Having run through different yards and side streets, Pierre got back

+with his little burden to the Gruzínski garden at the corner of the

+Povarskóy. He did not at first recognize the place from which he had set

+out to look for the child, so crowded was it now with people and goods

+that had been dragged out of the houses. Besides Russian families who

+had taken refuge here from the fire with their belongings, there were

+several French soldiers in a variety of clothing. Pierre took no notice

+of them. He hurried to find the family of that civil servant in order to

+restore the daughter to her mother and go to save someone else. Pierre

+felt that he had still much to do and to do quickly. Glowing with the

+heat and from running, he felt at that moment more strongly than ever

+the sense of youth, animation, and determination that had come on him

+when he ran to save the child. She had now become quiet and, clinging

+with her little hands to Pierre’s coat, sat on his arm gazing about

+her like some little wild animal. He glanced at her occasionally with a

+slight smile. He fancied he saw something pathetically innocent in that

+frightened, sickly little face.

+

+He did not find the civil servant or his wife where he had left them. He

+walked among the crowd with rapid steps, scanning the various faces he

+met. Involuntarily he noticed a Georgian or Armenian family

+consisting of a very handsome old man of Oriental type, wearing a new,

+cloth-covered, sheepskin coat and new boots, an old woman of similar

+type, and a young woman. That very young woman seemed to Pierre the

+perfection of Oriental beauty, with her sharply outlined, arched,

+black eyebrows and the extraordinarily soft, bright color of her long,

+beautiful, expressionless face. Amid the scattered property and the

+crowd on the open space, she, in her rich satin cloak with a bright

+lilac shawl on her head, suggested a delicate exotic plant thrown out

+onto the snow. She was sitting on some bundles a little behind the old

+woman, and looked from under her long lashes with motionless, large,

+almond-shaped eyes at the ground before her. Evidently she was aware

+of her beauty and fearful because of it. Her face struck Pierre and,

+hurrying along by the fence, he turned several times to look at her.

+When he had reached the fence, still without finding those he sought, he

+stopped and looked about him.

+

+With the child in his arms his figure was now more conspicuous than

+before, and a group of Russians, both men and women, gathered about him.

+

+“Have you lost anyone, my dear fellow? You’re of the gentry yourself,

+aren’t you? Whose child is it?” they asked him.

+

+Pierre replied that the child belonged to a woman in a black coat who

+had been sitting there with her other children, and he asked whether

+anyone knew where she had gone.

+

+“Why, that must be the Anférovs,” said an old deacon, addressing a

+pockmarked peasant woman. “Lord have mercy, Lord have mercy!” he added

+in his customary bass.

+

+“The Anférovs? No,” said the woman. “They left in the morning. That must

+be either Mary Nikoláevna’s or the Ivánovs’!”

+

+“He says ‘a woman,’ and Mary Nikoláevna is a lady,” remarked a house

+serf.

+

+“Do you know her? She’s thin, with long teeth,” said Pierre.

+

+“That’s Mary Nikoláevna! They went inside the garden when these wolves

+swooped down,” said the woman, pointing to the French soldiers.

+

+“O Lord, have mercy!” added the deacon.

+

+“Go over that way, they’re there. It’s she! She kept on lamenting and

+crying,” continued the woman. “It’s she. Here, this way!”

+

+But Pierre was not listening to the woman. He had for some seconds been

+intently watching what was going on a few steps away. He was looking at

+the Armenian family and at two French soldiers who had gone up to them.

+One of these, a nimble little man, was wearing a blue coat tied round

+the waist with a rope. He had a nightcap on his head and his feet were

+bare. The other, whose appearance particularly struck Pierre, was a

+long, lank, round-shouldered, fair-haired man, slow in his movements

+and with an idiotic expression of face. He wore a woman’s loose gown

+of frieze, blue trousers, and large torn Hessian boots. The little

+barefooted Frenchman in the blue coat went up to the Armenians and,

+saying something, immediately seized the old man by his legs and the old

+man at once began pulling off his boots. The other in the frieze gown

+stopped in front of the beautiful Armenian girl and with his hands in

+his pockets stood staring at her, motionless and silent.

+

+“Here, take the child!” said Pierre peremptorily and hurriedly to the

+woman, handing the little girl to her. “Give her back to them, give her

+back!” he almost shouted, putting the child, who began screaming, on the

+ground, and again looking at the Frenchman and the Armenian family.

+

+The old man was already sitting barefoot. The little Frenchman had

+secured his second boot and was slapping one boot against the other.

+The old man was saying something in a voice broken by sobs, but Pierre

+caught but a glimpse of this, his whole attention was directed to the

+Frenchman in the frieze gown who meanwhile, swaying slowly from side to

+side, had drawn nearer to the young woman and taking his hands from his

+pockets had seized her by the neck.

+

+The beautiful Armenian still sat motionless and in the same attitude,

+with her long lashes drooping as if she did not see or feel what the

+soldier was doing to her.

+

+While Pierre was running the few steps that separated him from the

+Frenchman, the tall marauder in the frieze gown was already tearing

+from her neck the necklace the young Armenian was wearing, and the young

+woman, clutching at her neck, screamed piercingly.

+

+“Let that woman alone!” exclaimed Pierre hoarsely in a furious voice,

+seizing the soldier by his round shoulders and throwing him aside.

+

+The soldier fell, got up, and ran away. But his comrade, throwing down

+the boots and drawing his sword, moved threateningly toward Pierre.

+

+“Voyons, pas de bêtises!” * he cried.

+

+    * “Look here, no nonsense!”

+

+

+Pierre was in such a transport of rage that he remembered nothing and

+his strength increased tenfold. He rushed at the barefooted Frenchman

+and, before the latter had time to draw his sword, knocked him off his

+feet and hammered him with his fists. Shouts of approval were heard

+from the crowd around, and at the same moment a mounted patrol of French

+Uhlans appeared from round the corner. The Uhlans came up at a trot to

+Pierre and the Frenchman and surrounded them. Pierre remembered nothing

+of what happened after that. He only remembered beating someone and

+being beaten and finally feeling that his hands were bound and that a

+crowd of French soldiers stood around him and were searching him.

+

+“Lieutenant, he has a dagger,” were the first words Pierre understood.

+

+“Ah, a weapon?” said the officer and turned to the barefooted soldier

+who had been arrested with Pierre. “All right, you can tell all about it

+at the court-martial.” Then he turned to Pierre. “Do you speak French?”

+

+Pierre looked around him with bloodshot eyes and did not reply. His

+face probably looked very terrible, for the officer said something in

+a whisper and four more Uhlans left the ranks and placed themselves on

+both sides of Pierre.

+

+“Do you speak French?” the officer asked again, keeping at a distance

+from Pierre. “Call the interpreter.”

+

+A little man in Russian civilian clothes rode out from the ranks, and

+by his clothes and manner of speaking Pierre at once knew him to be a

+French salesman from one of the Moscow shops.

+

+“He does not look like a common man,” said the interpreter, after a

+searching look at Pierre.

+

+“Ah, he looks very much like an incendiary,” remarked the officer. “And

+ask him who he is,” he added.

+

+“Who are you?” asked the interpreter in poor Russian. “You must answer

+the chief.”

+

+“I will not tell you who I am. I am your prisoner—take me!” Pierre

+suddenly replied in French.

+

+“Ah, ah!” muttered the officer with a frown. “Well then, march!”

+

+A crowd had collected round the Uhlans. Nearest to Pierre stood the

+pockmarked peasant woman with the little girl, and when the patrol

+started she moved forward.

+

+“Where are they taking you to, you poor dear?” said she. “And the little

+girl, the little girl, what am I to do with her if she’s not theirs?”

+said the woman.

+

+“What does that woman want?” asked the officer.

+

+Pierre was as if intoxicated. His elation increased at the sight of the

+little girl he had saved.

+

+“What does she want?” he murmured. “She is bringing me my daughter whom

+I have just saved from the flames,” said he. “Good-by!” And without

+knowing how this aimless lie had escaped him, he went along with

+resolute and triumphant steps between the French soldiers.

+

+The French patrol was one of those sent out through the various

+streets of Moscow by Durosnel’s order to put a stop to the pillage,

+and especially to catch the incendiaries who, according to the general

+opinion which had that day originated among the higher French officers,

+were the cause of the conflagrations. After marching through a number

+of streets the patrol arrested five more Russian suspects: a small

+shopkeeper, two seminary students, a peasant, and a house serf, besides

+several looters. But of all these various suspected characters, Pierre

+was considered to be the most suspicious of all. When they had all been

+brought for the night to a large house on the Zúbov Rampart that was

+being used as a guardhouse, Pierre was placed apart under strict guard.

+

+

+

+

+

+BOOK TWELVE: 1812

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER I

+

+In Petersburg at that time a complicated struggle was being carried on

+with greater heat than ever in the highest circles, between the parties

+of Rumyántsev, the French, Márya Fëdorovna, the Tsarévich, and others,

+drowned as usual by the buzzing of the court drones. But the calm,

+luxurious life of Petersburg, concerned only about phantoms and

+reflections of real life, went on in its old way and made it hard,

+except by a great effort, to realize the danger and the difficult

+position of the Russian people. There were the same receptions and

+balls, the same French theater, the same court interests and service

+interests and intrigues as usual. Only in the very highest circles were

+attempts made to keep in mind the difficulties of the actual position.

+Stories were whispered of how differently the two Empresses behaved

+in these difficult circumstances. The Empress Márya, concerned for

+the welfare of the charitable and educational institutions under her

+patronage, had given directions that they should all be removed to

+Kazán, and the things belonging to these institutions had already been

+packed up. The Empress Elisabeth, however, when asked what instructions

+she would be pleased to give—with her characteristic Russian patriotism

+had replied that she could give no directions about state institutions

+for that was the affair of the sovereign, but as far as she personally

+was concerned she would be the last to quit Petersburg.

+

+At Anna Pávlovna’s on the twenty-sixth of August, the very day of the

+battle of Borodinó, there was a soiree, the chief feature of which was

+to be the reading of a letter from His Lordship the Bishop when sending

+the Emperor an icon of the Venerable Sergius. It was regarded as a model

+of ecclesiastical, patriotic eloquence. Prince Vasíli himself, famed for

+his elocution, was to read it. (He used to read at the Empress’.) The

+art of his reading was supposed to lie in rolling out the words, quite

+independently of their meaning, in a loud and singsong voice alternating

+between a despairing wail and a tender murmur, so that the wail fell

+quite at random on one word and the murmur on another. This reading,

+as was always the case at Anna Pávlovna’s soirees, had a political

+significance. That evening she expected several important personages who

+had to be made ashamed of their visits to the French theater and aroused

+to a patriotic temper. A good many people had already arrived, but Anna

+Pávlovna, not yet seeing all those whom she wanted in her drawing room,

+did not let the reading begin but wound up the springs of a general

+conversation.

+

+The news of the day in Petersburg was the illness of Countess Bezúkhova.

+She had fallen ill unexpectedly a few days previously, had missed

+several gatherings of which she was usually the ornament, and was said

+to be receiving no one, and instead of the celebrated Petersburg doctors

+who usually attended her had entrusted herself to some Italian doctor

+who was treating her in some new and unusual way.

+

+They all knew very well that the enchanting countess’ illness arose from

+an inconvenience resulting from marrying two husbands at the same time,

+and that the Italian’s cure consisted in removing such inconvenience;

+but in Anna Pávlovna’s presence no one dared to think of this or even

+appear to know it.

+

+“They say the poor countess is very ill. The doctor says it is angina

+pectoris.”

+

+“Angina? Oh, that’s a terrible illness!”

+

+“They say that the rivals are reconciled, thanks to the angina...” and

+the word angina was repeated with great satisfaction.

+

+“The count is pathetic, they say. He cried like a child when the doctor

+told him the case was dangerous.”

+

+“Oh, it would be a terrible loss, she is an enchanting woman.”

+

+“You are speaking of the poor countess?” said Anna Pávlovna, coming

+up just then. “I sent to ask for news, and hear that she is a little

+better. Oh, she is certainly the most charming woman in the world,” she

+went on, with a smile at her own enthusiasm. “We belong to different

+camps, but that does not prevent my esteeming her as she deserves. She

+is very unfortunate!” added Anna Pávlovna.

+

+Supposing that by these words Anna Pávlovna was somewhat lifting the

+veil from the secret of the countess’ malady, an unwary young man

+ventured to express surprise that well-known doctors had not been called

+in and that the countess was being attended by a charlatan who might

+employ dangerous remedies.

+

+“Your information may be better than mine,” Anna Pávlovna suddenly and

+venomously retorted on the inexperienced young man, “but I know on good

+authority that this doctor is a very learned and able man. He is private

+physician to the Queen of Spain.”

+

+And having thus demolished the young man, Anna Pávlovna turned to

+another group where Bilíbin was talking about the Austrians: having

+wrinkled up his face he was evidently preparing to smooth it out again

+and utter one of his mots.

+

+“I think it is delightful,” he said, referring to a diplomatic note that

+had been sent to Vienna with some Austrian banners captured from the

+French by Wittgenstein, “the hero of Petropol” as he was then called in

+Petersburg.

+

+“What? What’s that?” asked Anna Pávlovna, securing silence for the mot,

+which she had heard before.

+

+And Bilíbin repeated the actual words of the diplomatic dispatch, which

+he had himself composed.

+

+“The Emperor returns these Austrian banners,” said Bilíbin, “friendly

+banners gone astray and found on a wrong path,” and his brow became

+smooth again.

+

+“Charming, charming!” observed Prince Vasíli.

+

+“The path to Warsaw, perhaps,” Prince Hippolyte remarked loudly and

+unexpectedly. Everybody looked at him, understanding what he meant.

+Prince Hippolyte himself glanced around with amused surprise. He knew no

+more than the others what his words meant. During his diplomatic career

+he had more than once noticed that such utterances were received as very

+witty, and at every opportunity he uttered in that way the first words

+that entered his head. “It may turn out very well,” he thought, “but

+if not, they’ll know how to arrange matters.” And really, during the

+awkward silence that ensued, that insufficiently patriotic person

+entered whom Anna Pávlovna had been waiting for and wished to convert,

+and she, smiling and shaking a finger at Hippolyte, invited Prince

+Vasíli to the table and bringing him two candles and the manuscript

+begged him to begin. Everyone became silent.

+

+“Most Gracious Sovereign and Emperor!” Prince Vasíli sternly declaimed,

+looking round at his audience as if to inquire whether anyone had

+anything to say to the contrary. But no one said anything. “Moscow, our

+ancient capital, the New Jerusalem, receives her Christ”—he placed a

+sudden emphasis on the word her—“as a mother receives her zealous sons

+into her arms, and through the gathering mists, foreseeing the brilliant

+glory of thy rule, sings in exultation, ‘Hosanna, blessed is he that

+cometh!’”

+

+Prince Vasíli pronounced these last words in a tearful voice.

+

+Bilíbin attentively examined his nails, and many of those present

+appeared intimidated, as if asking in what they were to blame. Anna

+Pávlovna whispered the next words in advance, like an old woman

+muttering the prayer at Communion: “Let the bold and insolent

+Goliath...” she whispered.

+

+Prince Vasíli continued.

+

+“Let the bold and insolent Goliath from the borders of France encompass

+the realms of Russia with death-bearing terrors; humble Faith, the sling

+of the Russian David, shall suddenly smite his head in his bloodthirsty

+pride. This icon of the Venerable Sergius, the servant of God and

+zealous champion of old of our country’s weal, is offered to Your

+Imperial Majesty. I grieve that my waning strength prevents rejoicing

+in the sight of your most gracious presence. I raise fervent prayers to

+Heaven that the Almighty may exalt the race of the just, and mercifully

+fulfill the desires of Your Majesty.”

+

+“What force! What a style!” was uttered in approval both of reader and

+of author.

+

+Animated by that address Anna Pávlovna’s guests talked for a long time

+of the state of the fatherland and offered various conjectures as to the

+result of the battle to be fought in a few days.

+

+“You will see,” said Anna Pávlovna, “that tomorrow, on the Emperor’s

+birthday, we shall receive news. I have a favorable presentiment!”

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER II

+

+Anna Pávlovna’s presentiment was in fact fulfilled. Next day during the

+service at the palace church in honor of the Emperor’s birthday, Prince

+Volkónski was called out of the church and received a dispatch from

+Prince Kutúzov. It was Kutúzov’s report, written from Tatárinova on the

+day of the battle. Kutúzov wrote that the Russians had not retreated a

+step, that the French losses were much heavier than ours, and that he

+was writing in haste from the field of battle before collecting full

+information. It followed that there must have been a victory. And at

+once, without leaving the church, thanks were rendered to the Creator

+for His help and for the victory.

+

+Anna Pávlovna’s presentiment was justified, and all that morning a

+joyously festive mood reigned in the city. Everyone believed the victory

+to have been complete, and some even spoke of Napoleon’s having been

+captured, of his deposition, and of the choice of a new ruler for

+France.

+

+It is very difficult for events to be reflected in their real strength

+and completeness amid the conditions of court life and far from the

+scene of action. General events involuntarily group themselves around

+some particular incident. So now the courtiers’ pleasure was based as

+much on the fact that the news had arrived on the Emperor’s birthday as

+on the fact of the victory itself. It was like a successfully arranged

+surprise. Mention was made in Kutúzov’s report of the Russian losses,

+among which figured the names of Túchkov, Bagratión, and Kutáysov. In

+the Petersburg world this sad side of the affair again involuntarily

+centered round a single incident: Kutáysov’s death. Everybody knew

+him, the Emperor liked him, and he was young and interesting. That day

+everyone met with the words:

+

+“What a wonderful coincidence! Just during the service. But what a loss

+Kutáysov is! How sorry I am!”

+

+“What did I tell about Kutúzov?” Prince Vasíli now said with a

+prophet’s pride. “I always said he was the only man capable of defeating

+Napoleon.”

+

+But next day no news arrived from the army and the public mood grew

+anxious. The courtiers suffered because of the suffering the suspense

+occasioned the Emperor.

+

+“Fancy the Emperor’s position!” said they, and instead of extolling

+Kutúzov as they had done the day before, they condemned him as the cause

+of the Emperor’s anxiety. That day Prince Vasíli no longer boasted of

+his protégé Kutúzov, but remained silent when the commander in chief was

+mentioned. Moreover, toward evening, as if everything conspired to make

+Petersburg society anxious and uneasy, a terrible piece of news was

+added. Countess Hélène Bezúkhova had suddenly died of that terrible

+malady it had been so agreeable to mention. Officially, at large

+gatherings, everyone said that Countess Bezúkhova had died of a

+terrible attack of angina pectoris, but in intimate circles details

+were mentioned of how the private physician of the Queen of Spain had

+prescribed small doses of a certain drug to produce a certain effect;

+but Hélène, tortured by the fact that the old count suspected her and

+that her husband to whom she had written (that wretched, profligate

+Pierre) had not replied, had suddenly taken a very large dose of the

+drug, and had died in agony before assistance could be rendered her.

+It was said that Prince Vasíli and the old count had turned upon the

+Italian, but the latter had produced such letters from the unfortunate

+deceased that they had immediately let the matter drop.

+

+Talk in general centered round three melancholy facts: the Emperor’s

+lack of news, the loss of Kutáysov, and the death of Hélène.

+

+On the third day after Kutúzov’s report a country gentleman arrived from

+Moscow, and news of the surrender of Moscow to the French spread through

+the whole town. This was terrible! What a position for the Emperor to

+be in! Kutúzov was a traitor, and Prince Vasíli during the visits of

+condolence paid to him on the occasion of his daughter’s death said of

+Kutúzov, whom he had formerly praised (it was excusable for him in his

+grief to forget what he had said), that it was impossible to expect

+anything else from a blind and depraved old man.

+

+“I only wonder that the fate of Russia could have been entrusted to such

+a man.”

+

+As long as this news remained unofficial it was possible to doubt it,

+but the next day the following communication was received from Count

+Rostopchín:

+

+Prince Kutúzov’s adjutant has brought me a letter in which he demands

+police officers to guide the army to the Ryazán road. He writes that

+he is regretfully abandoning Moscow. Sire! Kutúzov’s action decides the

+fate of the capital and of your empire! Russia will shudder to learn of

+the abandonment of the city in which her greatness is centered and in

+which lie the ashes of your ancestors! I shall follow the army. I have

+had everything removed, and it only remains for me to weep over the fate

+of my fatherland.

+

+On receiving this dispatch the Emperor sent Prince Volkónski to Kutúzov

+with the following rescript:

+

+Prince Michael Ilariónovich! Since the twenty-ninth of August I have

+received no communication from you, yet on the first of September I

+received from the commander in chief of Moscow, via Yaroslávl, the sad

+news that you, with the army, have decided to abandon Moscow. You can

+yourself imagine the effect this news has had on me, and your silence

+increases my astonishment. I am sending this by Adjutant-General Prince

+Volkónski, to hear from you the situation of the army and the reasons

+that have induced you to take this melancholy decision.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER III

+

+Nine days after the abandonment of Moscow, a messenger from Kutúzov

+reached Petersburg with the official announcement of that event. This

+messenger was Michaud, a Frenchman who did not know Russian, but who was

+quoique étranger, russe de cœur et d’âme, * as he said of himself.

+

+    * Though a foreigner, Russian in heart and soul.

+

+The Emperor at once received this messenger in his study at the palace

+on Stone Island. Michaud, who had never seen Moscow before the campaign

+and who did not know Russian, yet felt deeply moved (as he wrote) when

+he appeared before notre très gracieux souverain * with the news of the

+burning of Moscow, dont les flammes éclairaient sa route. *(2)

+

+     * Our most gracious sovereign.

+

+     * (2) Whose flames illumined his route.

+

+Though the source of M. Michaud’s chagrin must have been different from

+that which caused Russians to grieve, he had such a sad face when shown

+into the Emperor’s study that the latter at once asked:

+

+“Have you brought me sad news, Colonel?”

+

+“Very sad, sire,” replied Michaud, lowering his eyes with a sigh. “The

+abandonment of Moscow.”

+

+“Have they surrendered my ancient capital without a battle?” asked the

+Emperor quickly, his face suddenly flushing.

+

+Michaud respectfully delivered the message Kutúzov had entrusted to him,

+which was that it had been impossible to fight before Moscow, and that

+as the only remaining choice was between losing the army as well as

+Moscow, or losing Moscow alone, the field marshal had to choose the

+latter.

+

+The Emperor listened in silence, not looking at Michaud.

+

+“Has the enemy entered the city?” he asked.

+

+“Yes, sire, and Moscow is now in ashes. I left it all in flames,”

+replied Michaud in a decided tone, but glancing at the Emperor he was

+frightened by what he had done.

+

+The Emperor began to breathe heavily and rapidly, his lower lip

+trembled, and tears instantly appeared in his fine blue eyes.

+

+But this lasted only a moment. He suddenly frowned, as if blaming

+himself for his weakness, and raising his head addressed Michaud in a

+firm voice:

+

+“I see, Colonel, from all that is happening, that Providence requires

+great sacrifices of us... I am ready to submit myself in all things to

+His will; but tell me, Michaud, how did you leave the army when it

+saw my ancient capital abandoned without a battle? Did you not notice

+discouragement?...”

+

+Seeing that his most gracious ruler was calm once more, Michaud also

+grew calm, but was not immediately ready to reply to the Emperor’s

+direct and relevant question which required a direct answer.

+

+“Sire, will you allow me to speak frankly as befits a loyal soldier?” he

+asked to gain time.

+

+“Colonel, I always require it,” replied the Emperor. “Conceal nothing

+from me, I wish to know absolutely how things are.”

+

+“Sire!” said Michaud with a subtle, scarcely perceptible smile on his

+lips, having now prepared a well-phrased reply, “sire, I left the

+whole army, from its chiefs to the lowest soldier, without exception in

+desperate and agonized terror...”

+

+“How is that?” the Emperor interrupted him, frowning sternly. “Would

+misfortune make my Russians lose heart?... Never!”

+

+Michaud had only waited for this to bring out the phrase he had

+prepared.

+

+“Sire,” he said, with respectful playfulness, “they are only afraid lest

+Your Majesty, in the goodness of your heart, should allow yourself to be

+persuaded to make peace. They are burning for the combat,” declared this

+representative of the Russian nation, “and to prove to Your Majesty by

+the sacrifice of their lives how devoted they are....”

+

+“Ah!” said the Emperor reassured, and with a kindly gleam in his eyes,

+he patted Michaud on the shoulder. “You set me at ease, Colonel.”

+

+He bent his head and was silent for some time.

+

+“Well, then, go back to the army,” he said, drawing himself up to his

+full height and addressing Michaud with a gracious and majestic gesture,

+“and tell our brave men and all my good subjects wherever you go that

+when I have not a soldier left I shall put myself at the head of my

+beloved nobility and my good peasants and so use the last resources of

+my empire. It still offers me more than my enemies suppose,” said the

+Emperor growing more and more animated; “but should it ever be ordained

+by Divine Providence,” he continued, raising to heaven his fine eyes

+shining with emotion, “that my dynasty should cease to reign on the

+throne of my ancestors, then after exhausting all the means at my

+command, I shall let my beard grow to here” (he pointed halfway down his

+chest) “and go and eat potatoes with the meanest of my peasants, rather

+than sign the disgrace of my country and of my beloved people whose

+sacrifices I know how to appreciate.”

+

+Having uttered these words in an agitated voice the Emperor suddenly

+turned away as if to hide from Michaud the tears that rose to his eyes,

+and went to the further end of his study. Having stood there a few

+moments, he strode back to Michaud and pressed his arm below the elbow

+with a vigorous movement. The Emperor’s mild and handsome face was

+flushed and his eyes gleamed with resolution and anger.

+

+“Colonel Michaud, do not forget what I say to you here, perhaps we may

+recall it with pleasure someday... Napoleon or I,” said the Emperor,

+touching his breast. “We can no longer both reign together. I have

+learned to know him, and he will not deceive me any more....”

+

+And the Emperor paused, with a frown.

+

+When he heard these words and saw the expression of firm resolution in

+the Emperor’s eyes, Michaud—quoique étranger, russe de cœur et d’âme,—at

+that solemn moment felt himself enraptured by all that he had heard (as

+he used afterwards to say), and gave expression to his own feelings and

+those of the Russian people whose representative he considered himself

+to be, in the following words:

+

+“Sire!” said he, “Your Majesty is at this moment signing the glory of

+the nation and the salvation of Europe!”

+

+With an inclination of the head the Emperor dismissed him.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER IV

+

+It is natural for us who were not living in those days to imagine that

+when half Russia had been conquered and the inhabitants were fleeing to

+distant provinces, and one levy after another was being raised for the

+defense of the fatherland, all Russians from the greatest to the least

+were solely engaged in sacrificing themselves, saving their fatherland,

+or weeping over its downfall. The tales and descriptions of that time

+without exception speak only of the self-sacrifice, patriotic devotion,

+despair, grief, and the heroism of the Russians. But it was not really

+so. It appears so to us because we see only the general historic

+interest of that time and do not see all the personal human interests

+that people had. Yet in reality those personal interests of the moment

+so much transcend the general interests that they always prevent the

+public interest from being felt or even noticed. Most of the people at

+that time paid no attention to the general progress of events but were

+guided only by their private interests, and they were the very people

+whose activities at that period were most useful.

+

+Those who tried to understand the general course of events and to take

+part in it by self-sacrifice and heroism were the most useless members

+of society, they saw everything upside down, and all they did for the

+common good turned out to be useless and foolish—like Pierre’s and

+Mamónov’s regiments which looted Russian villages, and the lint the

+young ladies prepared and that never reached the wounded, and so on.

+Even those, fond of intellectual talk and of expressing their feelings,

+who discussed Russia’s position at the time involuntarily introduced

+into their conversation either a shade of pretense and falsehood or

+useless condemnation and anger directed against people accused of

+actions no one could possibly be guilty of. In historic events the rule

+forbidding us to eat of the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge is specially

+applicable. Only unconscious action bears fruit, and he who plays a part

+in an historic event never understands its significance. If he tries to

+realize it his efforts are fruitless.

+

+The more closely a man was engaged in the events then taking place in

+Russia the less did he realize their significance. In Petersburg and

+in the provinces at a distance from Moscow, ladies, and gentlemen in

+militia uniforms, wept for Russia and its ancient capital and talked of

+self-sacrifice and so on; but in the army which retired beyond Moscow

+there was little talk or thought of Moscow, and when they caught sight

+of its burned ruins no one swore to be avenged on the French, but they

+thought about their next pay, their next quarters, of Matrëshka the

+vivandière, and like matters.

+

+As the war had caught him in the service, Nicholas Rostóv took a close

+and prolonged part in the defense of his country, but did so casually,

+without any aim at self-sacrifice, and he therefore looked at what was

+going on in Russia without despair and without dismally racking his

+brains over it. Had he been asked what he thought of the state of

+Russia, he would have said that it was not his business to think about

+it, that Kutúzov and others were there for that purpose, but that he had

+heard that the regiments were to be made up to their full strength, that

+fighting would probably go on for a long time yet, and that things being

+so it was quite likely he might be in command of a regiment in a couple

+of years’ time.

+

+As he looked at the matter in this way, he learned that he was being

+sent to Vorónezh to buy remounts for his division, not only without

+regret at being prevented from taking part in the coming battle, but

+with the greatest pleasure—which he did not conceal and which his

+comrades fully understood.

+

+A few days before the battle of Borodinó, Nicholas received the

+necessary money and warrants, and having sent some hussars on in

+advance, he set out with post horses for Vorónezh.

+

+Only a man who has experienced it—that is, has passed some months

+continuously in an atmosphere of campaigning and war—can understand the

+delight Nicholas felt when he escaped from the region covered by the

+army’s foraging operations, provision trains, and hospitals. When—free

+from soldiers, wagons, and the filthy traces of a camp—he saw villages

+with peasants and peasant women, gentlemen’s country houses, fields

+where cattle were grazing, posthouses with stationmasters asleep in

+them, he rejoiced as though seeing all this for the first time. What for

+a long while specially surprised and delighted him were the women, young

+and healthy, without a dozen officers making up to each of them; women,

+too, who were pleased and flattered that a passing officer should joke

+with them.

+

+In the highest spirits Nicholas arrived at night at a hotel in Vorónezh,

+ordered things he had long been deprived of in camp, and next day, very

+clean-shaven and in a full-dress uniform he had not worn for a long

+time, went to present himself to the authorities.

+

+The commander of the militia was a civilian general, an old man who was

+evidently pleased with his military designation and rank. He received

+Nicholas brusquely (imagining this to be characteristically military)

+and questioned him with an important air, as if considering the general

+progress of affairs and approving and disapproving with full right to do

+so. Nicholas was in such good spirits that this merely amused him.

+

+From the commander of the militia he drove to the governor. The governor

+was a brisk little man, very simple and affable. He indicated the stud

+farms at which Nicholas might procure horses, recommended to him a horse

+dealer in the town and a landowner fourteen miles out of town who had

+the best horses, and promised to assist him in every way.

+

+“You are Count Ilyá Rostóv’s son? My wife was a great friend of your

+mother’s. We are at home on Thursdays—today is Thursday, so please come

+and see us quite informally,” said the governor, taking leave of him.

+

+Immediately on leaving the governor’s, Nicholas hired post horses and,

+taking his squadron quartermaster with him, drove at a gallop to the

+landowner, fourteen miles away, who had the stud. Everything seemed to

+him pleasant and easy during that first part of his stay in Vorónezh

+and, as usually happens when a man is in a pleasant state of mind,

+everything went well and easily.

+

+The landowner to whom Nicholas went was a bachelor, an old cavalryman, a

+horse fancier, a sportsman, the possessor of some century-old brandy

+and some old Hungarian wine, who had a snuggery where he smoked, and who

+owned some splendid horses.

+

+In very few words Nicholas bought seventeen picked stallions for six

+thousand rubles—to serve, as he said, as samples of his remounts. After

+dining and taking rather too much of the Hungarian wine, Nicholas—having

+exchanged kisses with the landowner, with whom he was already on the

+friendliest terms—galloped back over abominable roads, in the brightest

+frame of mind, continually urging on the driver so as to be in time for

+the governor’s party.

+

+When he had changed, poured water over his head, and scented himself,

+Nicholas arrived at the governor’s rather late, but with the phrase

+“better late than never” on his lips.

+

+It was not a ball, nor had dancing been announced, but everyone knew

+that Catherine Petróvna would play valses and the écossaise on the

+clavichord and that there would be dancing, and so everyone had come as

+to a ball.

+

+Provincial life in 1812 went on very much as usual, but with this

+difference, that it was livelier in the towns in consequence of the

+arrival of many wealthy families from Moscow, and as in everything that

+went on in Russia at that time a special recklessness was noticeable, an

+“in for a penny, in for a pound—who cares?” spirit, and the inevitable

+small talk, instead of turning on the weather and mutual acquaintances,

+now turned on Moscow, the army, and Napoleon.

+

+The society gathered together at the governor’s was the best in

+Vorónezh.

+

+There were a great many ladies and some of Nicholas’ Moscow

+acquaintances, but there were no men who could at all vie with the

+cavalier of St. George, the hussar remount officer, the good-natured

+and well-bred Count Rostóv. Among the men was an Italian prisoner, an

+officer of the French army; and Nicholas felt that the presence of that

+prisoner enhanced his own importance as a Russian hero. The Italian

+was, as it were, a war trophy. Nicholas felt this, it seemed to him

+that everyone regarded the Italian in the same light, and he treated him

+cordially though with dignity and restraint.

+

+As soon as Nicholas entered in his hussar uniform, diffusing around him

+a fragrance of perfume and wine, and had uttered the words “better late

+than never” and heard them repeated several times by others, people

+clustered around him; all eyes turned on him, and he felt at once

+that he had entered into his proper position in the province—that of

+a universal favorite: a very pleasant position, and intoxicatingly so

+after his long privations. At posting stations, at inns, and in the

+landowner’s snuggery, maidservants had been flattered by his notice, and

+here too at the governor’s party there were (as it seemed to Nicholas)

+an inexhaustible number of pretty young women, married and unmarried,

+impatiently awaiting his notice. The women and girls flirted with him

+and, from the first day, the people concerned themselves to get this

+fine young daredevil of an hussar married and settled down. Among these

+was the governor’s wife herself, who welcomed Rostóv as a near relative

+and called him “Nicholas.”

+

+Catherine Petróvna did actually play valses and the écossaise, and

+dancing began in which Nicholas still further captivated the provincial

+society by his agility. His particularly free manner of dancing even

+surprised them all. Nicholas was himself rather surprised at the way he

+danced that evening. He had never danced like that in Moscow and would

+even have considered such a very free and easy manner improper and in

+bad form, but here he felt it incumbent on him to astonish them all by

+something unusual, something they would have to accept as the regular

+thing in the capital though new to them in the provinces.

+

+All the evening Nicholas paid attention to a blue-eyed, plump and

+pleasing little blonde, the wife of one of the provincial officials.

+With the naïve conviction of young men in a merry mood that other men’s

+wives were created for them, Rostóv did not leave the lady’s side and

+treated her husband in a friendly and conspiratorial style, as if,

+without speaking of it, they knew how capitally Nicholas and the lady

+would get on together. The husband, however, did not seem to share that

+conviction and tried to behave morosely with Rostóv. But the

+latter’s good-natured naïveté was so boundless that sometimes even he

+involuntarily yielded to Nicholas’ good humor. Toward the end of the

+evening, however, as the wife’s face grew more flushed and animated, the

+husband’s became more and more melancholy and solemn, as though there

+were but a given amount of animation between them and as the wife’s

+share increased the husband’s diminished.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER V

+

+Nicholas sat leaning slightly forward in an armchair, bending closely

+over the blonde lady and paying her mythological compliments with a

+smile that never left his face. Jauntily shifting the position of his

+legs in their tight riding breeches, diffusing an odor of perfume, and

+admiring his partner, himself, and the fine outlines of his legs in

+their well-fitting Hessian boots, Nicholas told the blonde lady that he

+wished to run away with a certain lady here in Vorónezh.

+

+“Which lady?”

+

+“A charming lady, a divine one. Her eyes” (Nicholas looked at his

+partner) “are blue, her mouth coral and ivory; her figure” (he glanced

+at her shoulders) “like Diana’s....”

+

+The husband came up and sullenly asked his wife what she was talking

+about.

+

+“Ah, Nikíta Iványch!” cried Nicholas, rising politely, and as if wishing

+Nikíta Iványch to share his joke, he began to tell him of his intention

+to elope with a blonde lady.

+

+The husband smiled gloomily, the wife gaily. The governor’s good-natured

+wife came up with a look of disapproval.

+

+“Anna Ignátyevna wants to see you, Nicholas,” said she, pronouncing the

+name so that Nicholas at once understood that Anna Ignátyevna was a very

+important person. “Come, Nicholas! You know you let me call you so?”

+

+“Oh, yes, Aunt. Who is she?”

+

+“Anna Ignátyevna Malvíntseva. She has heard from her niece how you

+rescued her.... Can you guess?”

+

+“I rescued such a lot of them!” said Nicholas.

+

+“Her niece, Princess Bolkónskaya. She is here in Vorónezh with her aunt.

+Oho! How you blush. Why, are...?”

+

+“Not a bit! Please don’t, Aunt!”

+

+“Very well, very well!... Oh, what a fellow you are!”

+

+The governor’s wife led him up to a tall and very stout old lady with

+a blue headdress, who had just finished her game of cards with the most

+important personages of the town. This was Malvíntseva, Princess Mary’s

+aunt on her mother’s side, a rich, childless widow who always lived in

+Vorónezh. When Rostóv approached her she was standing settling up for

+the game. She looked at him and, screwing up her eyes sternly, continued

+to upbraid the general who had won from her.

+

+“Very pleased, mon cher,” she then said, holding out her hand to

+Nicholas. “Pray come and see me.”

+

+After a few words about Princess Mary and her late father, whom

+Malvíntseva had evidently not liked, and having asked what Nicholas

+knew of Prince Andrew, who also was evidently no favorite of hers, the

+important old lady dismissed Nicholas after repeating her invitation to

+come to see her.

+

+Nicholas promised to come and blushed again as he bowed. At the mention

+of Princess Mary he experienced a feeling of shyness and even of fear,

+which he himself did not understand.

+

+When he had parted from Malvíntseva Nicholas wished to return to the

+dancing, but the governor’s little wife placed her plump hand on his

+sleeve and, saying that she wanted to have a talk with him, led him to

+her sitting room, from which those who were there immediately withdrew

+so as not to be in her way.

+

+“Do you know, dear boy,” began the governor’s wife with a serious

+expression on her kind little face, “that really would be the match for

+you: would you like me to arrange it?”

+

+“Whom do you mean, Aunt?” asked Nicholas.

+

+“I will make a match for you with the princess. Catherine Petróvna

+speaks of Lily, but I say, no—the princess! Do you want me to do it? I

+am sure your mother will be grateful to me. What a charming girl she is,

+really! And she is not at all so plain, either.”

+

+“Not at all,” replied Nicholas as if offended at the idea. “As befits

+a soldier, Aunt, I don’t force myself on anyone or refuse anything,” he

+said before he had time to consider what he was saying.

+

+“Well then, remember, this is not a joke!”

+

+“Of course not!”

+

+“Yes, yes,” the governor’s wife said as if talking to herself. “But,

+my dear boy, among other things you are too attentive to the other, the

+blonde. One is sorry for the husband, really....”

+

+“Oh no, we are good friends with him,” said Nicholas in the simplicity

+of his heart; it did not enter his head that a pastime so pleasant to

+himself might not be pleasant to someone else.

+

+“But what nonsense I have been saying to the governor’s wife!” thought

+Nicholas suddenly at supper. “She will really begin to arrange a

+match... and Sónya...?” And on taking leave of the governor’s wife,

+when she again smilingly said to him, “Well then, remember!” he drew her

+aside.

+

+“But see here, to tell the truth, Aunt...”

+

+“What is it, my dear? Come, let’s sit down here,” said she.

+

+Nicholas suddenly felt a desire and need to tell his most intimate

+thoughts (which he would not have told to his mother, his sister, or

+his friend) to this woman who was almost a stranger. When he afterwards

+recalled that impulse to unsolicited and inexplicable frankness which

+had very important results for him, it seemed to him—as it seems to

+everyone in such cases—that it was merely some silly whim that seized

+him: yet that burst of frankness, together with other trifling events,

+had immense consequences for him and for all his family.

+

+“You see, Aunt, Mamma has long wanted me to marry an heiress, but the

+very idea of marrying for money is repugnant to me.”

+

+“Oh yes, I understand,” said the governor’s wife.

+

+“But Princess Bolkónskaya—that’s another matter. I will tell you the

+truth. In the first place I like her very much, I feel drawn to her; and

+then, after I met her under such circumstances—so strangely, the idea

+often occurred to me: ‘This is fate.’ Especially if you remember that

+Mamma had long been thinking of it; but I had never happened to meet her

+before, somehow it had always happened that we did not meet. And as long

+as my sister Natásha was engaged to her brother it was of course out of

+the question for me to think of marrying her. And it must needs happen

+that I should meet her just when Natásha’s engagement had been broken

+off... and then everything... So you see... I never told this to anyone

+and never will, only to you.”

+

+The governor’s wife pressed his elbow gratefully.

+

+“You know Sónya, my cousin? I love her, and promised to marry her, and

+will do so.... So you see there can be no question about—” said Nicholas

+incoherently and blushing.

+

+“My dear boy, what a way to look at it! You know Sónya has nothing and

+you yourself say your Papa’s affairs are in a very bad way. And what

+about your mother? It would kill her, that’s one thing. And what sort of

+life would it be for Sónya—if she’s a girl with a heart? Your mother

+in despair, and you all ruined.... No, my dear, you and Sónya ought to

+understand that.”

+

+Nicholas remained silent. It comforted him to hear these arguments.

+

+“All the same, Aunt, it is impossible,” he rejoined with a sigh, after

+a short pause. “Besides, would the princess have me? And besides, she is

+now in mourning. How can one think of it!”

+

+“But you don’t suppose I’m going to get you married at once? There is

+always a right way of doing things,” replied the governor’s wife.

+

+“What a matchmaker you are, Aunt...” said Nicholas, kissing her plump

+little hand.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER VI

+

+On reaching Moscow after her meeting with Rostóv, Princess Mary had

+found her nephew there with his tutor, and a letter from Prince Andrew

+giving her instructions how to get to her Aunt Malvíntseva at Vorónezh.

+That feeling akin to temptation which had tormented her during her

+father’s illness, since his death, and especially since her meeting with

+Rostóv was smothered by arrangements for the journey, anxiety about her

+brother, settling in a new house, meeting new people, and attending to

+her nephew’s education. She was sad. Now, after a month passed in quiet

+surroundings, she felt more and more deeply the loss of her father which

+was associated in her mind with the ruin of Russia. She was agitated and

+incessantly tortured by the thought of the dangers to which her brother,

+the only intimate person now remaining to her, was exposed. She was

+worried too about her nephew’s education for which she had always felt

+herself incompetent, but in the depths of her soul she felt at peace—a

+peace arising from consciousness of having stifled those personal dreams

+and hopes that had been on the point of awakening within her and were

+related to her meeting with Rostóv.

+

+The day after her party the governor’s wife came to see Malvíntseva

+and, after discussing her plan with the aunt, remarked that though

+under present circumstances a formal betrothal was, of course, not to be

+thought of, all the same the young people might be brought together and

+could get to know one another. Malvíntseva expressed approval, and the

+governor’s wife began to speak of Rostóv in Mary’s presence, praising

+him and telling how he had blushed when Princess Mary’s name was

+mentioned. But Princess Mary experienced a painful rather than a joyful

+feeling—her mental tranquillity was destroyed, and desires, doubts,

+self-reproach, and hopes reawoke.

+

+During the two days that elapsed before Rostóv called, Princess Mary

+continually thought of how she ought to behave to him. First she decided

+not to come to the drawing room when he called to see her aunt—that it

+would not be proper for her, in her deep mourning, to receive visitors;

+then she thought this would be rude after what he had done for her; then

+it occurred to her that her aunt and the governor’s wife had intentions

+concerning herself and Rostóv—their looks and words at times seemed to

+confirm this supposition—then she told herself that only she, with her

+sinful nature, could think this of them: they could not forget that

+situated as she was, while still wearing deep mourning, such matchmaking

+would be an insult to her and to her father’s memory. Assuming that she

+did go down to see him, Princess Mary imagined the words he would say

+to her and what she would say to him, and these words sometimes seemed

+undeservedly cold and then to mean too much. More than anything she

+feared lest the confusion she felt might overwhelm her and betray her as

+soon as she saw him.

+

+But when on Sunday after church the footman announced in the drawing

+room that Count Rostóv had called, the princess showed no confusion,

+only a slight blush suffused her cheeks and her eyes lit up with a new

+and radiant light.

+

+“You have met him, Aunt?” said she in a calm voice, unable herself to

+understand that she could be outwardly so calm and natural.

+

+When Rostóv entered the room, the princess dropped her eyes for an

+instant, as if to give the visitor time to greet her aunt, and then

+just as Nicholas turned to her she raised her head and met his look with

+shining eyes. With a movement full of dignity and grace she half rose

+with a smile of pleasure, held out her slender, delicate hand to him,

+and began to speak in a voice in which for the first time new deep

+womanly notes vibrated. Mademoiselle Bourienne, who was in the drawing

+room, looked at Princess Mary in bewildered surprise. Herself a

+consummate coquette, she could not have maneuvered better on meeting a

+man she wished to attract.

+

+“Either black is particularly becoming to her or she really has greatly

+improved without my having noticed it. And above all, what tact and

+grace!” thought Mademoiselle Bourienne.

+

+Had Princess Mary been capable of reflection at that moment, she would

+have been more surprised than Mademoiselle Bourienne at the change that

+had taken place in herself. From the moment she recognized that dear,

+loved face, a new life force took possession of her and compelled her to

+speak and act apart from her own will. From the time Rostóv entered, her

+face became suddenly transformed. It was as if a light had been kindled

+in a carved and painted lantern and the intricate, skillful, artistic

+work on its sides, that previously seemed dark, coarse, and meaningless,

+was suddenly shown up in unexpected and striking beauty. For the first

+time all that pure, spiritual, inward travail through which she had

+lived appeared on the surface. All her inward labor, her dissatisfaction

+with herself, her sufferings, her strivings after goodness, her

+meekness, love, and self-sacrifice—all this now shone in those radiant

+eyes, in her delicate smile, and in every trait of her gentle face.

+

+Rostóv saw all this as clearly as if he had known her whole life. He

+felt that the being before him was quite different from, and better

+than, anyone he had met before, and above all better than himself.

+

+Their conversation was very simple and unimportant. They spoke of the

+war, and like everyone else unconsciously exaggerated their sorrow

+about it; they spoke of their last meeting—Nicholas trying to change the

+subject—they talked of the governor’s kind wife, of Nicholas’ relations,

+and of Princess Mary’s.

+

+She did not talk about her brother, diverting the conversation as soon

+as her aunt mentioned Andrew. Evidently she could speak of Russia’s

+misfortunes with a certain artificiality, but her brother was too near

+her heart and she neither could nor would speak lightly of him. Nicholas

+noticed this, as he noticed every shade of Princess Mary’s character

+with an observation unusual to him, and everything confirmed his

+conviction that she was a quite unusual and extraordinary being.

+Nicholas blushed and was confused when people spoke to him about the

+princess (as she did when he was mentioned) and even when he thought of

+her, but in her presence he felt quite at ease, and said not at all what

+he had prepared, but what, quite appropriately, occurred to him at the

+moment.

+

+When a pause occurred during his short visit, Nicholas, as is usual when

+there are children, turned to Prince Andrew’s little son, caressing him

+and asking whether he would like to be an hussar. He took the boy on

+his knee, played with him, and looked round at Princess Mary. With a

+softened, happy, timid look she watched the boy she loved in the arms

+of the man she loved. Nicholas also noticed that look and, as if

+understanding it, flushed with pleasure and began to kiss the boy with

+good natured playfulness.

+

+As she was in mourning Princess Mary did not go out into society, and

+Nicholas did not think it the proper thing to visit her again; but all

+the same the governor’s wife went on with her matchmaking, passing on to

+Nicholas the flattering things Princess Mary said of him and vice

+versa, and insisting on his declaring himself to Princess Mary. For this

+purpose she arranged a meeting between the young people at the bishop’s

+house before Mass.

+

+Though Rostóv told the governor’s wife that he would not make any

+declaration to Princess Mary, he promised to go.

+

+As at Tilsit Rostóv had not allowed himself to doubt that what everybody

+considered right was right, so now, after a short but sincere struggle

+between his effort to arrange his life by his own sense of justice, and

+in obedient submission to circumstances, he chose the latter and yielded

+to the power he felt irresistibly carrying him he knew not where. He

+knew that after his promise to Sónya it would be what he deemed base to

+declare his feelings to Princess Mary. And he knew that he would never

+act basely. But he also knew (or rather felt at the bottom of his heart)

+that by resigning himself now to the force of circumstances and to those

+who were guiding him, he was not only doing nothing wrong, but was doing

+something very important—more important than anything he had ever done

+in his life.

+

+After meeting Princess Mary, though the course of his life went on

+externally as before, all his former amusements lost their charm for him

+and he often thought about her. But he never thought about her as he

+had thought of all the young ladies without exception whom he had met

+in society, nor as he had for a long time, and at one time rapturously,

+thought about Sónya. He had pictured each of those young ladies as

+almost all honest-hearted young men do, that is, as a possible wife,

+adapting her in his imagination to all the conditions of married life:

+a white dressing gown, his wife at the tea table, his wife’s carriage,

+little ones, Mamma and Papa, their relations to her, and so on—and these

+pictures of the future had given him pleasure. But with Princess Mary,

+to whom they were trying to get him engaged, he could never picture

+anything of future married life. If he tried, his pictures seemed

+incongruous and false. It made him afraid.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER VII

+

+The dreadful news of the battle of Borodinó, of our losses in killed and

+wounded, and the still more terrible news of the loss of Moscow reached

+Vorónezh in the middle of September. Princess Mary, having learned of

+her brother’s wound only from the Gazette and having no definite news of

+him, prepared (so Nicholas heard, he had not seen her again himself) to

+set off in search of Prince Andrew.

+

+When he received the news of the battle of Borodinó and the abandonment

+of Moscow, Rostóv was not seized with despair, anger, the desire for

+vengeance, or any feeling of that kind, but everything in Vorónezh

+suddenly seemed to him dull and tiresome, and he experienced an

+indefinite feeling of shame and awkwardness. The conversations he heard

+seemed to him insincere; he did not know how to judge all these affairs

+and felt that only in the regiment would everything again become clear

+to him. He made haste to finish buying the horses, and often became

+unreasonably angry with his servant and squadron quartermaster.

+

+A few days before his departure a special thanksgiving, at which

+Nicholas was present, was held in the cathedral for the Russian victory.

+He stood a little behind the governor and held himself with military

+decorum through the service, meditating on a great variety of subjects.

+When the service was over the governor’s wife beckoned him to her.

+

+“Have you seen the princess?” she asked, indicating with a movement of

+her head a lady standing on the opposite side, beyond the choir.

+

+Nicholas immediately recognized Princess Mary not so much by the profile

+he saw under her bonnet as by the feeling of solicitude, timidity, and

+pity that immediately overcame him. Princess Mary, evidently engrossed

+by her thoughts, was crossing herself for the last time before leaving

+the church.

+

+Nicholas looked at her face with surprise. It was the same face he had

+seen before, there was the same general expression of refined, inner,

+spiritual labor, but now it was quite differently lit up. There was a

+pathetic expression of sorrow, prayer, and hope in it. As had occurred

+before when she was present, Nicholas went up to her without waiting to

+be prompted by the governor’s wife and not asking himself whether or not

+it was right and proper to address her here in church, and told her he

+had heard of her trouble and sympathized with his whole soul. As soon as

+she heard his voice a vivid glow kindled in her face, lighting up both

+her sorrow and her joy.

+

+“There is one thing I wanted to tell you, Princess,” said Rostóv. “It

+is that if your brother, Prince Andrew Nikoláevich, were not living, it

+would have been at once announced in the Gazette, as he is a colonel.”

+

+The princess looked at him, not grasping what he was saying, but cheered

+by the expression of regretful sympathy on his face.

+

+“And I have known so many cases of a splinter wound” (the Gazette said

+it was a shell) “either proving fatal at once or being very slight,”

+continued Nicholas. “We must hope for the best, and I am sure...”

+

+Princess Mary interrupted him.

+

+“Oh, that would be so dread...” she began and, prevented by agitation

+from finishing, she bent her head with a movement as graceful as

+everything she did in his presence and, looking up at him gratefully,

+went out, following her aunt.

+

+That evening Nicholas did not go out, but stayed at home to settle some

+accounts with the horse dealers. When he had finished that business it

+was already too late to go anywhere but still too early to go to bed,

+and for a long time he paced up and down the room, reflecting on his

+life, a thing he rarely did.

+

+Princess Mary had made an agreeable impression on him when he had met

+her in Smolénsk province. His having encountered her in such exceptional

+circumstances, and his mother having at one time mentioned her to him as

+a good match, had drawn his particular attention to her. When he met her

+again in Vorónezh the impression she made on him was not merely pleasing

+but powerful. Nicholas had been struck by the peculiar moral beauty he

+observed in her at this time. He was, however, preparing to go away and

+it had not entered his head to regret that he was thus depriving himself

+of chances of meeting her. But that day’s encounter in church had, he

+felt, sunk deeper than was desirable for his peace of mind. That pale,

+sad, refined face, that radiant look, those gentle graceful gestures,

+and especially the deep and tender sorrow expressed in all her features

+agitated him and evoked his sympathy. In men Rostóv could not bear to

+see the expression of a higher spiritual life (that was why he did not

+like Prince Andrew) and he referred to it contemptuously as philosophy

+and dreaminess, but in Princess Mary that very sorrow which revealed

+the depth of a whole spiritual world foreign to him was an irresistible

+attraction.

+

+“She must be a wonderful woman. A real angel!” he said to himself.

+“Why am I not free? Why was I in such a hurry with Sónya?” And he

+involuntarily compared the two: the lack of spirituality in the one and

+the abundance of it in the other—a spirituality he himself lacked and

+therefore valued most highly. He tried to picture what would happen were

+he free. How he would propose to her and how she would become his wife.

+But no, he could not imagine that. He felt awed, and no clear picture

+presented itself to his mind. He had long ago pictured to himself a

+future with Sónya, and that was all clear and simple just because it

+had all been thought out and he knew all there was in Sónya, but it was

+impossible to picture a future with Princess Mary, because he did not

+understand her but simply loved her.

+

+Reveries about Sónya had had something merry and playful in them, but to

+dream of Princess Mary was always difficult and a little frightening.

+

+“How she prayed!” he thought. “It was plain that her whole soul was in

+her prayer. Yes, that was the prayer that moves mountains, and I am

+sure her prayer will be answered. Why don’t I pray for what I want?” he

+suddenly thought. “What do I want? To be free, released from Sónya...

+She was right,” he thought, remembering what the governor’s wife had

+said: “Nothing but misfortune can come of marrying Sónya. Muddles,

+grief for Mamma... business difficulties... muddles, terrible muddles!

+Besides, I don’t love her—not as I should. O, God! release me from

+this dreadful, inextricable position!” he suddenly began to pray. “Yes,

+prayer can move mountains, but one must have faith and not pray as

+Natásha and I used to as children, that the snow might turn into

+sugar—and then run out into the yard to see whether it had done so. No,

+but I am not praying for trifles now,” he thought as he put his pipe

+down in a corner, and folding his hands placed himself before the icon.

+Softened by memories of Princess Mary he began to pray as he had not

+done for a long time. Tears were in his eyes and in his throat when the

+door opened and Lavrúshka came in with some papers.

+

+“Blockhead! Why do you come in without being called?” cried Nicholas,

+quickly changing his attitude.

+

+“From the governor,” said Lavrúshka in a sleepy voice. “A courier has

+arrived and there’s a letter for you.”

+

+“Well, all right, thanks. You can go!”

+

+Nicholas took the two letters, one of which was from his mother and

+the other from Sónya. He recognized them by the handwriting and opened

+Sónya’s first. He had read only a few lines when he turned pale and his

+eyes opened wide with fear and joy.

+

+“No, it’s not possible!” he cried aloud.

+

+Unable to sit still he paced up and down the room holding the letter and

+reading it. He glanced through it, then read it again, and then again,

+and standing still in the middle of the room he raised his shoulders,

+stretching out his hands, with his mouth wide open and his eyes fixed.

+What he had just been praying for with confidence that God would hear

+him had come to pass; but Nicholas was as much astonished as if it were

+something extraordinary and unexpected, and as if the very fact that it

+had happened so quickly proved that it had not come from God to whom he

+had prayed, but by some ordinary coincidence.

+

+This unexpected and, as it seemed to Nicholas, quite voluntary letter

+from Sónya freed him from the knot that fettered him and from which

+there had seemed no escape. She wrote that the last unfortunate

+events—the loss of almost the whole of the Rostóvs’ Moscow property—and

+the countess’ repeatedly expressed wish that Nicholas should marry

+Princess Bolkónskaya, together with his silence and coldness of late,

+had all combined to make her decide to release him from his promise and

+set him completely free.

+

+It would be too painful to me to think that I might be a cause of sorrow

+or discord in the family that has been so good to me (she wrote), and my

+love has no aim but the happiness of those I love; so, Nicholas, I

+beg you to consider yourself free, and to be assured that, in spite of

+everything, no one can love you more than does

+

+Your Sónya

+

+Both letters were written from Tróitsa. The other, from the countess,

+described their last days in Moscow, their departure, the fire, and

+the destruction of all their property. In this letter the countess also

+mentioned that Prince Andrew was among the wounded traveling with them;

+his state was very critical, but the doctor said there was now more

+hope. Sónya and Natásha were nursing him.

+

+Next day Nicholas took his mother’s letter and went to see Princess

+Mary. Neither he nor she said a word about what “Natásha nursing him”

+might mean, but thanks to this letter Nicholas suddenly became almost as

+intimate with the princess as if they were relations.

+

+The following day he saw Princess Mary off on her journey to Yaroslávl,

+and a few days later left to rejoin his regiment.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER VIII

+

+Sónya’s letter written from Tróitsa, which had come as an answer to

+Nicholas’ prayer, was prompted by this: the thought of getting Nicholas

+married to an heiress occupied the old countess’ mind more and more. She

+knew that Sónya was the chief obstacle to this happening, and Sónya’s

+life in the countess’ house had grown harder and harder, especially

+after they had received a letter from Nicholas telling of his meeting

+with Princess Mary in Boguchárovo. The countess let no occasion slip of

+making humiliating or cruel allusions to Sónya.

+

+But a few days before they left Moscow, moved and excited by all that

+was going on, she called Sónya to her and, instead of reproaching and

+making demands on her, tearfully implored her to sacrifice herself

+and repay all that the family had done for her by breaking off her

+engagement with Nicholas.

+

+“I shall not be at peace till you promise me this.”

+

+Sónya burst into hysterical tears and replied through her sobs that

+she would do anything and was prepared for anything, but gave no actual

+promise and could not bring herself to decide to do what was demanded

+of her. She must sacrifice herself for the family that had reared and

+brought her up. To sacrifice herself for others was Sónya’s habit. Her

+position in the house was such that only by sacrifice could she show her

+worth, and she was accustomed to this and loved doing it. But in all her

+former acts of self-sacrifice she had been happily conscious that they

+raised her in her own esteem and in that of others, and so made her more

+worthy of Nicholas whom she loved more than anything in the world. But

+now they wanted her to sacrifice the very thing that constituted the

+whole reward for her self-sacrifice and the whole meaning of her life.

+And for the first time she felt bitterness against those who had been

+her benefactors only to torture her the more painfully; she felt jealous

+of Natásha who had never experienced anything of this sort, had never

+needed to sacrifice herself, but made others sacrifice themselves for

+her and yet was beloved by everybody. And for the first time Sónya felt

+that out of her pure, quiet love for Nicholas a passionate feeling

+was beginning to grow up which was stronger than principle, virtue,

+or religion. Under the influence of this feeling Sónya, whose life of

+dependence had taught her involuntarily to be secretive, having answered

+the countess in vague general terms, avoided talking with her and

+resolved to wait till she should see Nicholas, not in order to set him

+free but on the contrary at that meeting to bind him to her forever.

+

+The bustle and terror of the Rostóvs’ last days in Moscow stifled the

+gloomy thoughts that oppressed Sónya. She was glad to find escape

+from them in practical activity. But when she heard of Prince Andrew’s

+presence in their house, despite her sincere pity for him and for

+Natásha, she was seized by a joyful and superstitious feeling that God

+did not intend her to be separated from Nicholas. She knew that Natásha

+loved no one but Prince Andrew and had never ceased to love him. She

+knew that being thrown together again under such terrible circumstances

+they would again fall in love with one another, and that Nicholas would

+then not be able to marry Princess Mary as they would be within the

+prohibited degrees of affinity. Despite all the terror of what had

+happened during those last days and during the first days of their

+journey, this feeling that Providence was intervening in her personal

+affairs cheered Sónya.

+

+At the Tróitsa monastery the Rostóvs first broke their journey for a

+whole day.

+

+Three large rooms were assigned to them in the monastery hostelry, one

+of which was occupied by Prince Andrew. The wounded man was much better

+that day and Natásha was sitting with him. In the next room sat the

+count and countess respectfully conversing with the prior, who was

+calling on them as old acquaintances and benefactors of the monastery.

+Sónya was there too, tormented by curiosity as to what Prince Andrew and

+Natásha were talking about. She heard the sound of their voices through

+the door. That door opened and Natásha came out, looking excited. Not

+noticing the monk, who had risen to greet her and was drawing back the

+wide sleeve on his right arm, she went up to Sónya and took her hand.

+

+“Natásha, what are you about? Come here!” said the countess.

+

+Natásha went up to the monk for his blessing, and he advised her to pray

+for aid to God and His saint.

+

+As soon as the prior withdrew, Natásha took her friend by the hand and

+went with her into the unoccupied room.

+

+“Sónya, will he live?” she asked. “Sónya, how happy I am, and how

+unhappy!... Sónya, dovey, everything is as it used to be. If only he

+lives! He cannot... because... because... of...” and Natásha burst into

+tears.

+

+“Yes! I knew it! Thank God!” murmured Sónya. “He will live.”

+

+Sónya was not less agitated than her friend by the latter’s fear and

+grief and by her own personal feelings which she shared with no one.

+Sobbing, she kissed and comforted Natásha. “If only he lives!” she

+thought. Having wept, talked, and wiped away their tears, the two

+friends went together to Prince Andrew’s door. Natásha opened it

+cautiously and glanced into the room, Sónya standing beside her at the

+half-open door.

+

+Prince Andrew was lying raised high on three pillows. His pale face was

+calm, his eyes closed, and they could see his regular breathing.

+

+“O, Natásha!” Sónya suddenly almost screamed, catching her companion’s

+arm and stepping back from the door.

+

+“What? What is it?” asked Natásha.

+

+“It’s that, that...” said Sónya, with a white face and trembling lips.

+

+Natásha softly closed the door and went with Sónya to the window, not

+yet understanding what the latter was telling her.

+

+“You remember,” said Sónya with a solemn and frightened expression.

+“You remember when I looked in the mirror for you... at Otrádnoe at

+Christmas? Do you remember what I saw?”

+

+“Yes, yes!” cried Natásha opening her eyes wide, and vaguely recalling

+that Sónya had told her something about Prince Andrew whom she had seen

+lying down.

+

+“You remember?” Sónya went on. “I saw it then and told everybody, you

+and Dunyásha. I saw him lying on a bed,” said she, making a gesture with

+her hand and a lifted finger at each detail, “and that he had his eyes

+closed and was covered just with a pink quilt, and that his hands were

+folded,” she concluded, convincing herself that the details she had just

+seen were exactly what she had seen in the mirror.

+

+She had in fact seen nothing then but had mentioned the first thing that

+came into her head, but what she had invented then seemed to her now

+as real as any other recollection. She not only remembered what she had

+then said—that he turned to look at her and smiled and was covered with

+something red—but was firmly convinced that she had then seen and said

+that he was covered with a pink quilt and that his eyes were closed.

+

+“Yes, yes, it really was pink!” cried Natásha, who now thought she

+too remembered the word pink being used, and saw in this the most

+extraordinary and mysterious part of the prediction.

+

+“But what does it mean?” she added meditatively.

+

+“Oh, I don’t know, it is all so strange,” replied Sónya, clutching at

+her head.

+

+A few minutes later Prince Andrew rang and Natásha went to him, but

+Sónya, feeling unusually excited and touched, remained at the window

+thinking about the strangeness of what had occurred.

+

+

+They had an opportunity that day to send letters to the army, and the

+countess was writing to her son.

+

+“Sónya!” said the countess, raising her eyes from her letter as her

+niece passed, “Sónya, won’t you write to Nicholas?” She spoke in a soft,

+tremulous voice, and in the weary eyes that looked over her spectacles

+Sónya read all that the countess meant to convey with these words. Those

+eyes expressed entreaty, shame at having to ask, fear of a refusal, and

+readiness for relentless hatred in case of such refusal.

+

+Sónya went up to the countess and, kneeling down, kissed her hand.

+

+“Yes, Mamma, I will write,” said she.

+

+Sónya was softened, excited, and touched by all that had occurred that

+day, especially by the mysterious fulfillment she had just seen of her

+vision. Now that she knew that the renewal of Natásha’s relations with

+Prince Andrew would prevent Nicholas from marrying Princess Mary, she

+was joyfully conscious of a return of that self-sacrificing spirit in

+which she was accustomed to live and loved to live. So with a joyful

+consciousness of performing a magnanimous deed—interrupted several times

+by the tears that dimmed her velvety black eyes—she wrote that touching

+letter the arrival of which had so amazed Nicholas.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER IX

+

+The officer and soldiers who had arrested Pierre treated him with

+hostility but yet with respect, in the guardhouse to which he was taken.

+In their attitude toward him could still be felt both uncertainty as

+to who he might be—perhaps a very important person—and hostility as a

+result of their recent personal conflict with him.

+

+But when the guard was relieved next morning, Pierre felt that for the

+new guard—both officers and men—he was not as interesting as he had

+been to his captors; and in fact the guard of the second day did not

+recognize in this big, stout man in a peasant coat the vigorous person

+who had fought so desperately with the marauder and the convoy and had

+uttered those solemn words about saving a child; they saw in him only

+No. 17 of the captured Russians, arrested and detained for some reason

+by order of the Higher Command. If they noticed anything remarkable

+about Pierre, it was only his unabashed, meditative concentration

+and thoughtfulness, and the way he spoke French, which struck them as

+surprisingly good. In spite of this he was placed that day with the

+other arrested suspects, as the separate room he had occupied was

+required by an officer.

+

+All the Russians confined with Pierre were men of the lowest class and,

+recognizing him as a gentleman, they all avoided him, more especially as

+he spoke French. Pierre felt sad at hearing them making fun of him.

+

+That evening he learned that all these prisoners (he, probably, among

+them) were to be tried for incendiarism. On the third day he was taken

+with the others to a house where a French general with a white mustache

+sat with two colonels and other Frenchmen with scarves on their arms.

+With the precision and definiteness customary in addressing prisoners,

+and which is supposed to preclude human frailty, Pierre like the others

+was questioned as to who he was, where he had been, with what object,

+and so on.

+

+These questions, like questions put at trials generally, left the

+essence of the matter aside, shut out the possibility of that essence’s

+being revealed, and were designed only to form a channel through which

+the judges wished the answers of the accused to flow so as to lead to

+the desired result, namely a conviction. As soon as Pierre began to say

+anything that did not fit in with that aim, the channel was removed and

+the water could flow to waste. Pierre felt, moreover, what the accused

+always feel at their trial, perplexity as to why these questions were

+put to him. He had a feeling that it was only out of condescension or a

+kind of civility that this device of placing a channel was employed. He

+knew he was in these men’s power, that only by force had they brought

+him there, that force alone gave them the right to demand answers

+to their questions, and that the sole object of that assembly was to

+inculpate him. And so, as they had the power and wish to inculpate

+him, this expedient of an inquiry and trial seemed unnecessary. It was

+evident that any answer would lead to conviction. When asked what he

+was doing when he was arrested, Pierre replied in a rather tragic manner

+that he was restoring to its parents a child he had saved from the

+flames. Why had he fought the marauder? Pierre answered that he “was

+protecting a woman,” and that “to protect a woman who was being insulted

+was the duty of every man; that...” They interrupted him, for this

+was not to the point. Why was he in the yard of a burning house where

+witnesses had seen him? He replied that he had gone out to see what

+was happening in Moscow. Again they interrupted him: they had not asked

+where he was going, but why he was found near the fire? Who was he? they

+asked, repeating their first question, which he had declined to answer.

+Again he replied that he could not answer it.

+

+“Put that down, that’s bad... very bad,” sternly remarked the general

+with the white mustache and red flushed face.

+

+

+On the fourth day fires broke out on the Zúbovski rampart.

+

+Pierre and thirteen others were moved to the coach house of a merchant’s

+house near the Crimean bridge. On his way through the streets Pierre

+felt stifled by the smoke which seemed to hang over the whole

+city. Fires were visible on all sides. He did not then realize the

+significance of the burning of Moscow, and looked at the fires with

+horror.

+

+He passed four days in the coach house near the Crimean bridge and

+during that time learned, from the talk of the French soldiers, that all

+those confined there were awaiting a decision which might come any day

+from the marshal. What marshal this was, Pierre could not learn from the

+soldiers. Evidently for them “the marshal” represented a very high and

+rather mysterious power.

+

+These first days, before the eighth of September when the prisoners were

+had up for a second examination, were the hardest of all for Pierre.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER X

+

+On the eighth of September an officer—a very important one judging by

+the respect the guards showed him—entered the coach house where the

+prisoners were. This officer, probably someone on the staff, was holding

+a paper in his hand, and called over all the Russians there, naming

+Pierre as “the man who does not give his name.” Glancing indolently and

+indifferently at all the prisoners, he ordered the officer in charge

+to have them decently dressed and tidied up before taking them to the

+marshal. An hour later a squad of soldiers arrived and Pierre with

+thirteen others was led to the Virgin’s Field. It was a fine day, sunny

+after rain, and the air was unusually pure. The smoke did not hang low

+as on the day when Pierre had been taken from the guardhouse on the

+Zúbovski rampart, but rose through the pure air in columns. No flames

+were seen, but columns of smoke rose on all sides, and all Moscow as far

+as Pierre could see was one vast charred ruin. On all sides there were

+waste spaces with only stoves and chimney stacks still standing, and

+here and there the blackened walls of some brick houses. Pierre gazed

+at the ruins and did not recognize districts he had known well. Here and

+there he could see churches that had not been burned. The Krémlin, which

+was not destroyed, gleamed white in the distance with its towers and

+the belfry of Iván the Great. The domes of the New Convent of the Virgin

+glittered brightly and its bells were ringing particularly clearly.

+These bells reminded Pierre that it was Sunday and the feast of the

+Nativity of the Virgin. But there seemed to be no one to celebrate this

+holiday: everywhere were blackened ruins, and the few Russians to be

+seen were tattered and frightened people who tried to hide when they saw

+the French.

+

+It was plain that the Russian nest was ruined and destroyed, but in

+place of the Russian order of life that had been destroyed, Pierre

+unconsciously felt that a quite different, firm, French order had been

+established over this ruined nest. He felt this in the looks of

+the soldiers who, marching in regular ranks briskly and gaily, were

+escorting him and the other criminals; he felt it in the looks of an

+important French official in a carriage and pair driven by a soldier,

+whom they met on the way. He felt it in the merry sounds of regimental

+music he heard from the left side of the field, and felt and realized

+it especially from the list of prisoners the French officer had read out

+when he came that morning. Pierre had been taken by one set of soldiers

+and led first to one and then to another place with dozens of other men,

+and it seemed that they might have forgotten him, or confused him with

+the others. But no: the answers he had given when questioned had come

+back to him in his designation as “the man who does not give his name,”

+and under that appellation, which to Pierre seemed terrible, they were

+now leading him somewhere with unhesitating assurance on their faces

+that he and all the other prisoners were exactly the ones they wanted

+and that they were being taken to the proper place. Pierre felt himself

+to be an insignificant chip fallen among the wheels of a machine whose

+action he did not understand but which was working well.

+

+He and the other prisoners were taken to the right side of the Virgin’s

+Field, to a large white house with an immense garden not far from the

+convent. This was Prince Shcherbátov’s house, where Pierre had often

+been in other days, and which, as he learned from the talk of the

+soldiers, was now occupied by the marshal, the Duke of Eckmühl (Davout).

+

+They were taken to the entrance and led into the house one by one.

+Pierre was the sixth to enter. He was conducted through a glass gallery,

+an anteroom, and a hall, which were familiar to him, into a long low

+study at the door of which stood an adjutant.

+

+Davout, spectacles on nose, sat bent over a table at the further end of

+the room. Pierre went close up to him, but Davout, evidently consulting

+a paper that lay before him, did not look up. Without raising his eyes,

+he said in a low voice:

+

+“Who are you?”

+

+Pierre was silent because he was incapable of uttering a word. To him

+Davout was not merely a French general, but a man notorious for his

+cruelty. Looking at his cold face, as he sat like a stern schoolmaster

+who was prepared to wait awhile for an answer, Pierre felt that every

+instant of delay might cost him his life; but he did not know what

+to say. He did not venture to repeat what he had said at his first

+examination, yet to disclose his rank and position was dangerous and

+embarrassing. So he was silent. But before he had decided what to do,

+Davout raised his head, pushed his spectacles back on his forehead,

+screwed up his eyes, and looked intently at him.

+

+“I know that man,” he said in a cold, measured tone, evidently

+calculated to frighten Pierre.

+

+The chill that had been running down Pierre’s back now seized his head

+as in a vise.

+

+“You cannot know me, General, I have never seen you...”

+

+“He is a Russian spy,” Davout interrupted, addressing another general

+who was present, but whom Pierre had not noticed.

+

+Davout turned away. With an unexpected reverberation in his voice Pierre

+rapidly began:

+

+“No, monseigneur,” he said, suddenly remembering that Davout was a duke.

+“No, monseigneur, you cannot have known me. I am a militia officer and

+have not quitted Moscow.”

+

+“Your name?” asked Davout.

+

+“Bezúkhov.”

+

+“What proof have I that you are not lying?”

+

+“Monseigneur!” exclaimed Pierre, not in an offended but in a pleading

+voice.

+

+Davout looked up and gazed intently at him. For some seconds they looked

+at one another, and that look saved Pierre. Apart from conditions of war

+and law, that look established human relations between the two men. At

+that moment an immense number of things passed dimly through both their

+minds, and they realized that they were both children of humanity and

+were brothers.

+

+At the first glance, when Davout had only raised his head from the

+papers where human affairs and lives were indicated by numbers, Pierre

+was merely a circumstance, and Davout could have shot him without

+burdening his conscience with an evil deed, but now he saw in him a

+human being. He reflected for a moment.

+

+“How can you show me that you are telling the truth?” said Davout

+coldly.

+

+Pierre remembered Ramballe, and named him and his regiment and the

+street where the house was.

+

+“You are not what you say,” returned Davout.

+

+In a trembling, faltering voice Pierre began adducing proofs of the

+truth of his statements.

+

+But at that moment an adjutant entered and reported something to Davout.

+

+Davout brightened up at the news the adjutant brought, and began

+buttoning up his uniform. It seemed that he had quite forgotten Pierre.

+

+When the adjutant reminded him of the prisoner, he jerked his head in

+Pierre’s direction with a frown and ordered him to be led away. But

+where they were to take him Pierre did not know: back to the coach house

+or to the place of execution his companions had pointed out to him as

+they crossed the Virgin’s Field.

+

+He turned his head and saw that the adjutant was putting another

+question to Davout.

+

+“Yes, of course!” replied Davout, but what this “yes” meant, Pierre did

+not know.

+

+Pierre could not afterwards remember how he went, whether it was far, or

+in which direction. His faculties were quite numbed, he was stupefied,

+and noticing nothing around him went on moving his legs as the others

+did till they all stopped and he stopped too. The only thought in his

+mind at that time was: who was it that had really sentenced him to

+death? Not the men on the commission that had first examined him—not one

+of them wished to or, evidently, could have done it. It was not Davout,

+who had looked at him in so human a way. In another moment Davout would

+have realized that he was doing wrong, but just then the adjutant had

+come in and interrupted him. The adjutant, also, had evidently had no

+evil intent though he might have refrained from coming in. Then who was

+executing him, killing him, depriving him of life—him, Pierre, with all

+his memories, aspirations, hopes, and thoughts? Who was doing this? And

+Pierre felt that it was no one.

+

+It was a system—a concurrence of circumstances.

+

+A system of some sort was killing him—Pierre—depriving him of life, of

+everything, annihilating him.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XI

+

+From Prince Shcherbátov’s house the prisoners were led straight down the

+Virgin’s Field, to the left of the nunnery, as far as a kitchen garden

+in which a post had been set up. Beyond that post a fresh pit had been

+dug in the ground, and near the post and the pit a large crowd stood

+in a semicircle. The crowd consisted of a few Russians and many

+of Napoleon’s soldiers who were not on duty—Germans, Italians, and

+Frenchmen, in a variety of uniforms. To the right and left of the post

+stood rows of French troops in blue uniforms with red epaulets and high

+boots and shakos.

+

+The prisoners were placed in a certain order, according to the list

+(Pierre was sixth), and were led to the post. Several drums suddenly

+began to beat on both sides of them, and at that sound Pierre felt as

+if part of his soul had been torn away. He lost the power of thinking or

+understanding. He could only hear and see. And he had only one wish—that

+the frightful thing that had to happen should happen quickly. Pierre

+looked round at his fellow prisoners and scrutinized them.

+

+The two first were convicts with shaven heads. One was tall and thin,

+the other dark, shaggy, and sinewy, with a flat nose. The third was

+a domestic serf, about forty-five years old, with grizzled hair and a

+plump, well-nourished body. The fourth was a peasant, a very handsome

+man with a broad, light-brown beard and black eyes. The fifth was a

+factory hand, a thin, sallow-faced lad of eighteen in a loose coat.

+

+Pierre heard the French consulting whether to shoot them separately or

+two at a time. “In couples,” replied the officer in command in a calm

+voice. There was a stir in the ranks of the soldiers and it was evident

+that they were all hurrying—not as men hurry to do something they

+understand, but as people hurry to finish a necessary but unpleasant and

+incomprehensible task.

+

+A French official wearing a scarf came up to the right of the row of

+prisoners and read out the sentence in Russian and in French.

+

+Then two pairs of Frenchmen approached the criminals and at the

+officer’s command took the two convicts who stood first in the row. The

+convicts stopped when they reached the post and, while sacks were being

+brought, looked dumbly around as a wounded beast looks at an approaching

+huntsman. One crossed himself continually, the other scratched his back

+and made a movement of the lips resembling a smile. With hurried hands

+the soldiers blindfolded them, drawing the sacks over their heads, and

+bound them to the post.

+

+Twelve sharpshooters with muskets stepped out of the ranks with a firm

+regular tread and halted eight paces from the post. Pierre turned away

+to avoid seeing what was going to happen. Suddenly a crackling, rolling

+noise was heard which seemed to him louder than the most terrific

+thunder, and he looked round. There was some smoke, and the Frenchmen

+were doing something near the pit, with pale faces and trembling hands.

+Two more prisoners were led up. In the same way and with similar looks,

+these two glanced vainly at the onlookers with only a silent appeal for

+protection in their eyes, evidently unable to understand or believe

+what was going to happen to them. They could not believe it because they

+alone knew what their life meant to them, and so they neither understood

+nor believed that it could be taken from them.

+

+Again Pierre did not wish to look and again turned away; but again the

+sound as of a frightful explosion struck his ear, and at the same moment

+he saw smoke, blood, and the pale, scared faces of the Frenchmen who

+were again doing something by the post, their trembling hands impeding

+one another. Pierre, breathing heavily, looked around as if asking what

+it meant. The same question was expressed in all the looks that met his.

+

+On the faces of all the Russians and of the French soldiers and officers

+without exception, he read the same dismay, horror, and conflict that

+were in his own heart. “But who, after all, is doing this? They are all

+suffering as I am. Who then is it? Who?” flashed for an instant through

+his mind.

+

+“Sharpshooters of the 86th, forward!” shouted someone. The fifth

+prisoner, the one next to Pierre, was led away—alone. Pierre did not

+understand that he was saved, that he and the rest had been brought

+there only to witness the execution. With ever-growing horror, and no

+sense of joy or relief, he gazed at what was taking place. The fifth man

+was the factory lad in the loose cloak. The moment they laid hands on

+him he sprang aside in terror and clutched at Pierre. (Pierre shuddered

+and shook himself free.) The lad was unable to walk. They dragged him

+along, holding him up under the arms, and he screamed. When they got

+him to the post he grew quiet, as if he suddenly understood something.

+Whether he understood that screaming was useless or whether he thought

+it incredible that men should kill him, at any rate he took his stand at

+the post, waiting to be blindfolded like the others, and like a wounded

+animal looked around him with glittering eyes.

+

+Pierre was no longer able to turn away and close his eyes. His curiosity

+and agitation, like that of the whole crowd, reached the highest pitch

+at this fifth murder. Like the others this fifth man seemed calm; he

+wrapped his loose cloak closer and rubbed one bare foot with the other.

+

+When they began to blindfold him he himself adjusted the knot which

+hurt the back of his head; then when they propped him against the

+bloodstained post, he leaned back and, not being comfortable in that

+position, straightened himself, adjusted his feet, and leaned back again

+more comfortably. Pierre did not take his eyes from him and did not miss

+his slightest movement.

+

+Probably a word of command was given and was followed by the reports of

+eight muskets; but try as he would Pierre could not afterwards remember

+having heard the slightest sound of the shots. He only saw how the

+workman suddenly sank down on the cords that held him, how blood showed

+itself in two places, how the ropes slackened under the weight of the

+hanging body, and how the workman sat down, his head hanging unnaturally

+and one leg bent under him. Pierre ran up to the post. No one hindered

+him. Pale, frightened people were doing something around the workman.

+The lower jaw of an old Frenchman with a thick mustache trembled as he

+untied the ropes. The body collapsed. The soldiers dragged it awkwardly

+from the post and began pushing it into the pit.

+

+They all plainly and certainly knew that they were criminals who must

+hide the traces of their guilt as quickly as possible.

+

+Pierre glanced into the pit and saw that the factory lad was lying with

+his knees close up to his head and one shoulder higher than the other.

+That shoulder rose and fell rhythmically and convulsively, but spadefuls

+of earth were already being thrown over the whole body. One of the

+soldiers, evidently suffering, shouted gruffly and angrily at Pierre to

+go back. But Pierre did not understand him and remained near the post,

+and no one drove him away.

+

+When the pit had been filled up a command was given. Pierre was taken

+back to his place, and the rows of troops on both sides of the post

+made a half turn and went past it at a measured pace. The twenty-four

+sharpshooters with discharged muskets, standing in the center of the

+circle, ran back to their places as the companies passed by.

+

+Pierre gazed now with dazed eyes at these sharpshooters who ran in

+couples out of the circle. All but one rejoined their companies. This

+one, a young soldier, his face deadly pale, his shako pushed back, and

+his musket resting on the ground, still stood near the pit at the spot

+from which he had fired. He swayed like a drunken man, taking some steps

+forward and back to save himself from falling. An old, noncommissioned

+officer ran out of the ranks and taking him by the elbow dragged him to

+his company. The crowd of Russians and Frenchmen began to disperse. They

+all went away silently and with drooping heads.

+

+“That will teach them to start fires,” said one of the Frenchmen.

+

+Pierre glanced round at the speaker and saw that it was a soldier who

+was trying to find some relief after what had been done, but was not

+able to do so. Without finishing what he had begun to say he made a

+hopeless movement with his arm and went away.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XII

+

+After the execution Pierre was separated from the rest of the prisoners

+and placed alone in a small, ruined, and befouled church.

+

+Toward evening a noncommissioned officer entered with two soldiers and

+told him that he had been pardoned and would now go to the barracks for

+the prisoners of war. Without understanding what was said to him, Pierre

+got up and went with the soldiers. They took him to the upper end of the

+field, where there were some sheds built of charred planks, beams,

+and battens, and led him into one of them. In the darkness some twenty

+different men surrounded Pierre. He looked at them without understanding

+who they were, why they were there, or what they wanted of him. He heard

+what they said, but did not understand the meaning of the words and

+made no kind of deduction from or application of them. He replied to

+questions they put to him, but did not consider who was listening to his

+replies, nor how they would understand them. He looked at their faces

+and figures, but they all seemed to him equally meaningless.

+

+From the moment Pierre had witnessed those terrible murders committed by

+men who did not wish to commit them, it was as if the mainspring of

+his life, on which everything depended and which made everything appear

+alive, had suddenly been wrenched out and everything had collapsed

+into a heap of meaningless rubbish. Though he did not acknowledge it to

+himself, his faith in the right ordering of the universe, in humanity,

+in his own soul, and in God, had been destroyed. He had experienced this

+before, but never so strongly as now. When similar doubts had assailed

+him before, they had been the result of his own wrongdoing, and at the

+bottom of his heart he had felt that relief from his despair and from

+those doubts was to be found within himself. But now he felt that

+the universe had crumbled before his eyes and only meaningless ruins

+remained, and this not by any fault of his own. He felt that it was not

+in his power to regain faith in the meaning of life.

+

+Around him in the darkness men were standing and evidently something

+about him interested them greatly. They were telling him something and

+asking him something. Then they led him away somewhere, and at last he

+found himself in a corner of the shed among men who were laughing and

+talking on all sides.

+

+“Well, then, mates... that very prince who...” some voice at the other

+end of the shed was saying, with a strong emphasis on the word who.

+

+Sitting silent and motionless on a heap of straw against the wall,

+Pierre sometimes opened and sometimes closed his eyes. But as soon as

+he closed them he saw before him the dreadful face of the factory

+lad—especially dreadful because of its simplicity—and the faces of the

+murderers, even more dreadful because of their disquiet. And he opened

+his eyes again and stared vacantly into the darkness around him.

+

+Beside him in a stooping position sat a small man of whose presence he

+was first made aware by a strong smell of perspiration which came from

+him every time he moved. This man was doing something to his legs in the

+darkness, and though Pierre could not see his face he felt that the man

+continually glanced at him. On growing used to the darkness Pierre saw

+that the man was taking off his leg bands, and the way he did it aroused

+Pierre’s interest.

+

+Having unwound the string that tied the band on one leg, he carefully

+coiled it up and immediately set to work on the other leg, glancing up

+at Pierre. While one hand hung up the first string the other was already

+unwinding the band on the second leg. In this way, having carefully

+removed the leg bands by deft circular motions of his arm following

+one another uninterruptedly, the man hung the leg bands up on some pegs

+fixed above his head. Then he took out a knife, cut something, closed

+the knife, placed it under the head of his bed, and, seating himself

+comfortably, clasped his arms round his lifted knees and fixed his eyes

+on Pierre. The latter was conscious of something pleasant, comforting,

+and well-rounded in these deft movements, in the man’s well-ordered

+arrangements in his corner, and even in his very smell, and he looked at

+the man without taking his eyes from him.

+

+“You’ve seen a lot of trouble, sir, eh?” the little man suddenly said.

+

+And there was so much kindliness and simplicity in his singsong voice

+that Pierre tried to reply, but his jaw trembled and he felt tears

+rising to his eyes. The little fellow, giving Pierre no time to betray

+his confusion, instantly continued in the same pleasant tones:

+

+“Eh, lad, don’t fret!” said he, in the tender singsong caressing voice

+old Russian peasant women employ. “Don’t fret, friend—‘suffer an hour,

+live for an age!’ that’s how it is, my dear fellow. And here we live,

+thank heaven, without offense. Among these folk, too, there are good

+men as well as bad,” said he, and still speaking, he turned on his knees

+with a supple movement, got up, coughed, and went off to another part of

+the shed.

+

+“Eh, you rascal!” Pierre heard the same kind voice saying at the other

+end of the shed. “So you’ve come, you rascal? She remembers... Now, now,

+that’ll do!”

+

+And the soldier, pushing away a little dog that was jumping up at

+him, returned to his place and sat down. In his hands he had something

+wrapped in a rag.

+

+“Here, eat a bit, sir,” said he, resuming his former respectful tone as

+he unwrapped and offered Pierre some baked potatoes. “We had soup for

+dinner and the potatoes are grand!”

+

+Pierre had not eaten all day and the smell of the potatoes seemed

+extremely pleasant to him. He thanked the soldier and began to eat.

+

+“Well, are they all right?” said the soldier with a smile. “You should

+do like this.”

+

+He took a potato, drew out his clasp knife, cut the potato into two

+equal halves on the palm of his hand, sprinkled some salt on it from the

+rag, and handed it to Pierre.

+

+“The potatoes are grand!” he said once more. “Eat some like that!”

+

+Pierre thought he had never eaten anything that tasted better.

+

+“Oh, I’m all right,” said he, “but why did they shoot those poor

+fellows? The last one was hardly twenty.”

+

+“Tss, tt...!” said the little man. “Ah, what a sin... what a sin!” he

+added quickly, and as if his words were always waiting ready in his

+mouth and flew out involuntarily he went on: “How was it, sir, that you

+stayed in Moscow?”

+

+“I didn’t think they would come so soon. I stayed accidentally,” replied

+Pierre.

+

+“And how did they arrest you, dear lad? At your house?”

+

+“No, I went to look at the fire, and they arrested me there, and tried

+me as an incendiary.”

+

+“Where there’s law there’s injustice,” put in the little man.

+

+“And have you been here long?” Pierre asked as he munched the last of

+the potato.

+

+“I? It was last Sunday they took me, out of a hospital in Moscow.”

+

+“Why, are you a soldier then?”

+

+“Yes, we are soldiers of the Ápsheron regiment. I was dying of fever. We

+weren’t told anything. There were some twenty of us lying there. We had

+no idea, never guessed at all.”

+

+“And do you feel sad here?” Pierre inquired.

+

+“How can one help it, lad? My name is Platón, and the surname is

+Karatáev,” he added, evidently wishing to make it easier for Pierre to

+address him. “They call me ‘little falcon’ in the regiment. How is one

+to help feeling sad? Moscow—she’s the mother of cities. How can one see

+all this and not feel sad? But ‘the maggot gnaws the cabbage, yet dies

+first’; that’s what the old folks used to tell us,” he added rapidly.

+

+“What? What did you say?” asked Pierre.

+

+“Who? I?” said Karatáev. “I say things happen not as we plan but as God

+judges,” he replied, thinking that he was repeating what he had said

+before, and immediately continued:

+

+“Well, and you, have you a family estate, sir? And a house? So you have

+abundance, then? And a housewife? And your old parents, are they still

+living?” he asked.

+

+And though it was too dark for Pierre to see, he felt that a suppressed

+smile of kindliness puckered the soldier’s lips as he put these

+questions. He seemed grieved that Pierre had no parents, especially that

+he had no mother.

+

+“A wife for counsel, a mother-in-law for welcome, but there’s none as

+dear as one’s own mother!” said he. “Well, and have you little ones?” he

+went on asking.

+

+Again Pierre’s negative answer seemed to distress him, and he hastened

+to add:

+

+“Never mind! You’re young folks yet, and please God may still have some.

+The great thing is to live in harmony....”

+

+“But it’s all the same now,” Pierre could not help saying.

+

+“Ah, my dear fellow!” rejoined Karatáev, “never decline a prison or a

+beggar’s sack!”

+

+He seated himself more comfortably and coughed, evidently preparing to

+tell a long story.

+

+“Well, my dear fellow, I was still living at home,” he began. “We had

+a well-to-do homestead, plenty of land, we peasants lived well and our

+house was one to thank God for. When Father and we went out mowing

+there were seven of us. We lived well. We were real peasants. It so

+happened...”

+

+And Platón Karatáev told a long story of how he had gone into someone’s

+copse to take wood, how he had been caught by the keeper, had been

+tried, flogged, and sent to serve as a soldier.

+

+“Well, lad,” and a smile changed the tone of his voice “we thought it

+was a misfortune but it turned out a blessing! If it had not been for

+my sin, my brother would have had to go as a soldier. But he, my younger

+brother, had five little ones, while I, you see, only left a wife

+behind. We had a little girl, but God took her before I went as a

+soldier. I come home on leave and I’ll tell you how it was, I look and

+see that they are living better than before. The yard full of cattle,

+the women at home, two brothers away earning wages, and only Michael the

+youngest, at home. Father, he says, ‘All my children are the same to

+me: it hurts the same whichever finger gets bitten. But if Platón hadn’t

+been shaved for a soldier, Michael would have had to go.’ called us

+all to him and, will you believe it, placed us in front of the icons.

+‘Michael,’ he says, ‘come here and bow down to his feet; and you, young

+woman, you bow down too; and you, grandchildren, also bow down before

+him! Do you understand?’ he says. That’s how it is, dear fellow. Fate

+looks for a head. But we are always judging, ‘that’s not well—that’s

+not right!’ Our luck is like water in a dragnet: you pull at it and it

+bulges, but when you’ve drawn it out it’s empty! That’s how it is.”

+

+And Platón shifted his seat on the straw.

+

+After a short silence he rose.

+

+“Well, I think you must be sleepy,” said he, and began rapidly crossing

+himself and repeating:

+

+“Lord Jesus Christ, holy Saint Nicholas, Frola and Lavra! Lord Jesus

+Christ, holy Saint Nicholas, Frola and Lavra! Lord Jesus Christ, have

+mercy on us and save us!” he concluded, then bowed to the ground, got

+up, sighed, and sat down again on his heap of straw. “That’s the way.

+Lay me down like a stone, O God, and raise me up like a loaf,” he

+muttered as he lay down, pulling his coat over him.

+

+“What prayer was that you were saying?” asked Pierre.

+

+“Eh?” murmured Platón, who had almost fallen asleep. “What was I saying?

+I was praying. Don’t you pray?”

+

+“Yes, I do,” said Pierre. “But what was that you said: Frola and Lavra?”

+

+“Well, of course,” replied Platón quickly, “the horses’ saints. One must

+pity the animals too. Eh, the rascal! Now you’ve curled up and got warm,

+you daughter of a bitch!” said Karatáev, touching the dog that lay at

+his feet, and again turning over he fell asleep immediately.

+

+Sounds of crying and screaming came from somewhere in the distance

+outside, and flames were visible through the cracks of the shed, but

+inside it was quiet and dark. For a long time Pierre did not sleep, but

+lay with eyes open in the darkness, listening to the regular snoring

+of Platón who lay beside him, and he felt that the world that had been

+shattered was once more stirring in his soul with a new beauty and on

+new and unshakable foundations.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XIII

+

+Twenty-three soldiers, three officers, and two officials were confined

+in the shed in which Pierre had been placed and where he remained for

+four weeks.

+

+When Pierre remembered them afterwards they all seemed misty figures to

+him except Platón Karatáev, who always remained in his mind a most

+vivid and precious memory and the personification of everything Russian,

+kindly, and round. When Pierre saw his neighbor next morning at dawn

+the first impression of him, as of something round, was fully confirmed:

+Platón’s whole figure—in a French overcoat girdled with a cord, a

+soldier’s cap, and bast shoes—was round. His head was quite round, his

+back, chest, shoulders, and even his arms, which he held as if ever

+ready to embrace something, were rounded, his pleasant smile and his

+large, gentle brown eyes were also round.

+

+Platón Karatáev must have been fifty, judging by his stories of

+campaigns he had been in, told as by an old soldier. He did not himself

+know his age and was quite unable to determine it. But his brilliantly

+white, strong teeth which showed in two unbroken semicircles when he

+laughed—as he often did—were all sound and good, there was not a gray

+hair in his beard or on his head, and his whole body gave an impression

+of suppleness and especially of firmness and endurance.

+

+His face, despite its fine, rounded wrinkles, had an expression of

+innocence and youth, his voice was pleasant and musical. But the chief

+peculiarity of his speech was its directness and appositeness. It was

+evident that he never considered what he had said or was going to say,

+and consequently the rapidity and justice of his intonation had an

+irresistible persuasiveness.

+

+His physical strength and agility during the first days of his

+imprisonment were such that he seemed not to know what fatigue and

+sickness meant. Every night before lying down, he said: “Lord, lay me

+down as a stone and raise me up as a loaf!” and every morning on getting

+up, he said: “I lay down and curled up, I get up and shake myself.” And

+indeed he only had to lie down, to fall asleep like a stone, and he

+only had to shake himself, to be ready without a moment’s delay for some

+work, just as children are ready to play directly they awake. He could

+do everything, not very well but not badly. He baked, cooked, sewed,

+planed, and mended boots. He was always busy, and only at night allowed

+himself conversation—of which he was fond—and songs. He did not sing

+like a trained singer who knows he is listened to, but like the birds,

+evidently giving vent to the sounds in the same way that one stretches

+oneself or walks about to get rid of stiffness, and the sounds were

+always high-pitched, mournful, delicate, and almost feminine, and his

+face at such times was very serious.

+

+Having been taken prisoner and allowed his beard to grow, he seemed to

+have thrown off all that had been forced upon him—everything military

+and alien to himself—and had returned to his former peasant habits.

+

+“A soldier on leave—a shirt outside breeches,” he would say.

+

+He did not like talking about his life as a soldier, though he did not

+complain, and often mentioned that he had not been flogged once during

+the whole of his army service. When he related anything it was generally

+some old and evidently precious memory of his “Christian” life, as he

+called his peasant existence. The proverbs, of which his talk was full,

+were for the most part not the coarse and indecent saws soldiers

+employ, but those folk sayings which taken without a context seem so

+insignificant, but when used appositely suddenly acquire a significance

+of profound wisdom.

+

+He would often say the exact opposite of what he had said on a previous

+occasion, yet both would be right. He liked to talk and he talked well,

+adorning his speech with terms of endearment and with folk sayings which

+Pierre thought he invented himself, but the chief charm of his talk lay

+in the fact that the commonest events—sometimes just such as Pierre

+had witnessed without taking notice of them—assumed in Karatáev’s a

+character of solemn fitness. He liked to hear the folk tales one of the

+soldiers used to tell of an evening (they were always the same), but

+most of all he liked to hear stories of real life. He would smile

+joyfully when listening to such stories, now and then putting in a word

+or asking a question to make the moral beauty of what he was told clear

+to himself. Karatáev had no attachments, friendships, or love, as Pierre

+understood them, but loved and lived affectionately with everything life

+brought him in contact with, particularly with man—not any particular

+man, but those with whom he happened to be. He loved his dog, his

+comrades, the French, and Pierre who was his neighbor, but Pierre felt

+that in spite of Karatáev’s affectionate tenderness for him (by which

+he unconsciously gave Pierre’s spiritual life its due) he would not have

+grieved for a moment at parting from him. And Pierre began to feel in

+the same way toward Karatáev.

+

+To all the other prisoners Platón Karatáev seemed a most ordinary

+soldier. They called him “little falcon” or “Platósha,” chaffed him

+good-naturedly, and sent him on errands. But to Pierre he always

+remained what he had seemed that first night: an unfathomable, rounded,

+eternal personification of the spirit of simplicity and truth.

+

+Platón Karatáev knew nothing by heart except his prayers. When he began

+to speak he seemed not to know how he would conclude.

+

+Sometimes Pierre, struck by the meaning of his words, would ask him to

+repeat them, but Platón could never recall what he had said a moment

+before, just as he never could repeat to Pierre the words of his

+favorite song: native and birch tree and my heart is sick occurred in

+it, but when spoken and not sung, no meaning could be got out of it. He

+did not, and could not, understand the meaning of words apart from

+their context. Every word and action of his was the manifestation of

+an activity unknown to him, which was his life. But his life, as he

+regarded it, had no meaning as a separate thing. It had meaning only as

+part of a whole of which he was always conscious. His words and actions

+flowed from him as evenly, inevitably, and spontaneously as fragrance

+exhales from a flower. He could not understand the value or significance

+of any word or deed taken separately.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XIV

+

+When Princess Mary heard from Nicholas that her brother was with the

+Rostóvs at Yaroslávl she at once prepared to go there, in spite of her

+aunt’s efforts to dissuade her—and not merely to go herself but to take

+her nephew with her. Whether it were difficult or easy, possible or

+impossible, she did not ask and did not want to know: it was her duty,

+not only to herself, to be near her brother who was perhaps dying, but

+to do everything possible to take his son to him, and so she prepared

+to set off. That she had not heard from Prince Andrew himself, Princess

+Mary attributed to his being too weak to write or to his considering the

+long journey too hard and too dangerous for her and his son.

+

+In a few days Princess Mary was ready to start. Her equipages were the

+huge family coach in which she had traveled to Vorónezh, a semiopen

+trap, and a baggage cart. With her traveled Mademoiselle Bourienne,

+little Nicholas and his tutor, her old nurse, three maids, Tíkhon, and a

+young footman and courier her aunt had sent to accompany her.

+

+The usual route through Moscow could not be thought of, and the

+roundabout way Princess Mary was obliged to take through Lípetsk,

+Ryazán, Vladímir, and Shúya was very long and, as post horses were not

+everywhere obtainable, very difficult, and near Ryazán where the French

+were said to have shown themselves was even dangerous.

+

+During this difficult journey Mademoiselle Bourienne, Dessalles, and

+Princess Mary’s servants were astonished at her energy and firmness of

+spirit. She went to bed later and rose earlier than any of them, and

+no difficulties daunted her. Thanks to her activity and energy, which

+infected her fellow travelers, they approached Yaroslávl by the end of

+the second week.

+

+The last days of her stay in Vorónezh had been the happiest of her life.

+Her love for Rostóv no longer tormented or agitated her. It filled her

+whole soul, had become an integral part of herself, and she no longer

+struggled against it. Latterly she had become convinced that she loved

+and was beloved, though she never said this definitely to herself

+in words. She had become convinced of it at her last interview with

+Nicholas, when he had come to tell her that her brother was with the

+Rostóvs. Not by a single word had Nicholas alluded to the fact that

+Prince Andrew’s relations with Natásha might, if he recovered, be

+renewed, but Princess Mary saw by his face that he knew and thought of

+this.

+

+Yet in spite of that, his relation to her—considerate, delicate, and

+loving—not only remained unchanged, but it sometimes seemed to Princess

+Mary that he was even glad that the family connection between them

+allowed him to express his friendship more freely. She knew that she

+loved for the first and only time in her life and felt that she was

+beloved, and was happy in regard to it.

+

+But this happiness on one side of her spiritual nature did not prevent

+her feeling grief for her brother with full force; on the contrary, that

+spiritual tranquility on the one side made it the more possible for her

+to give full play to her feeling for her brother. That feeling was so

+strong at the moment of leaving Vorónezh that those who saw her off, as

+they looked at her careworn, despairing face, felt sure she would fall

+ill on the journey. But the very difficulties and preoccupations of the

+journey, which she took so actively in hand, saved her for a while from

+her grief and gave her strength.

+

+As always happens when traveling, Princess Mary thought only of the

+journey itself, forgetting its object. But as she approached Yaroslávl

+the thought of what might await her there—not after many days, but that

+very evening—again presented itself to her and her agitation increased

+to its utmost limit.

+

+The courier who had been sent on in advance to find out where the

+Rostóvs were staying in Yaroslávl, and in what condition Prince Andrew

+was, when he met the big coach just entering the town gates was appalled

+by the terrible pallor of the princess’ face that looked out at him from

+the window.

+

+“I have found out everything, your excellency: the Rostóvs are staying

+at the merchant Brónnikov’s house, in the Square not far from here,

+right above the Vólga,” said the courier.

+

+Princess Mary looked at him with frightened inquiry, not understanding

+why he did not reply to what she chiefly wanted to know: how was her

+brother? Mademoiselle Bourienne put that question for her.

+

+“How is the prince?” she asked.

+

+“His excellency is staying in the same house with them.”

+

+“Then he is alive,” thought Princess Mary, and asked in a low voice:

+“How is he?”

+

+“The servants say he is still the same.”

+

+What “still the same” might mean Princess Mary did not ask, but with an

+unnoticed glance at little seven-year-old Nicholas, who was sitting in

+front of her looking with pleasure at the town, she bowed her head

+and did not raise it again till the heavy coach, rumbling, shaking and

+swaying, came to a stop. The carriage steps clattered as they were let

+down.

+

+The carriage door was opened. On the left there was water—a great

+river—and on the right a porch. There were people at the entrance:

+servants, and a rosy girl with a large plait of black hair, smiling as

+it seemed to Princess Mary in an unpleasantly affected way. (This was

+Sónya.) Princess Mary ran up the steps. “This way, this way!” said the

+girl, with the same artificial smile, and the princess found herself in

+the hall facing an elderly woman of Oriental type, who came rapidly to

+meet her with a look of emotion. This was the countess. She embraced

+Princess Mary and kissed her.

+

+“Mon enfant!” she muttered, “je vous aime et vous connais depuis

+longtemps.” *

+

+    * “My child! I love you and have known you a long time.”

+

+

+Despite her excitement, Princess Mary realized that this was the

+countess and that it was necessary to say something to her. Hardly

+knowing how she did it, she contrived to utter a few polite phrases in

+French in the same tone as those that had been addressed to her, and

+asked: “How is he?”

+

+“The doctor says that he is not in danger,” said the countess, but as

+she spoke she raised her eyes with a sigh, and her gesture conveyed a

+contradiction of her words.

+

+“Where is he? Can I see him—can I?” asked the princess.

+

+“One moment, Princess, one moment, my dear! Is this his son?” said the

+countess, turning to little Nicholas who was coming in with Dessalles.

+“There will be room for everybody, this is a big house. Oh, what a

+lovely boy!”

+

+The countess took Princess Mary into the drawing room, where Sónya was

+talking to Mademoiselle Bourienne. The countess caressed the boy, and

+the old count came in and welcomed the princess. He had changed very

+much since Princess Mary had last seen him. Then he had been a brisk,

+cheerful, self-assured old man; now he seemed a pitiful, bewildered

+person. While talking to Princess Mary he continually looked round as

+if asking everyone whether he was doing the right thing. After the

+destruction of Moscow and of his property, thrown out of his accustomed

+groove he seemed to have lost the sense of his own significance and to

+feel that there was no longer a place for him in life.

+

+In spite of her one desire to see her brother as soon as possible, and

+her vexation that at the moment when all she wanted was to see him they

+should be trying to entertain her and pretending to admire her nephew,

+the princess noticed all that was going on around her and felt the

+necessity of submitting, for a time, to this new order of things which

+she had entered. She knew it to be necessary, and though it was hard for

+her she was not vexed with these people.

+

+“This is my niece,” said the count, introducing Sónya—“You don’t know

+her, Princess?”

+

+Princess Mary turned to Sónya and, trying to stifle the hostile

+feeling that arose in her toward the girl, she kissed her. But she felt

+oppressed by the fact that the mood of everyone around her was so far

+from what was in her own heart.

+

+“Where is he?” she asked again, addressing them all.

+

+“He is downstairs. Natásha is with him,” answered Sónya, flushing. “We

+have sent to ask. I think you must be tired, Princess.”

+

+Tears of vexation showed themselves in Princess Mary’s eyes. She turned

+away and was about to ask the countess again how to go to him, when

+light, impetuous, and seemingly buoyant steps were heard at the door.

+The princess looked round and saw Natásha coming in, almost running—that

+Natásha whom she had liked so little at their meeting in Moscow long

+since.

+

+But hardly had the princess looked at Natásha’s face before she realized

+that here was a real comrade in her grief, and consequently a friend.

+She ran to meet her, embraced her, and began to cry on her shoulder.

+

+As soon as Natásha, sitting at the head of Prince Andrew’s bed, heard

+of Princess Mary’s arrival, she softly left his room and hastened to her

+with those swift steps that had sounded buoyant to Princess Mary.

+

+There was only one expression on her agitated face when she ran into the

+drawing room—that of love—boundless love for him, for her, and for all

+that was near to the man she loved; and of pity, suffering for others,

+and passionate desire to give herself entirely to helping them. It was

+plain that at that moment there was in Natásha’s heart no thought of

+herself or of her own relations with Prince Andrew.

+

+Princess Mary, with her acute sensibility, understood all this at the

+first glance at Natásha’s face, and wept on her shoulder with sorrowful

+pleasure.

+

+“Come, come to him, Mary,” said Natásha, leading her into the other

+room.

+

+Princess Mary raised her head, dried her eyes, and turned to Natásha.

+She felt that from her she would be able to understand and learn

+everything.

+

+“How...” she began her question but stopped short.

+

+She felt that it was impossible to ask, or to answer, in words.

+Natásha’s face and eyes would have to tell her all more clearly and

+profoundly.

+

+Natásha was gazing at her, but seemed afraid and in doubt whether to say

+all she knew or not; she seemed to feel that before those luminous eyes

+which penetrated into the very depths of her heart, it was impossible

+not to tell the whole truth which she saw. And suddenly, Natásha’s lips

+twitched, ugly wrinkles gathered round her mouth, and covering her face

+with her hands she burst into sobs.

+

+Princess Mary understood.

+

+But she still hoped, and asked, in words she herself did not trust:

+

+“But how is his wound? What is his general condition?”

+

+“You, you... will see,” was all Natásha could say.

+

+They sat a little while downstairs near his room till they had left off

+crying and were able to go to him with calm faces.

+

+“How has his whole illness gone? Is it long since he grew worse? When

+did this happen?” Princess Mary inquired.

+

+Natásha told her that at first there had been danger from his feverish

+condition and the pain he suffered, but at Tróitsa that had passed

+and the doctor had only been afraid of gangrene. That danger had also

+passed. When they reached Yaroslávl the wound had begun to fester

+(Natásha knew all about such things as festering) and the doctor had

+said that the festering might take a normal course. Then fever set in,

+but the doctor had said the fever was not very serious.

+

+“But two days ago this suddenly happened,” said Natásha, struggling with

+her sobs. “I don’t know why, but you will see what he is like.”

+

+“Is he weaker? Thinner?” asked the princess.

+

+“No, it’s not that, but worse. You will see. O, Mary, he is too good, he

+cannot, cannot live, because...”

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XV

+

+When Natásha opened Prince Andrew’s door with a familiar movement and

+let Princess Mary pass into the room before her, the princess felt the

+sobs in her throat. Hard as she had tried to prepare herself, and now

+tried to remain tranquil, she knew that she would be unable to look at

+him without tears.

+

+The princess understood what Natásha had meant by the words: “two days

+ago this suddenly happened.” She understood those words to mean that he

+had suddenly softened and that this softening and gentleness were signs

+of approaching death. As she stepped to the door she already saw in

+imagination Andrew’s face as she remembered it in childhood, a gentle,

+mild, sympathetic face which he had rarely shown, and which therefore

+affected her very strongly. She was sure he would speak soft, tender

+words to her such as her father had uttered before his death, and

+that she would not be able to bear it and would burst into sobs in his

+presence. Yet sooner or later it had to be, and she went in. The sobs

+rose higher and higher in her throat as she more and more clearly

+distinguished his form and her shortsighted eyes tried to make out his

+features, and then she saw his face and met his gaze.

+

+He was lying in a squirrel-fur dressing gown on a divan, surrounded by

+pillows. He was thin and pale. In one thin, translucently white hand

+he held a handkerchief, while with the other he stroked the delicate

+mustache he had grown, moving his fingers slowly. His eyes gazed at them

+as they entered.

+

+On seeing his face and meeting his eyes Princess Mary’s pace suddenly

+slackened, she felt her tears dry up and her sobs ceased. She suddenly

+felt guilty and grew timid on catching the expression of his face and

+eyes.

+

+“But in what am I to blame?” she asked herself. And his cold, stern look

+replied: “Because you are alive and thinking of the living, while I...”

+

+In the deep gaze that seemed to look not outwards but inwards there

+was an almost hostile expression as he slowly regarded his sister and

+Natásha.

+

+He kissed his sister, holding her hand in his as was their wont.

+

+“How are you, Mary? How did you manage to get here?” said he in a voice

+as calm and aloof as his look.

+

+Had he screamed in agony, that scream would not have struck such horror

+into Princess Mary’s heart as the tone of his voice.

+

+“And have you brought little Nicholas?” he asked in the same slow, quiet

+manner and with an obvious effort to remember.

+

+“How are you now?” said Princess Mary, herself surprised at what she was

+saying.

+

+“That, my dear, you must ask the doctor,” he replied, and again making

+an evident effort to be affectionate, he said with his lips only (his

+words clearly did not correspond to his thoughts):

+

+“Merci, chère amie, d’être venue.” *

+

+    * “Thank you for coming, my dear.”

+

+

+Princess Mary pressed his hand. The pressure made him wince just

+perceptibly. He was silent, and she did not know what to say. She now

+understood what had happened to him two days before. In his words, his

+tone, and especially in that calm, almost antagonistic look could be

+felt an estrangement from everything belonging to this world, terrible

+in one who is alive. Evidently only with an effort did he understand

+anything living; but it was obvious that he failed to understand, not

+because he lacked the power to do so but because he understood something

+else—something the living did not and could not understand—and which

+wholly occupied his mind.

+

+“There, you see how strangely fate has brought us together,” said he,

+breaking the silence and pointing to Natásha. “She looks after me all

+the time.”

+

+Princess Mary heard him and did not understand how he could say such a

+thing. He, the sensitive, tender Prince Andrew, how could he say that,

+before her whom he loved and who loved him? Had he expected to live he

+could not have said those words in that offensively cold tone. If he had

+not known that he was dying, how could he have failed to pity her and

+how could he speak like that in her presence? The only explanation was

+that he was indifferent, because something else, much more important,

+had been revealed to him.

+

+The conversation was cold and disconnected and continually broke off.

+

+“Mary came by way of Ryazán,” said Natásha.

+

+Prince Andrew did not notice that she called his sister Mary, and only

+after calling her so in his presence did Natásha notice it herself.

+

+“Really?” he asked.

+

+“They told her that all Moscow has been burned down, and that...”

+

+Natásha stopped. It was impossible to talk. It was plain that he was

+making an effort to listen, but could not do so.

+

+“Yes, they say it’s burned,” he said. “It’s a great pity,” and he gazed

+straight before him, absently stroking his mustache with his fingers.

+

+“And so you have met Count Nicholas, Mary?” Prince Andrew suddenly said,

+evidently wishing to speak pleasantly to them. “He wrote here that he

+took a great liking to you,” he went on simply and calmly, evidently

+unable to understand all the complex significance his words had for

+living people. “If you liked him too, it would be a good thing for you

+to get married,” he added rather more quickly, as if pleased at having

+found words he had long been seeking.

+

+Princess Mary heard his words but they had no meaning for her, except as

+a proof of how far away he now was from everything living.

+

+“Why talk of me?” she said quietly and glanced at Natásha.

+

+Natásha, who felt her glance, did not look at her. All three were again

+silent.

+

+“Andrew, would you like...” Princess Mary suddenly said in a trembling

+voice, “would you like to see little Nicholas? He is always talking

+about you!”

+

+Prince Andrew smiled just perceptibly and for the first time, but

+Princess Mary, who knew his face so well, saw with horror that he did

+not smile with pleasure or affection for his son, but with quiet, gentle

+irony because he thought she was trying what she believed to be the last

+means of arousing him.

+

+“Yes, I shall be very glad to see him. Is he quite well?”

+

+When little Nicholas was brought into Prince Andrew’s room he looked at

+his father with frightened eyes, but did not cry, because no one else

+was crying. Prince Andrew kissed him and evidently did not know what to

+say to him.

+

+When Nicholas had been led away, Princess Mary again went up to her

+brother, kissed him, and unable to restrain her tears any longer began

+to cry.

+

+He looked at her attentively.

+

+“Is it about Nicholas?” he asked.

+

+Princess Mary nodded her head, weeping.

+

+“Mary, you know the Gosp...” but he broke off.

+

+“What did you say?”

+

+“Nothing. You mustn’t cry here,” he said, looking at her with the same

+cold expression.

+

+

+When Princess Mary began to cry, he understood that she was crying at

+the thought that little Nicholas would be left without a father. With

+a great effort he tried to return to life and to see things from their

+point of view.

+

+“Yes, to them it must seem sad!” he thought. “But how simple it is.

+

+“The fowls of the air sow not, neither do they reap, yet your Father

+feedeth them,” he said to himself and wished to say to Princess Mary;

+“but no, they will take it their own way, they won’t understand! They

+can’t understand that all those feelings they prize so—all our feelings,

+all those ideas that seem so important to us, are unnecessary. We cannot

+understand one another,” and he remained silent.

+

+

+Prince Andrew’s little son was seven. He could scarcely read, and knew

+nothing. After that day he lived through many things, gaining knowledge,

+observation, and experience, but had he possessed all the faculties he

+afterwards acquired, he could not have had a better or more profound

+understanding of the meaning of the scene he had witnessed between

+his father, Mary, and Natásha, than he had then. He understood it

+completely, and, leaving the room without crying, went silently up

+to Natásha who had come out with him and looked shyly at her with his

+beautiful, thoughtful eyes, then his uplifted, rosy upper lip trembled

+and leaning his head against her he began to cry.

+

+After that he avoided Dessalles and the countess who caressed him and

+either sat alone or came timidly to Princess Mary, or to Natásha of whom

+he seemed even fonder than of his aunt, and clung to them quietly and

+shyly.

+

+When Princess Mary had left Prince Andrew she fully understood what

+Natásha’s face had told her. She did not speak any more to Natásha of

+hopes of saving his life. She took turns with her beside his sofa, and

+did not cry any more, but prayed continually, turning in soul to that

+Eternal and Unfathomable, whose presence above the dying man was now so

+evident.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XVI

+

+Not only did Prince Andrew know he would die, but he felt that he was

+dying and was already half dead. He was conscious of an aloofness from

+everything earthly and a strange and joyous lightness of existence.

+Without haste or agitation he awaited what was coming. That inexorable,

+eternal, distant, and unknown the presence of which he had felt

+continually all his life—was now near to him and, by the strange

+lightness he experienced, almost comprehensible and palpable....

+

+

+Formerly he had feared the end. He had twice experienced that terribly

+tormenting fear of death—the end—but now he no longer understood that

+fear.

+

+He had felt it for the first time when the shell spun like a top before

+him, and he looked at the fallow field, the bushes, and the sky, and

+knew that he was face to face with death. When he came to himself after

+being wounded and the flower of eternal, unfettered love had instantly

+unfolded itself in his soul as if freed from the bondage of life that

+had restrained it, he no longer feared death and ceased to think about

+it.

+

+During the hours of solitude, suffering, and partial delirium he

+spent after he was wounded, the more deeply he penetrated into the new

+principle of eternal love revealed to him, the more he unconsciously

+detached himself from earthly life. To love everything and everybody and

+always to sacrifice oneself for love meant not to love anyone, not

+to live this earthly life. And the more imbued he became with that

+principle of love, the more he renounced life and the more completely he

+destroyed that dreadful barrier which—in the absence of such love—stands

+between life and death. When during those first days he remembered that

+he would have to die, he said to himself: “Well, what of it? So much the

+better!”

+

+But after the night in Mytíshchi when, half delirious, he had seen her

+for whom he longed appear before him and, having pressed her hand to his

+lips, had shed gentle, happy tears, love for a particular woman again

+crept unobserved into his heart and once more bound him to life. And

+joyful and agitating thoughts began to occupy his mind. Recalling the

+moment at the ambulance station when he had seen Kurágin, he could not

+now regain the feeling he then had, but was tormented by the question

+whether Kurágin was alive. And he dared not inquire.

+

+His illness pursued its normal physical course, but what Natásha

+referred to when she said: “This suddenly happened,” had occurred two

+days before Princess Mary arrived. It was the last spiritual struggle

+between life and death, in which death gained the victory. It was

+the unexpected realization of the fact that he still valued life as

+presented to him in the form of his love for Natásha, and a last, though

+ultimately vanquished, attack of terror before the unknown.

+

+It was evening. As usual after dinner he was slightly feverish, and his

+thoughts were preternaturally clear. Sónya was sitting by the table. He

+began to doze. Suddenly a feeling of happiness seized him.

+

+“Ah, she has come!” thought he.

+

+And so it was: in Sónya’s place sat Natásha who had just come in

+noiselessly.

+

+Since she had begun looking after him, he had always experienced this

+physical consciousness of her nearness. She was sitting in an armchair

+placed sideways, screening the light of the candle from him, and was

+knitting a stocking. She had learned to knit stockings since Prince

+Andrew had casually mentioned that no one nursed the sick so well as old

+nurses who knit stockings, and that there is something soothing in

+the knitting of stockings. The needles clicked lightly in her slender,

+rapidly moving hands, and he could clearly see the thoughtful profile

+of her drooping face. She moved, and the ball rolled off her knees. She

+started, glanced round at him, and screening the candle with her hand

+stooped carefully with a supple and exact movement, picked up the ball,

+and regained her former position.

+

+He looked at her without moving and saw that she wanted to draw a

+deep breath after stooping, but refrained from doing so and breathed

+cautiously.

+

+At the Tróitsa monastery they had spoken of the past, and he had told

+her that if he lived he would always thank God for his wound which had

+brought them together again, but after that they never spoke of the

+future.

+

+“Can it or can it not be?” he now thought as he looked at her and

+listened to the light click of the steel needles. “Can fate have brought

+me to her so strangely only for me to die?... Is it possible that the

+truth of life has been revealed to me only to show me that I have spent

+my life in falsity? I love her more than anything in the world! But what

+am I to do if I love her?” he thought, and he involuntarily groaned,

+from a habit acquired during his sufferings.

+

+On hearing that sound Natásha put down the stocking, leaned nearer to

+him, and suddenly, noticing his shining eyes, stepped lightly up to him

+and bent over him.

+

+“You are not asleep?”

+

+“No, I have been looking at you a long time. I felt you come in. No one

+else gives me that sense of soft tranquillity that you do... that light.

+I want to weep for joy.”

+

+Natásha drew closer to him. Her face shone with rapturous joy.

+

+“Natásha, I love you too much! More than anything in the world.”

+

+“And I!”—She turned away for an instant. “Why too much?” she asked.

+

+“Why too much?... Well, what do you, what do you feel in your soul, your

+whole soul—shall I live? What do you think?”

+

+“I am sure of it, sure!” Natásha almost shouted, taking hold of both his

+hands with a passionate movement.

+

+He remained silent awhile.

+

+“How good it would be!” and taking her hand he kissed it.

+

+Natásha felt happy and agitated, but at once remembered that this would

+not do and that he had to be quiet.

+

+“But you have not slept,” she said, repressing her joy. “Try to sleep...

+please!”

+

+He pressed her hand and released it, and she went back to the candle and

+sat down again in her former position. Twice she turned and looked at

+him, and her eyes met his beaming at her. She set herself a task on her

+stocking and resolved not to turn round till it was finished.

+

+Soon he really shut his eyes and fell asleep. He did not sleep long and

+suddenly awoke with a start and in a cold perspiration.

+

+As he fell asleep he had still been thinking of the subject that now

+always occupied his mind—about life and death, and chiefly about death.

+He felt himself nearer to it.

+

+“Love? What is love?” he thought.

+

+“Love hinders death. Love is life. All, everything that I understand, I

+understand only because I love. Everything is, everything exists, only

+because I love. Everything is united by it alone. Love is God, and to

+die means that I, a particle of love, shall return to the general and

+eternal source.” These thoughts seemed to him comforting. But they were

+only thoughts. Something was lacking in them, they were not clear, they

+were too one-sidedly personal and brain-spun. And there was the former

+agitation and obscurity. He fell asleep.

+

+He dreamed that he was lying in the room he really was in, but that

+he was quite well and unwounded. Many various, indifferent, and

+insignificant people appeared before him. He talked to them and

+discussed something trivial. They were preparing to go away somewhere.

+Prince Andrew dimly realized that all this was trivial and that he had

+more important cares, but he continued to speak, surprising them by

+empty witticisms. Gradually, unnoticed, all these persons began to

+disappear and a single question, that of the closed door, superseded

+all else. He rose and went to the door to bolt and lock it. Everything

+depended on whether he was, or was not, in time to lock it. He went, and

+tried to hurry, but his legs refused to move and he knew he would not be

+in time to lock the door though he painfully strained all his powers. He

+was seized by an agonizing fear. And that fear was the fear of death. It

+stood behind the door. But just when he was clumsily creeping toward

+the door, that dreadful something on the other side was already pressing

+against it and forcing its way in. Something not human—death—was

+breaking in through that door, and had to be kept out. He seized the

+door, making a final effort to hold it back—to lock it was no longer

+possible—but his efforts were weak and clumsy and the door, pushed from

+behind by that terror, opened and closed again.

+

+Once again it pushed from outside. His last superhuman efforts were vain

+and both halves of the door noiselessly opened. It entered, and it was

+death, and Prince Andrew died.

+

+But at the instant he died, Prince Andrew remembered that he was asleep,

+and at the very instant he died, having made an effort, he awoke.

+

+“Yes, it was death! I died—and woke up. Yes, death is an awakening!” And

+all at once it grew light in his soul and the veil that had till then

+concealed the unknown was lifted from his spiritual vision. He felt as

+if powers till then confined within him had been liberated, and that

+strange lightness did not again leave him.

+

+When, waking in a cold perspiration, he moved on the divan, Natásha went

+up and asked him what was the matter. He did not answer and looked at

+her strangely, not understanding.

+

+That was what had happened to him two days before Princess Mary’s

+arrival. From that day, as the doctor expressed it, the wasting fever

+assumed a malignant character, but what the doctor said did not interest

+Natásha, she saw the terrible moral symptoms which to her were more

+convincing.

+

+From that day an awakening from life came to Prince Andrew together with

+his awakening from sleep. And compared to the duration of life it did

+not seem to him slower than an awakening from sleep compared to the

+duration of a dream.

+

+There was nothing terrible or violent in this comparatively slow

+awakening.

+

+His last days and hours passed in an ordinary and simple way. Both

+Princess Mary and Natásha, who did not leave him, felt this. They did

+not weep or shudder and during these last days they themselves felt

+that they were not attending on him (he was no longer there, he had left

+them) but on what reminded them most closely of him—his body. Both felt

+this so strongly that the outward and terrible side of death did not

+affect them and they did not feel it necessary to foment their grief.

+Neither in his presence nor out of it did they weep, nor did they ever

+talk to one another about him. They felt that they could not express in

+words what they understood.

+

+They both saw that he was sinking slowly and quietly, deeper and deeper,

+away from them, and they both knew that this had to be so and that it

+was right.

+

+He confessed, and received communion: everyone came to take leave of

+him. When they brought his son to him, he pressed his lips to the boy’s

+and turned away, not because he felt it hard and sad (Princess Mary and

+Natásha understood that) but simply because he thought it was all that

+was required of him, but when they told him to bless the boy, he did

+what was demanded and looked round as if asking whether there was

+anything else he should do.

+

+When the last convulsions of the body, which the spirit was leaving,

+occurred, Princess Mary and Natásha were present.

+

+“Is it over?” said Princess Mary when his body had for a few minutes

+lain motionless, growing cold before them. Natásha went up, looked at

+the dead eyes, and hastened to close them. She closed them but did not

+kiss them, but clung to that which reminded her most nearly of him—his

+body.

+

+“Where has he gone? Where is he now?...”

+

+When the body, washed and dressed, lay in the coffin on a table,

+everyone came to take leave of him and they all wept.

+

+Little Nicholas cried because his heart was rent by painful perplexity.

+The countess and Sónya cried from pity for Natásha and because he was

+no more. The old count cried because he felt that before long, he, too,

+must take the same terrible step.

+

+Natásha and Princess Mary also wept now, but not because of their own

+personal grief; they wept with a reverent and softening emotion which

+had taken possession of their souls at the consciousness of the

+simple and solemn mystery of death that had been accomplished in their

+presence.

+

+

+

+

+

+BOOK THIRTEEN: 1812

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER I

+

+Man’s mind cannot grasp the causes of events in their completeness, but

+the desire to find those causes is implanted in man’s soul. And without

+considering the multiplicity and complexity of the conditions any one

+of which taken separately may seem to be the cause, he snatches at the

+first approximation to a cause that seems to him intelligible and says:

+“This is the cause!” In historical events (where the actions of men are

+the subject of observation) the first and most primitive approximation

+to present itself was the will of the gods and, after that, the will of

+those who stood in the most prominent position—the heroes of history.

+But we need only penetrate to the essence of any historic event—which

+lies in the activity of the general mass of men who take part in it—to

+be convinced that the will of the historic hero does not control the

+actions of the mass but is itself continually controlled. It may seem

+to be a matter of indifference whether we understand the meaning of

+historical events this way or that; yet there is the same difference

+between a man who says that the people of the West moved on the East

+because Napoleon wished it and a man who says that this happened because

+it had to happen, as there is between those who declared that the

+earth was stationary and that the planets moved round it and those who

+admitted that they did not know what upheld the earth, but knew there

+were laws directing its movement and that of the other planets. There

+is, and can be, no cause of an historical event except the one cause of

+all causes. But there are laws directing events, and some of these laws

+are known to us while we are conscious of others we cannot comprehend.

+The discovery of these laws is only possible when we have quite

+abandoned the attempt to find the cause in the will of some one man,

+just as the discovery of the laws of the motion of the planets was

+possible only when men abandoned the conception of the fixity of the

+earth.

+

+The historians consider that, next to the battle of Borodinó and the

+occupation of Moscow by the enemy and its destruction by fire, the most

+important episode of the war of 1812 was the movement of the Russian

+army from the Ryazána to the Kalúga road and to the Tarútino camp—the

+so-called flank march across the Krásnaya Pakhrá River. They ascribe the

+glory of that achievement of genius to different men and dispute as to

+whom the honor is due. Even foreign historians, including the French,

+acknowledge the genius of the Russian commanders when they speak of

+that flank march. But it is hard to understand why military writers,

+and following them others, consider this flank march to be the profound

+conception of some one man who saved Russia and destroyed Napoleon. In

+the first place it is hard to understand where the profundity and genius

+of this movement lay, for not much mental effort was needed to see that

+the best position for an army when it is not being attacked is where

+there are most provisions; and even a dull boy of thirteen could have

+guessed that the best position for an army after its retreat from Moscow

+in 1812 was on the Kalúga road. So it is impossible to understand by

+what reasoning the historians reach the conclusion that this maneuver

+was a profound one. And it is even more difficult to understand just why

+they think that this maneuver was calculated to save Russia and destroy

+the French; for this flank march, had it been preceded, accompanied,

+or followed by other circumstances, might have proved ruinous to the

+Russians and salutary for the French. If the position of the Russian

+army really began to improve from the time of that march, it does not at

+all follow that the march was the cause of it.

+

+That flank march might not only have failed to give any advantage to

+the Russian army, but might in other circumstances have led to its

+destruction. What would have happened had Moscow not burned down? If

+Murat had not lost sight of the Russians? If Napoleon had not remained

+inactive? If the Russian army at Krásnaya Pakhrá had given battle as

+Bennigsen and Barclay advised? What would have happened had the French

+attacked the Russians while they were marching beyond the Pakhrá? What

+would have happened if on approaching Tarútino, Napoleon had attacked

+the Russians with but a tenth of the energy he had shown when he

+attacked them at Smolénsk? What would have happened had the French moved

+on Petersburg?... In any of these eventualities the flank march that

+brought salvation might have proved disastrous.

+

+The third and most incomprehensible thing is that people studying

+history deliberately avoid seeing that this flank march cannot be

+attributed to any one man, that no one ever foresaw it, and that in

+reality, like the retreat from Filí, it did not suggest itself to anyone

+in its entirety, but resulted—moment by moment, step by step, event by

+event—from an endless number of most diverse circumstances and was only

+seen in its entirety when it had been accomplished and belonged to the

+past.

+

+At the council at Filí the prevailing thought in the minds of the

+Russian commanders was the one naturally suggesting itself, namely, a

+direct retreat by the Nízhni road. In proof of this there is the fact

+that the majority of the council voted for such a retreat, and above

+all there is the well-known conversation after the council, between the

+commander in chief and Lanskóy, who was in charge of the commissariat

+department. Lanskóy informed the commander in chief that the army

+supplies were for the most part stored along the Oká in the Túla and

+Ryazán provinces, and that if they retreated on Nízhni the army would

+be separated from its supplies by the broad river Oká, which cannot be

+crossed early in winter. This was the first indication of the necessity

+of deviating from what had previously seemed the most natural course—a

+direct retreat on Nízhni-Nóvgorod. The army turned more to the south,

+along the Ryazán road and nearer to its supplies. Subsequently the

+inactivity of the French (who even lost sight of the Russian army),

+concern for the safety of the arsenal at Túla, and especially the

+advantages of drawing nearer to its supplies caused the army to turn

+still further south to the Túla road. Having crossed over, by a forced

+march, to the Túla road beyond the Pakhrá, the Russian commanders

+intended to remain at Podólsk and had no thought of the Tarútino

+position; but innumerable circumstances and the reappearance of French

+troops who had for a time lost touch with the Russians, and projects

+of giving battle, and above all the abundance of provisions in Kalúga

+province, obliged our army to turn still more to the south and to cross

+from the Túla to the Kalúga road and go to Tarútino, which was between

+the roads along which those supplies lay. Just as it is impossible to

+say when it was decided to abandon Moscow, so it is impossible to say

+precisely when, or by whom, it was decided to move to Tarútino. Only

+when the army had got there, as the result of innumerable and varying

+forces, did people begin to assure themselves that they had desired this

+movement and long ago foreseen its result.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER II

+

+The famous flank movement merely consisted in this: after the advance

+of the French had ceased, the Russian army, which had been continually

+retreating straight back from the invaders, deviated from that direct

+course and, not finding itself pursued, was naturally drawn toward the

+district where supplies were abundant.

+

+If instead of imagining to ourselves commanders of genius leading the

+Russian army, we picture that army without any leaders, it could not

+have done anything but make a return movement toward Moscow, describing

+an arc in the direction where most provisions were to be found and where

+the country was richest.

+

+That movement from the Nízhni to the Ryazán, Túla, and Kalúga roads was

+so natural that even the Russian marauders moved in that direction, and

+demands were sent from Petersburg for Kutúzov to take his army that

+way. At Tarútino Kutúzov received what was almost a reprimand from

+the Emperor for having moved his army along the Ryazán road, and the

+Emperor’s letter indicated to him the very position he had already

+occupied near Kalúga.

+

+Having rolled like a ball in the direction of the impetus given by the

+whole campaign and by the battle of Borodinó, the Russian army—when

+the strength of that impetus was exhausted and no fresh push was

+received—assumed the position natural to it.

+

+Kutúzov’s merit lay, not in any strategic maneuver of genius, as it is

+called, but in the fact that he alone understood the significance of

+what had happened. He alone then understood the meaning of the French

+army’s inactivity, he alone continued to assert that the battle of

+Borodinó had been a victory, he alone—who as commander in chief might

+have been expected to be eager to attack—employed his whole strength to

+restrain the Russian army from useless engagements.

+

+The beast wounded at Borodinó was lying where the fleeing hunter had

+left him; but whether he was still alive, whether he was strong and

+merely lying low, the hunter did not know. Suddenly the beast was heard

+to moan.

+

+The moan of that wounded beast (the French army) which betrayed its

+calamitous condition was the sending of Lauriston to Kutúzov’s camp with

+overtures for peace.

+

+Napoleon, with his usual assurance that whatever entered his head was

+right, wrote to Kutúzov the first words that occurred to him, though

+they were meaningless.

+

+

+MONSIEUR LE PRINCE KOUTOUZOV: I am sending one of my adjutants-general

+to discuss several interesting questions with you. I beg your Highness

+to credit what he says to you, especially when he expresses the

+sentiment of esteem and special regard I have long entertained for your

+person. This letter having no other object, I pray God, monsieur le

+prince Koutouzov, to keep you in His holy and gracious protection!

+

+NAPOLEON

+

+MOSCOW, OCTOBER 30, 1812

+

+

+Kutúzov replied: “I should be cursed by posterity were I looked on as

+the initiator of a settlement of any sort. Such is the present spirit

+of my nation.” But he continued to exert all his powers to restrain his

+troops from attacking.

+

+During the month that the French troops were pillaging in Moscow and

+the Russian troops were quietly encamped at Tarútino, a change had taken

+place in the relative strength of the two armies—both in spirit and in

+number—as a result of which the superiority had passed to the Russian

+side. Though the condition and numbers of the French army were unknown

+to the Russians, as soon as that change occurred the need of attacking

+at once showed itself by countless signs. These signs were: Lauriston’s

+mission; the abundance of provisions at Tarútino; the reports coming in

+from all sides of the inactivity and disorder of the French; the flow of

+recruits to our regiments; the fine weather; the long rest the Russian

+soldiers had enjoyed, and the impatience to do what they had been

+assembled for, which usually shows itself in an army that has been

+resting; curiosity as to what the French army, so long lost sight of,

+was doing; the boldness with which our outposts now scouted close up to

+the French stationed at Tarútino; the news of easy successes gained by

+peasants and guerrilla troops over the French, the envy aroused by this;

+the desire for revenge that lay in the heart of every Russian as long as

+the French were in Moscow, and (above all) a dim consciousness in every

+soldier’s mind that the relative strength of the armies had changed and

+that the advantage was now on our side. There was a substantial change

+in the relative strength, and an advance had become inevitable. And at

+once, as a clock begins to strike and chime as soon as the minute hand

+has completed a full circle, this change was shown by an increased

+activity, whirring, and chiming in the higher spheres.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER III

+

+The Russian army was commanded by Kutúzov and his staff, and also by the

+Emperor from Petersburg. Before the news of the abandonment of Moscow

+had been received in Petersburg, a detailed plan of the whole campaign

+had been drawn up and sent to Kutúzov for his guidance. Though this plan

+had been drawn up on the supposition that Moscow was still in our hands,

+it was approved by the staff and accepted as a basis for action.

+Kutúzov only replied that movements arranged from a distance were always

+difficult to execute. So fresh instructions were sent for the solution

+of difficulties that might be encountered, as well as fresh people who

+were to watch Kutúzov’s actions and report upon them.

+

+Besides this, the whole staff of the Russian army was now reorganized.

+The posts left vacant by Bagratión, who had been killed, and by

+Barclay, who had gone away in dudgeon, had to be filled. Very serious

+consideration was given to the question whether it would be better to

+put A in B’s place and B in D’s, or on the contrary to put D in A’s

+place, and so on—as if anything more than A’s or B’s satisfaction

+depended on this.

+

+As a result of the hostility between Kutúzov and Bennigsen, his Chief of

+Staff, the presence of confidential representatives of the Emperor, and

+these transfers, a more than usually complicated play of parties

+was going on among the staff of the army. A was undermining B, D was

+undermining C, and so on in all possible combinations and permutations.

+In all these plottings the subject of intrigue was generally the conduct

+of the war, which all these men believed they were directing; but this

+affair of the war went on independently of them, as it had to go:

+that is, never in the way people devised, but flowing always from the

+essential attitude of the masses. Only in the highest spheres did

+all these schemes, crossings, and interminglings appear to be a true

+reflection of what had to happen.

+

+

+Prince Michael Ilariónovich! (wrote the Emperor on the second of October

+in a letter that reached Kutúzov after the battle at Tarútino) Since

+September 2 Moscow has been in the hands of the enemy. Your last reports

+were written on the twentieth, and during all this time not only has

+no action been taken against the enemy or for the relief of the ancient

+capital, but according to your last report you have even retreated

+farther. Sérpukhov is already occupied by an enemy detachment and Túla

+with its famous arsenal so indispensable to the army, is in danger.

+From General Wintzingerode’s reports, I see that an enemy corps of ten

+thousand men is moving on the Petersburg road. Another corps of several

+thousand men is moving on Dmítrov. A third has advanced along the

+Vladímir road, and a fourth, rather considerable detachment is stationed

+between Rúza and Mozháysk. Napoleon himself was in Moscow as late as

+the twenty-fifth. In view of all this information, when the enemy has

+scattered his forces in large detachments, and with Napoleon and his

+Guards in Moscow, is it possible that the enemy’s forces confronting you

+are so considerable as not to allow of your taking the offensive? On the

+contrary, he is probably pursuing you with detachments, or at most with

+an army corps much weaker than the army entrusted to you. It would seem

+that, availing yourself of these circumstances, you might advantageously

+attack a weaker one and annihilate him, or at least oblige him to

+retreat, retaining in our hands an important part of the provinces now

+occupied by the enemy, and thereby averting danger from Túla and other

+towns in the interior. You will be responsible if the enemy is able to

+direct a force of any size against Petersburg to threaten this capital

+in which it has not been possible to retain many troops; for with the

+army entrusted to you, and acting with resolution and energy, you have

+ample means to avert this fresh calamity. Remember that you have still

+to answer to our offended country for the loss of Moscow. You have

+experienced my readiness to reward you. That readiness will not weaken

+in me, but I and Russia have a right to expect from you all the zeal,

+firmness, and success which your intellect, military talent, and the

+courage of the troops you command justify us in expecting.

+

+

+But by the time this letter, which proved that the real relation of

+the forces had already made itself felt in Petersburg, was dispatched,

+Kutúzov had found himself unable any longer to restrain the army he

+commanded from attacking and a battle had taken place.

+

+On the second of October a Cossack, Shapoválov, who was out scouting,

+killed one hare and wounded another. Following the wounded hare he made

+his way far into the forest and came upon the left flank of Murat’s

+army, encamped there without any precautions. The Cossack laughingly

+told his comrades how he had almost fallen into the hands of the French.

+A cornet, hearing the story, informed his commander.

+

+The Cossack was sent for and questioned. The Cossack officers wished

+to take advantage of this chance to capture some horses, but one of

+the superior officers, who was acquainted with the higher authorities,

+reported the incident to a general on the staff. The state of things on

+the staff had of late been exceedingly strained. Ermólov had been to

+see Bennigsen a few days previously and had entreated him to use

+his influence with the commander in chief to induce him to take the

+offensive.

+

+“If I did not know you I should think you did not want what you are

+asking for. I need only advise anything and his Highness is sure to do

+the opposite,” replied Bennigsen.

+

+The Cossack’s report, confirmed by horse patrols who were sent out, was

+the final proof that events had matured. The tightly coiled spring was

+released, the clock began to whirr and the chimes to play. Despite all

+his supposed power, his intellect, his experience, and his knowledge

+of men, Kutúzov—having taken into consideration the Cossack’s report, a

+note from Bennigsen who sent personal reports to the Emperor, the wishes

+he supposed the Emperor to hold, and the fact that all the generals

+expressed the same wish—could no longer check the inevitable movement,

+and gave the order to do what he regarded as useless and harmful—gave

+his approval, that is, to the accomplished fact.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER IV

+

+Bennigsen’s note and the Cossack’s information that the left flank

+of the French was unguarded were merely final indications that it was

+necessary to order an attack, and it was fixed for the fifth of October.

+

+On the morning of the fourth of October Kutúzov signed the dispositions.

+Toll read them to Ermólov, asking him to attend to the further

+arrangements.

+

+“All right—all right. I haven’t time just now,” replied Ermólov, and

+left the hut.

+

+The dispositions drawn up by Toll were very good. As in the Austerlitz

+dispositions, it was written—though not in German this time:

+

+“The First Column will march here and here,” “the Second Column will

+march there and there,” and so on; and on paper, all these columns

+arrived at their places at the appointed time and destroyed the enemy.

+Everything had been admirably thought out as is usual in dispositions,

+and as is always the case, not a single column reached its place at the

+appointed time.

+

+When the necessary number of copies of the dispositions had been

+prepared, an officer was summoned and sent to deliver them to Ermólov

+to deal with. A young officer of the Horse Guards, Kutúzov’s orderly,

+pleased at the importance of the mission entrusted to him, went to

+Ermólov’s quarters.

+

+“Gone away,” said Ermólov’s orderly.

+

+The officer of the Horse Guards went to a general with whom Ermólov was

+often to be found.

+

+“No, and the general’s out too.”

+

+The officer, mounting his horse, rode off to someone else.

+

+“No, he’s gone out.”

+

+“If only they don’t make me responsible for this delay! What a nuisance

+it is!” thought the officer, and he rode round the whole camp. One man

+said he had seen Ermólov ride past with some other generals, others said

+he must have returned home. The officer searched till six o’clock in the

+evening without even stopping to eat. Ermólov was nowhere to be found

+and no one knew where he was. The officer snatched a little food at

+a comrade’s, and rode again to the vanguard to find Milorádovich.

+Milorádovich too was away, but here he was told that he had gone to a

+ball at General Kíkin’s and that Ermólov was probably there too.

+

+“But where is it?”

+

+“Why, there, over at Échkino,” said a Cossack officer, pointing to a

+country house in the far distance.

+

+“What, outside our line?”

+

+“They’ve put two regiments as outposts, and they’re having such a spree

+there, it’s awful! Two bands and three sets of singers!”

+

+The officer rode out beyond our lines to Échkino. While still at a

+distance he heard as he rode the merry sounds of a soldier’s dance song

+proceeding from the house.

+

+“In the meadows... in the meadows!” he heard, accompanied by whistling

+and the sound of a torban, drowned every now and then by shouts. These

+sounds made his spirits rise, but at the same time he was afraid that

+he would be blamed for not having executed sooner the important order

+entrusted to him. It was already past eight o’clock. He dismounted

+and went up into the porch of a large country house which had remained

+intact between the Russian and French forces. In the refreshment room

+and the hall, footmen were bustling about with wine and viands. Groups

+of singers stood outside the windows. The officer was admitted and

+immediately saw all the chief generals of the army together, and among

+them Ermólov’s big imposing figure. They all had their coats unbuttoned

+and were standing in a semicircle with flushed and animated faces,

+laughing loudly. In the middle of the room a short handsome general with

+a red face was dancing the trepák with much spirit and agility.

+

+“Ha, ha, ha! Bravo, Nicholas Iványch! Ha, ha, ha!”

+

+The officer felt that by arriving with important orders at such a moment

+he was doubly to blame, and he would have preferred to wait; but one of

+the generals espied him and, hearing what he had come about, informed

+Ermólov.

+

+Ermólov came forward with a frown on his face and, hearing what the

+officer had to say, took the papers from him without a word.

+

+

+“You think he went off just by chance?” said a comrade, who was on the

+staff that evening, to the officer of the Horse Guards, referring to

+Ermólov. “It was a trick. It was done on purpose to get Konovnítsyn into

+trouble. You’ll see what a mess there’ll be tomorrow.”

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER V

+

+Next day the decrepit Kutúzov, having given orders to be called early,

+said his prayers, dressed, and, with an unpleasant consciousness of

+having to direct a battle he did not approve of, got into his calèche

+and drove from Letashóvka (a village three and a half miles from

+Tarútino) to the place where the attacking columns were to meet. He sat

+in the calèche, dozing and waking up by turns, and listening for any

+sound of firing on the right as an indication that the action had begun.

+But all was still quiet. A damp dull autumn morning was just dawning. On

+approaching Tarútino Kutúzov noticed cavalrymen leading their horses to

+water across the road along which he was driving. Kutúzov looked at

+them searchingly, stopped his carriage, and inquired what regiment they

+belonged to. They belonged to a column that should have been far in

+front and in ambush long before then. “It may be a mistake,” thought

+the old commander in chief. But a little further on he saw infantry

+regiments with their arms piled and the soldiers, only partly dressed,

+eating their rye porridge and carrying fuel. He sent for an officer. The

+officer reported that no order to advance had been received.

+

+“How! Not rec...” Kutúzov began, but checked himself immediately and

+sent for a senior officer. Getting out of his calèche, he waited with

+drooping head and breathing heavily, pacing silently up and down. When

+Eýkhen, the officer of the general staff whom he had summoned, appeared,

+Kutúzov went purple in the face, not because that officer was to blame

+for the mistake, but because he was an object of sufficient importance

+for him to vent his wrath on. Trembling and panting the old man fell

+into that state of fury in which he sometimes used to roll on the

+ground, and he fell upon Eýkhen, threatening him with his hands,

+shouting and loading him with gross abuse. Another man, Captain Brózin,

+who happened to turn up and who was not at all to blame, suffered the

+same fate.

+

+“What sort of another blackguard are you? I’ll have you shot!

+Scoundrels!” yelled Kutúzov in a hoarse voice, waving his arms and

+reeling.

+

+He was suffering physically. He, the commander in chief, a Serene

+Highness who everybody said possessed powers such as no man had ever had

+in Russia, to be placed in this position—made the laughingstock of the

+whole army! “I needn’t have been in such a hurry to pray about today,

+or have kept awake thinking everything over all night,” thought he to

+himself. “When I was a chit of an officer no one would have dared to

+mock me so... and now!” He was in a state of physical suffering as if

+from corporal punishment, and could not avoid expressing it by cries of

+anger and distress. But his strength soon began to fail him, and looking

+about him, conscious of having said much that was amiss, he again got

+into his calèche and drove back in silence.

+

+His wrath, once expended, did not return, and blinking feebly he

+listened to excuses and self-justifications (Ermólov did not come to see

+him till the next day) and to the insistence of Bennigsen, Konovnítsyn,

+and Toll that the movement that had miscarried should be executed next

+day. And once more Kutúzov had to consent.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER VI

+

+Next day the troops assembled in their appointed places in the evening

+and advanced during the night. It was an autumn night with dark purple

+clouds, but no rain. The ground was damp but not muddy, and the troops

+advanced noiselessly, only occasionally a jingling of the artillery

+could be faintly heard. The men were forbidden to talk out loud, to

+smoke their pipes, or to strike a light, and they tried to prevent their

+horses neighing. The secrecy of the undertaking heightened its charm

+and they marched gaily. Some columns, supposing they had reached their

+destination, halted, piled arms, and settled down on the cold ground,

+but the majority marched all night and arrived at places where they

+evidently should not have been.

+

+Only Count Orlóv-Denísov with his Cossacks (the least important

+detachment of all) got to his appointed place at the right time. This

+detachment halted at the outskirts of a forest, on the path leading from

+the village of Stromílova to Dmítrovsk.

+

+Toward dawn, Count Orlóv-Denísov, who had dozed off, was awakened by a

+deserter from the French army being brought to him. This was a Polish

+sergeant of Poniatowski’s corps, who explained in Polish that he had

+come over because he had been slighted in the service: that he ought

+long ago to have been made an officer, that he was braver than any of

+them, and so he had left them and wished to pay them out. He said that

+Murat was spending the night less than a mile from where they were,

+and that if they would let him have a convoy of a hundred men he would

+capture him alive. Count Orlóv-Denísov consulted his fellow officers.

+

+The offer was too tempting to be refused. Everyone volunteered to go and

+everybody advised making the attempt. After much disputing and arguing,

+Major-General Grékov with two Cossack regiments decided to go with the

+Polish sergeant.

+

+“Now, remember,” said Count Orlóv-Denísov to the sergeant at parting,

+“if you have been lying I’ll have you hanged like a dog; but if it’s

+true you shall have a hundred gold pieces!”

+

+Without replying, the sergeant, with a resolute air, mounted and rode

+away with Grékov whose men had quickly assembled. They disappeared into

+the forest, and Count Orlóv-Denísov, having seen Grékov off, returned,

+shivering from the freshness of the early dawn and excited by what he

+had undertaken on his own responsibility, and began looking at the enemy

+camp, now just visible in the deceptive light of dawn and the dying

+campfires. Our columns ought to have begun to appear on an open

+declivity to his right. He looked in that direction, but though the

+columns would have been visible quite far off, they were not to be seen.

+It seemed to the count that things were beginning to stir in the French

+camp, and his keen-sighted adjutant confirmed this.

+

+“Oh, it is really too late,” said Count Orlóv, looking at the camp.

+

+As often happens when someone we have trusted is no longer before

+our eyes, it suddenly seemed quite clear and obvious to him that the

+sergeant was an impostor, that he had lied, and that the whole Russian

+attack would be ruined by the absence of those two regiments, which

+he would lead away heaven only knew where. How could one capture a

+commander in chief from among such a mass of troops!

+

+“I am sure that rascal was lying,” said the count.

+

+“They can still be called back,” said one of his suite, who like Count

+Orlóv felt distrustful of the adventure when he looked at the enemy’s

+camp.

+

+“Eh? Really... what do you think? Should we let them go on or not?”

+

+“Will you have them fetched back?”

+

+“Fetch them back, fetch them back!” said Count Orlóv with sudden

+determination, looking at his watch. “It will be too late. It is quite

+light.”

+

+And the adjutant galloped through the forest after Grékov. When Grékov

+returned, Count Orlóv-Denísov, excited both by the abandoned attempt and

+by vainly awaiting the infantry columns that still did not appear, as

+well as by the proximity of the enemy, resolved to advance. All his men

+felt the same excitement.

+

+“Mount!” he commanded in a whisper. The men took their places and

+crossed themselves.... “Forward, with God’s aid!”

+

+“Hurrah-ah-ah!” reverberated in the forest, and the Cossack companies,

+trailing their lances and advancing one after another as if poured out

+of a sack, dashed gaily across the brook toward the camp.

+

+One desperate, frightened yell from the first French soldier who saw the

+Cossacks, and all who were in the camp, undressed and only just waking

+up, ran off in all directions, abandoning cannons, muskets, and horses.

+

+Had the Cossacks pursued the French, without heeding what was behind and

+around them, they would have captured Murat and everything there.

+That was what the officers desired. But it was impossible to make the

+Cossacks budge when once they had got booty and prisoners. None of them

+listened to orders. Fifteen hundred prisoners and thirty-eight guns were

+taken on the spot, besides standards and (what seemed most important to

+the Cossacks) horses, saddles, horsecloths, and the like. All this had

+to be dealt with, the prisoners and guns secured, the booty divided—not

+without some shouting and even a little fighting among themselves—and it

+was on this that the Cossacks all busied themselves.

+

+The French, not being farther pursued, began to recover themselves: they

+formed into detachments and began firing. Orlóv-Denísov, still waiting

+for the other columns to arrive, advanced no further.

+

+Meantime, according to the dispositions which said that “the First

+Column will march” and so on, the infantry of the belated columns,

+commanded by Bennigsen and directed by Toll, had started in due order

+and, as always happens, had got somewhere, but not to their appointed

+places. As always happens the men, starting cheerfully, began to halt;

+murmurs were heard, there was a sense of confusion, and finally a

+backward movement. Adjutants and generals galloped about, shouted, grew

+angry, quarreled, said they had come quite wrong and were late, gave

+vent to a little abuse, and at last gave it all up and went forward,

+simply to get somewhere. “We shall get somewhere or other!” And they did

+indeed get somewhere, though not to their right places; a few eventually

+even got to their right place, but too late to be of any use and only

+in time to be fired at. Toll, who in this battle played the part of

+Weyrother at Austerlitz, galloped assiduously from place to place,

+finding everything upside down everywhere. Thus he stumbled on Bagovút’s

+corps in a wood when it was already broad daylight, though the corps

+should long before have joined Orlóv-Denísov. Excited and vexed by the

+failure and supposing that someone must be responsible for it, Toll

+galloped up to the commander of the corps and began upbraiding him

+severely, saying that he ought to be shot. General Bagovút, a fighting

+old soldier of placid temperament, being also upset by all the delay,

+confusion, and cross-purposes, fell into a rage to everybody’s surprise

+and quite contrary to his usual character and said disagreeable things

+to Toll.

+

+“I prefer not to take lessons from anyone, but I can die with my men as

+well as anybody,” he said, and advanced with a single division.

+

+Coming out onto a field under the enemy’s fire, this brave general went

+straight ahead, leading his men under fire, without considering in his

+agitation whether going into action now, with a single division, would

+be of any use or no. Danger, cannon balls, and bullets were just what he

+needed in his angry mood. One of the first bullets killed him, and other

+bullets killed many of his men. And his division remained under fire for

+some time quite uselessly.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER VII

+

+Meanwhile another column was to have attacked the French from the front,

+but Kutúzov accompanied that column. He well knew that nothing but

+confusion would come of this battle undertaken against his will, and as

+far as was in his power held the troops back. He did not advance.

+

+He rode silently on his small gray horse, indolently answering

+suggestions that they should attack.

+

+“The word attack is always on your tongue, but you don’t see that we are

+unable to execute complicated maneuvers,” said he to Milorádovich who

+asked permission to advance.

+

+“We couldn’t take Murat prisoner this morning or get to the place in

+time, and nothing can be done now!” he replied to someone else.

+

+When Kutúzov was informed that at the French rear—where according to the

+reports of the Cossacks there had previously been nobody—there were now

+two battalions of Poles, he gave a sidelong glance at Ermólov who was

+behind him and to whom he had not spoken since the previous day.

+

+“You see! They are asking to attack and making plans of all kinds,

+but as soon as one gets to business nothing is ready, and the enemy,

+forewarned, takes measures accordingly.”

+

+Ermólov screwed up his eyes and smiled faintly on hearing these words.

+He understood that for him the storm had blown over, and that Kutúzov

+would content himself with that hint.

+

+“He’s having a little fun at my expense,” said Ermólov softly, nudging

+with his knee Raévski who was at his side.

+

+Soon after this, Ermólov moved up to Kutúzov and respectfully remarked:

+

+“It is not too late yet, your Highness—the enemy has not gone away—if

+you were to order an attack! If not, the Guards will not so much as see

+a little smoke.”

+

+Kutúzov did not reply, but when they reported to him that Murat’s troops

+were in retreat he ordered an advance, though at every hundred paces he

+halted for three quarters of an hour.

+

+The whole battle consisted in what Orlóv-Denísov’s Cossacks had done:

+the rest of the army merely lost some hundreds of men uselessly.

+

+In consequence of this battle Kutúzov received a diamond decoration,

+and Bennigsen some diamonds and a hundred thousand rubles, others also

+received pleasant recognitions corresponding to their various grades,

+and following the battle fresh changes were made in the staff.

+

+“That’s how everything is done with us, all topsy-turvy!” said the

+Russian officers and generals after the Tarútino battle, letting it be

+understood that some fool there is doing things all wrong but that

+we ourselves should not have done so, just as people speak today. But

+people who talk like that either do not know what they are talking about

+or deliberately deceive themselves. No battle—Tarútino, Borodinó, or

+Austerlitz—takes place as those who planned it anticipated. That is an

+essential condition.

+

+A countless number of free forces (for nowhere is man freer than during

+a battle, where it is a question of life and death) influence the course

+taken by the fight, and that course never can be known in advance and

+never coincides with the direction of any one force.

+

+If many simultaneously and variously directed forces act on a given

+body, the direction of its motion cannot coincide with any one of those

+forces, but will always be a mean—what in mechanics is represented by

+the diagonal of a parallelogram of forces.

+

+If in the descriptions given by historians, especially French ones, we

+find their wars and battles carried out in accordance with previously

+formed plans, the only conclusion to be drawn is that those descriptions

+are false.

+

+The battle of Tarútino obviously did not attain the aim Toll had in

+view—to lead the troops into action in the order prescribed by the

+dispositions; nor that which Count Orlóv-Denísov may have had in view—to

+take Murat prisoner; nor the result of immediately destroying the whole

+corps, which Bennigsen and others may have had in view; nor the aim of

+the officer who wished to go into action to distinguish himself; nor

+that of the Cossack who wanted more booty than he got, and so on. But

+if the aim of the battle was what actually resulted and what all the

+Russians of that day desired—to drive the French out of Russia and

+destroy their army—it is quite clear that the battle of Tarútino, just

+because of its incongruities, was exactly what was wanted at that stage

+of the campaign. It would be difficult and even impossible to imagine

+any result more opportune than the actual outcome of this battle. With

+a minimum of effort and insignificant losses, despite the greatest

+confusion, the most important results of the whole campaign were

+attained: the transition from retreat to advance, an exposure of the

+weakness of the French, and the administration of that shock which

+Napoleon’s army had only awaited to begin its flight.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER VIII

+

+Napoleon enters Moscow after the brilliant victory de la Moskowa; there

+can be no doubt about the victory for the battlefield remains in the

+hands of the French. The Russians retreat and abandon their ancient

+capital. Moscow, abounding in provisions, arms, munitions, and

+incalculable wealth, is in Napoleon’s hands. The Russian army, only half

+the strength of the French, does not make a single attempt to attack for

+a whole month. Napoleon’s position is most brilliant. He can either fall

+on the Russian army with double its strength and destroy it; negotiate

+an advantageous peace, or in case of a refusal make a menacing move on

+Petersburg, or even, in the case of a reverse, return to Smolénsk or

+Vílna; or remain in Moscow; in short, no special genius would seem to be

+required to retain the brilliant position the French held at that time.

+For that, only very simple and easy steps were necessary: not to allow

+the troops to loot, to prepare winter clothing—of which there was

+sufficient in Moscow for the whole army—and methodically to collect the

+provisions, of which (according to the French historians) there were

+enough in Moscow to supply the whole army for six months. Yet Napoleon,

+that greatest of all geniuses, who the historians declare had control of

+the army, took none of these steps.

+

+He not merely did nothing of the kind, but on the contrary he used his

+power to select the most foolish and ruinous of all the courses open

+to him. Of all that Napoleon might have done: wintering in Moscow,

+advancing on Petersburg or on Nízhni-Nóvgorod, or retiring by a more

+northerly or more southerly route (say by the road Kutúzov afterwards

+took), nothing more stupid or disastrous can be imagined than what he

+actually did. He remained in Moscow till October, letting the troops

+plunder the city; then, hesitating whether to leave a garrison behind

+him, he quitted Moscow, approached Kutúzov without joining battle,

+turned to the right and reached Málo-Yaroslávets, again without

+attempting to break through and take the road Kutúzov took, but retiring

+instead to Mozháysk along the devastated Smolénsk road. Nothing more

+stupid than that could have been devised, or more disastrous for the

+army, as the sequel showed. Had Napoleon’s aim been to destroy his army,

+the most skillful strategist could hardly have devised any series

+of actions that would so completely have accomplished that purpose,

+independently of anything the Russian army might do.

+

+Napoleon, the man of genius, did this! But to say that he destroyed his

+army because he wished to, or because he was very stupid, would be as

+unjust as to say that he had brought his troops to Moscow because he

+wished to and because he was very clever and a genius.

+

+In both cases his personal activity, having no more force than the

+personal activity of any soldier, merely coincided with the laws that

+guided the event.

+

+The historians quite falsely represent Napoleon’s faculties as having

+weakened in Moscow, and do so only because the results did not justify

+his actions. He employed all his ability and strength to do the best he

+could for himself and his army, as he had done previously and as he did

+subsequently in 1813. His activity at that time was no less astounding

+than it was in Egypt, in Italy, in Austria, and in Prussia. We do not

+know for certain in how far his genius was genuine in Egypt—where forty

+centuries looked down upon his grandeur—for his great exploits there are

+all told us by Frenchmen. We cannot accurately estimate his genius in

+Austria or Prussia, for we have to draw our information from French

+or German sources, and the incomprehensible surrender of whole corps

+without fighting and of fortresses without a siege must incline Germans

+to recognize his genius as the only explanation of the war carried on

+in Germany. But we, thank God, have no need to recognize his genius

+in order to hide our shame. We have paid for the right to look at the

+matter plainly and simply, and we will not abandon that right.

+

+His activity in Moscow was as amazing and as full of genius as

+elsewhere. Order after order and plan after plan were issued by him

+from the time he entered Moscow till the time he left it. The absence

+of citizens and of a deputation, and even the burning of Moscow, did not

+disconcert him. He did not lose sight either of the welfare of his

+army or of the doings of the enemy, or of the welfare of the people

+of Russia, or of the direction of affairs in Paris, or of diplomatic

+considerations concerning the terms of the anticipated peace.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER IX

+

+With regard to military matters, Napoleon immediately on his entry into

+Moscow gave General Sabastiani strict orders to observe the movements

+of the Russian army, sent army corps out along the different roads, and

+charged Murat to find Kutúzov. Then he gave careful directions about the

+fortification of the Krémlin, and drew up a brilliant plan for a future

+campaign over the whole map of Russia.

+

+With regard to diplomatic questions, Napoleon summoned Captain Yákovlev,

+who had been robbed and was in rags and did not know how to get out of

+Moscow, minutely explained to him his whole policy and his magnanimity,

+and having written a letter to the Emperor Alexander in which he

+considered it his duty to inform his Friend and Brother that Rostopchín

+had managed affairs badly in Moscow, he dispatched Yákovlev to

+Petersburg.

+

+Having similarly explained his views and his magnanimity to Tutólmin, he

+dispatched that old man also to Petersburg to negotiate.

+

+With regard to legal matters, immediately after the fires he gave orders

+to find and execute the incendiaries. And the scoundrel Rostopchín was

+punished by an order to burn down his houses.

+

+With regard to administrative matters, Moscow was granted a

+constitution. A municipality was established and the following

+announcement issued:

+

+

+INHABITANTS OF MOSCOW!

+

+Your misfortunes are cruel, but His Majesty the Emperor and King

+desires to arrest their course. Terrible examples have taught you how he

+punishes disobedience and crime. Strict measures have been taken to

+put an end to disorder and to re-establish public security. A

+paternal administration, chosen from among yourselves, will form your

+municipality or city government. It will take care of you, of your

+needs, and of your welfare. Its members will be distinguished by a red

+ribbon worn across the shoulder, and the mayor of the city will wear

+a white belt as well. But when not on duty they will only wear a red

+ribbon round the left arm.

+

+The city police is established on its former footing, and better order

+already prevails in consequence of its activity. The government has

+appointed two commissaries general, or chiefs of police, and twenty

+commissaries or captains of wards have been appointed to the different

+wards of the city. You will recognize them by the white ribbon they will

+wear on the left arm. Several churches of different denominations are

+open, and divine service is performed in them unhindered. Your fellow

+citizens are returning every day to their homes and orders have been

+given that they should find in them the help and protection due to

+their misfortunes. These are the measures the government has adopted to

+re-establish order and relieve your condition. But to achieve this

+aim it is necessary that you should add your efforts and should, if

+possible, forget the misfortunes you have suffered, should entertain

+the hope of a less cruel fate, should be certain that inevitable and

+ignominious death awaits those who make any attempt on your persons or

+on what remains of your property, and finally that you should not doubt

+that these will be safeguarded, since such is the will of the greatest

+and most just of monarchs. Soldiers and citizens, of whatever nation you

+may be, re-establish public confidence, the source of the welfare of

+a state, live like brothers, render mutual aid and protection one to

+another, unite to defeat the intentions of the evil-minded, obey the

+military and civil authorities, and your tears will soon cease to flow!

+

+

+With regard to supplies for the army, Napoleon decreed that all the

+troops in turn should enter Moscow à la maraude * to obtain provisions

+for themselves, so that the army might have its future provided for.

+

+    * As looters.

+

+With regard to religion, Napoleon ordered the priests to be brought back

+and services to be again performed in the churches.

+

+With regard to commerce and to provisioning the army, the following was

+placarded everywhere:

+

+PROCLAMATION

+

+You, peaceful inhabitants of Moscow, artisans and workmen whom

+misfortune has driven from the city, and you scattered tillers of

+the soil, still kept out in the fields by groundless fear, listen!

+Tranquillity is returning to this capital and order is being restored in

+it. Your fellow countrymen are emerging boldly from their hiding places

+on finding that they are respected. Any violence to them or to their

+property is promptly punished. His Majesty the Emperor and King protects

+them, and considers no one among you his enemy except those who disobey

+his orders. He desires to end your misfortunes and restore you to your

+homes and families. Respond, therefore, to his benevolent intentions

+and come to us without fear. Inhabitants, return with confidence to your

+abodes! You will soon find means of satisfying your needs. Craftsmen

+and industrious artisans, return to your work, your houses, your shops,

+where the protection of guards awaits you! You shall receive proper pay

+for your work. And lastly you too, peasants, come from the forests where

+you are hiding in terror, return to your huts without fear, in full

+assurance that you will find protection! Markets are established in the

+city where peasants can bring their surplus supplies and the products of

+the soil. The government has taken the following steps to ensure freedom

+of sale for them: (1) From today, peasants, husbandmen, and those

+living in the neighborhood of Moscow may without any danger bring their

+supplies of all kinds to two appointed markets, of which one is on

+the Mokhováya Street and the other at the Provision Market. (2) Such

+supplies will be bought from them at such prices as seller and buyer may

+agree on, and if a seller is unable to obtain a fair price he will be

+free to take his goods back to his village and no one may hinder him

+under any pretense. (3) Sunday and Wednesday of each week are appointed

+as the chief market days and to that end a sufficient number of troops

+will be stationed along the highroads on Tuesdays and Saturdays at such

+distances from the town as to protect the carts. (4) Similar measures

+will be taken that peasants with their carts and horses may meet with no

+hindrance on their return journey. (5) Steps will immediately be taken

+to re-establish ordinary trading.

+

+Inhabitants of the city and villages, and you, workingmen and artisans,

+to whatever nation you belong, you are called on to carry out the

+paternal intentions of His Majesty the Emperor and King and to

+co-operate with him for the public welfare! Lay your respect and

+confidence at his feet and do not delay to unite with us!

+

+

+With the object of raising the spirits of the troops and of the people,

+reviews were constantly held and rewards distributed. The Emperor

+rode through the streets to comfort the inhabitants, and, despite his

+preoccupation with state affairs, himself visited the theaters that were

+established by his order.

+

+In regard to philanthropy, the greatest virtue of crowned heads,

+Napoleon also did all in his power. He caused the words Maison de ma

+Mère to be inscribed on the charitable institutions, thereby combining

+tender filial affection with the majestic benevolence of a monarch. He

+visited the Foundling Hospital and, allowing the orphans saved by him

+to kiss his white hands, graciously conversed with Tutólmin. Then, as

+Thiers eloquently recounts, he ordered his soldiers to be paid in forged

+Russian money which he had prepared: “Raising the use of these means

+by an act worthy of himself and of the French army, he let relief

+be distributed to those who had been burned out. But as food was too

+precious to be given to foreigners, who were for the most part enemies,

+Napoleon preferred to supply them with money with which to purchase food

+from outside, and had paper rubles distributed to them.”

+

+With reference to army discipline, orders were continually being issued

+to inflict severe punishment for the nonperformance of military duties

+and to suppress robbery.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER X

+

+But strange to say, all these measures, efforts, and plans—which were

+not at all worse than others issued in similar circumstances—did not

+affect the essence of the matter but, like the hands of a clock detached

+from the mechanism, swung about in an arbitrary and aimless way without

+engaging the cogwheels.

+

+With reference to the military side—the plan of campaign—that work of

+genius of which Thiers remarks that, “His genius never devised anything

+more profound, more skillful, or more admirable,” and enters into a

+polemic with M. Fain to prove that this work of genius must be referred

+not to the fourth but to the fifteenth of October—that plan never was or

+could be executed, for it was quite out of touch with the facts of the

+case. The fortifying of the Krémlin, for which la Mosquée (as Napoleon

+termed the church of Basil the Beatified) was to have been razed to

+the ground, proved quite useless. The mining of the Krémlin only helped

+toward fulfilling Napoleon’s wish that it should be blown up when he

+left Moscow—as a child wants the floor on which he has hurt himself to

+be beaten. The pursuit of the Russian army, about which Napoleon was so

+concerned, produced an unheard-of result. The French generals lost touch

+with the Russian army of sixty thousand men, and according to Thiers it

+was only eventually found, like a lost pin, by the skill—and apparently

+the genius—of Murat.

+

+With reference to diplomacy, all Napoleon’s arguments as to his

+magnanimity and justice, both to Tutólmin and to Yákovlev (whose chief

+concern was to obtain a greatcoat and a conveyance), proved useless;

+Alexander did not receive these envoys and did not reply to their

+embassage.

+

+With regard to legal matters, after the execution of the supposed

+incendiaries the rest of Moscow burned down.

+

+With regard to administrative matters, the establishment of a

+municipality did not stop the robberies and was only of use to certain

+people who formed part of that municipality and under pretext of

+preserving order looted Moscow or saved their own property from being

+looted.

+

+With regard to religion, as to which in Egypt matters had so easily been

+settled by Napoleon’s visit to a mosque, no results were achieved.

+Two or three priests who were found in Moscow did try to carry out

+Napoleon’s wish, but one of them was slapped in the face by a French

+soldier while conducting service, and a French official reported of

+another that: “The priest whom I found and invited to say Mass cleaned

+and locked up the church. That night the doors were again broken

+open, the padlocks smashed, the books mutilated, and other disorders

+perpetrated.”

+

+With reference to commerce, the proclamation to industrious workmen and

+to peasants evoked no response. There were no industrious workmen, and

+the peasants caught the commissaries who ventured too far out of town

+with the proclamation and killed them.

+

+As to the theaters for the entertainment of the people and the troops,

+these did not meet with success either. The theaters set up in the

+Krémlin and in Posnyákov’s house were closed again at once because the

+actors and actresses were robbed.

+

+Even philanthropy did not have the desired effect. The genuine as

+well as the false paper money which flooded Moscow lost its value. The

+French, collecting booty, cared only for gold. Not only was the

+paper money valueless which Napoleon so graciously distributed to the

+unfortunate, but even silver lost its value in relation to gold.

+

+But the most amazing example of the ineffectiveness of the orders given

+by the authorities at that time was Napoleon’s attempt to stop the

+looting and re-establish discipline.

+

+This is what the army authorities were reporting:

+

+“Looting continues in the city despite the decrees against it. Order

+is not yet restored and not a single merchant is carrying on trade in a

+lawful manner. The sutlers alone venture to trade, and they sell stolen

+goods.”

+

+“The neighborhood of my ward continues to be pillaged by soldiers of

+the 3rd Corps who, not satisfied with taking from the unfortunate

+inhabitants hiding in the cellars the little they have left, even have

+the ferocity to wound them with their sabers, as I have repeatedly

+witnessed.”

+

+“Nothing new, except that the soldiers are robbing and pillaging—October

+9.”

+

+“Robbery and pillaging continue. There is a band of thieves in our

+district who ought to be arrested by a strong force—October 11.”

+

+“The Emperor is extremely displeased that despite the strict orders to

+stop pillage, parties of marauding Guards are continually seen returning

+to the Krémlin. Among the Old Guard disorder and pillage were renewed

+more violently than ever yesterday evening, last night, and today. The

+Emperor sees with regret that the picked soldiers appointed to guard his

+person, who should set an example of discipline, carry disobedience to

+such a point that they break into the cellars and stores containing army

+supplies. Others have disgraced themselves to the extent of disobeying

+sentinels and officers, and have abused and beaten them.”

+

+“The Grand Marshal of the palace,” wrote the governor, “complains

+bitterly that in spite of repeated orders, the soldiers continue to

+commit nuisances in all the courtyards and even under the very windows

+of the Emperor.”

+

+That army, like a herd of cattle run wild and trampling underfoot the

+provender which might have saved it from starvation, disintegrated and

+perished with each additional day it remained in Moscow. But it did not

+go away.

+

+It began to run away only when suddenly seized by a panic caused by the

+capture of transport trains on the Smolénsk road, and by the battle of

+Tarútino. The news of that battle of Tarútino, unexpectedly received

+by Napoleon at a review, evoked in him a desire to punish the Russians

+(Thiers says), and he issued the order for departure which the whole

+army was demanding.

+

+Fleeing from Moscow the soldiers took with them everything they had

+stolen. Napoleon, too, carried away his own personal trésor, but on

+seeing the baggage trains that impeded the army, he was (Thiers says)

+horror-struck. And yet with his experience of war he did not order all

+the superfluous vehicles to be burned, as he had done with those of a

+certain marshal when approaching Moscow. He gazed at the calèches and

+carriages in which soldiers were riding and remarked that it was a very

+good thing, as those vehicles could be used to carry provisions, the

+sick, and the wounded.

+

+The plight of the whole army resembled that of a wounded animal which

+feels it is perishing and does not know what it is doing. To study the

+skillful tactics and aims of Napoleon and his army from the time it

+entered Moscow till it was destroyed is like studying the dying leaps

+and shudders of a mortally wounded animal. Very often a wounded animal,

+hearing a rustle, rushes straight at the hunter’s gun, runs forward and

+back again, and hastens its own end. Napoleon, under pressure from his

+whole army, did the same thing. The rustle of the battle of Tarútino

+frightened the beast, and it rushed forward onto the hunter’s gun,

+reached him, turned back, and finally—like any wild beast—ran back along

+the most disadvantageous and dangerous path, where the old scent was

+familiar.

+

+During the whole of that period Napoleon, who seems to us to have been

+the leader of all these movements—as the figurehead of a ship may seem

+to a savage to guide the vessel—acted like a child who, holding a couple

+of strings inside a carriage, thinks he is driving it.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XI

+

+Early in the morning of the sixth of October Pierre went out of the

+shed, and on returning stopped by the door to play with a little

+blue-gray dog, with a long body and short bandy legs, that jumped about

+him. This little dog lived in their shed, sleeping beside Karatáev at

+night; it sometimes made excursions into the town but always returned

+again. Probably it had never had an owner, and it still belonged to

+nobody and had no name. The French called it Azor; the soldier who

+told stories called it Femgálka; Karatáev and others called it Gray, or

+sometimes Flabby. Its lack of a master, a name, or even of a breed or

+any definite color did not seem to trouble the blue-gray dog in the

+least. Its furry tail stood up firm and round as a plume, its bandy legs

+served it so well that it would often gracefully lift a hind leg and run

+very easily and quickly on three legs, as if disdaining to use all

+four. Everything pleased it. Now it would roll on its back, yelping with

+delight, now bask in the sun with a thoughtful air of importance, and

+now frolic about playing with a chip of wood or a straw.

+

+Pierre’s attire by now consisted of a dirty torn shirt (the only

+remnant of his former clothing), a pair of soldier’s trousers which by

+Karatáev’s advice he tied with string round the ankles for warmth, and

+a peasant coat and cap. Physically he had changed much during this

+time. He no longer seemed stout, though he still had the appearance of

+solidity and strength hereditary in his family. A beard and mustache

+covered the lower part of his face, and a tangle of hair, infested

+with lice, curled round his head like a cap. The look of his eyes

+was resolute, calm, and animatedly alert, as never before. The former

+slackness which had shown itself even in his eyes was now replaced by an

+energetic readiness for action and resistance. His feet were bare.

+

+Pierre first looked down the field across which vehicles and horsemen

+were passing that morning, then into the distance across the river, then

+at the dog who was pretending to be in earnest about biting him,

+and then at his bare feet which he placed with pleasure in various

+positions, moving his dirty thick big toes. Every time he looked at his

+bare feet a smile of animated self-satisfaction flitted across his face.

+The sight of them reminded him of all he had experienced and learned

+during these weeks and this recollection was pleasant to him.

+

+For some days the weather had been calm and clear with slight frosts in

+the mornings—what is called an “old wives’ summer.”

+

+In the sunshine the air was warm, and that warmth was particularly

+pleasant with the invigorating freshness of the morning frost still in

+the air.

+

+On everything—far and near—lay the magic crystal glitter seen only at

+that time of autumn. The Sparrow Hills were visible in the distance,

+with the village, the church, and the large white house. The bare trees,

+the sand, the bricks and roofs of the houses, the green church spire,

+and the corners of the white house in the distance, all stood out in the

+transparent air in most delicate outline and with unnatural clearness.

+Near by could be seen the familiar ruins of a half-burned mansion

+occupied by the French, with lilac bushes still showing dark green

+beside the fence. And even that ruined and befouled house—which in dull

+weather was repulsively ugly—seemed quietly beautiful now, in the clear,

+motionless brilliance.

+

+A French corporal, with coat unbuttoned in a homely way, a skullcap on

+his head, and a short pipe in his mouth, came from behind a corner of

+the shed and approached Pierre with a friendly wink.

+

+“What sunshine, Monsieur Kiril!” (Their name for Pierre.) “Eh? Just like

+spring!”

+

+And the corporal leaned against the door and offered Pierre his pipe,

+though whenever he offered it Pierre always declined it.

+

+“To be on the march in such weather...” he began.

+

+Pierre inquired what was being said about leaving, and the corporal told

+him that nearly all the troops were starting and there ought to be an

+order about the prisoners that day. Sokolóv, one of the soldiers in the

+shed with Pierre, was dying, and Pierre told the corporal that something

+should be done about him. The corporal replied that Pierre need not

+worry about that as they had an ambulance and a permanent hospital and

+arrangements would be made for the sick, and that in general everything

+that could happen had been foreseen by the authorities.

+

+“Besides, Monsieur Kiril, you have only to say a word to the captain,

+you know. He is a man who never forgets anything. Speak to the captain

+when he makes his round, he will do anything for you.”

+

+(The captain of whom the corporal spoke often had long chats with Pierre

+and showed him all sorts of favors.)

+

+“‘You see, St. Thomas,’ he said to me the other day. ‘Monsieur Kiril is

+a man of education, who speaks French. He is a Russian seigneur who has

+had misfortunes, but he is a man. He knows what’s what.... If he wants

+anything and asks me, he won’t get a refusal. When one has studied, you

+see, one likes education and well-bred people.’ It is for your sake I

+mention it, Monsieur Kiril. The other day if it had not been for you

+that affair would have ended ill.”

+

+And after chatting a while longer, the corporal went away. (The affair

+he had alluded to had happened a few days before—a fight between the

+prisoners and the French soldiers, in which Pierre had succeeded in

+pacifying his comrades.) Some of the prisoners who had heard Pierre

+talking to the corporal immediately asked what the Frenchman had said.

+While Pierre was repeating what he had been told about the army leaving

+Moscow, a thin, sallow, tattered French soldier came up to the door of

+the shed. Rapidly and timidly raising his fingers to his forehead by way

+of greeting, he asked Pierre whether the soldier Platoche to whom he had

+given a shirt to sew was in that shed.

+

+A week before the French had had boot leather and linen issued to them,

+which they had given out to the prisoners to make up into boots and

+shirts for them.

+

+“Ready, ready, dear fellow!” said Karatáev, coming out with a neatly

+folded shirt.

+

+Karatáev, on account of the warm weather and for convenience at work,

+was wearing only trousers and a tattered shirt as black as soot. His

+hair was bound round, workman fashion, with a wisp of lime-tree bast,

+and his round face seemed rounder and pleasanter than ever.

+

+“A promise is own brother to performance! I said Friday and here it is,

+ready,” said Platón, smiling and unfolding the shirt he had sewn.

+

+The Frenchman glanced around uneasily and then, as if overcoming his

+hesitation, rapidly threw off his uniform and put on the shirt. He had

+a long, greasy, flowered silk waistcoat next to his sallow, thin bare

+body, but no shirt. He was evidently afraid the prisoners looking on

+would laugh at him, and thrust his head into the shirt hurriedly. None

+of the prisoners said a word.

+

+“See, it fits well!” Platón kept repeating, pulling the shirt straight.

+

+The Frenchman, having pushed his head and hands through, without raising

+his eyes, looked down at the shirt and examined the seams.

+

+“You see, dear man, this is not a sewing shop, and I had no proper

+tools; and, as they say, one needs a tool even to kill a louse,” said

+Platón with one of his round smiles, obviously pleased with his work.

+

+“It’s good, quite good, thank you,” said the Frenchman, in French, “but

+there must be some linen left over.”

+

+“It will fit better still when it sets to your body,” said Karatáev,

+still admiring his handiwork. “You’ll be nice and comfortable....”

+

+“Thanks, thanks, old fellow.... But the bits left over?” said the

+Frenchman again and smiled. He took out an assignation ruble note and

+gave it to Karatáev. “But give me the pieces that are over.”

+

+Pierre saw that Platón did not want to understand what the Frenchman

+was saying, and he looked on without interfering. Karatáev thanked the

+Frenchman for the money and went on admiring his own work. The Frenchman

+insisted on having the pieces returned that were left over and asked

+Pierre to translate what he said.

+

+“What does he want the bits for?” said Karatáev. “They’d make fine leg

+bands for us. Well, never mind.”

+

+And Karatáev, with a suddenly changed and saddened expression, took

+a small bundle of scraps from inside his shirt and gave it to the

+Frenchman without looking at him. “Oh dear!” muttered Karatáev and went

+away. The Frenchman looked at the linen, considered for a moment, then

+looked inquiringly at Pierre and, as if Pierre’s look had told him

+something, suddenly blushed and shouted in a squeaky voice:

+

+“Platoche! Eh, Platoche! Keep them yourself!” And handing back the odd

+bits he turned and went out.

+

+“There, look at that,” said Karatáev, swaying his head. “People said

+they were not Christians, but they too have souls. It’s what the old

+folk used to say: ‘A sweating hand’s an open hand, a dry hand’s close.’

+He’s naked, but yet he’s given it back.”

+

+Karatáev smiled thoughtfully and was silent awhile looking at the

+pieces.

+

+“But they’ll make grand leg bands, dear friend,” he said, and went back

+into the shed.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XII

+

+Four weeks had passed since Pierre had been taken prisoner and though

+the French had offered to move him from the men’s to the officers’ shed,

+he had stayed in the shed where he was first put.

+

+In burned and devastated Moscow Pierre experienced almost the extreme

+limits of privation a man can endure; but thanks to his physical

+strength and health, of which he had till then been unconscious, and

+thanks especially to the fact that the privations came so gradually that

+it was impossible to say when they began, he endured his position

+not only lightly but joyfully. And just at this time he obtained the

+tranquillity and ease of mind he had formerly striven in vain to reach.

+He had long sought in different ways that tranquillity of mind, that

+inner harmony which had so impressed him in the soldiers at the battle

+of Borodinó. He had sought it in philanthropy, in Freemasonry, in the

+dissipations of town life, in wine, in heroic feats of self-sacrifice,

+and in romantic love for Natásha; he had sought it by reasoning—and all

+these quests and experiments had failed him. And now without thinking

+about it he had found that peace and inner harmony only through the

+horror of death, through privation, and through what he recognized in

+Karatáev.

+

+Those dreadful moments he had lived through at the executions had as it

+were forever washed away from his imagination and memory the agitating

+thoughts and feelings that had formerly seemed so important. It did

+not now occur to him to think of Russia, or the war, or politics, or

+Napoleon. It was plain to him that all these things were no business

+of his, and that he was not called on to judge concerning them and

+therefore could not do so. “Russia and summer weather are not bound

+together,” he thought, repeating words of Karatáev’s which he found

+strangely consoling. His intention of killing Napoleon and his

+calculations of the cabalistic number of the beast of the Apocalypse now

+seemed to him meaningless and even ridiculous. His anger with his wife

+and anxiety that his name should not be smirched now seemed not merely

+trivial but even amusing. What concern was it of his that somewhere or

+other that woman was leading the life she preferred? What did it matter

+to anybody, and especially to him, whether or not they found out that

+their prisoner’s name was Count Bezúkhov?

+

+He now often remembered his conversation with Prince Andrew and quite

+agreed with him, though he understood Prince Andrew’s thoughts somewhat

+differently. Prince Andrew had thought and said that happiness could

+only be negative, but had said it with a shade of bitterness and irony

+as though he was really saying that all desire for positive happiness is

+implanted in us merely to torment us and never be satisfied. But Pierre

+believed it without any mental reservation. The absence of suffering,

+the satisfaction of one’s needs and consequent freedom in the choice of

+one’s occupation, that is, of one’s way of life, now seemed to Pierre to

+be indubitably man’s highest happiness. Here and now for the first time

+he fully appreciated the enjoyment of eating when he wanted to eat,

+drinking when he wanted to drink, sleeping when he wanted to sleep, of

+warmth when he was cold, of talking to a fellow man when he wished to

+talk and to hear a human voice. The satisfaction of one’s needs—good

+food, cleanliness, and freedom—now that he was deprived of all this,

+seemed to Pierre to constitute perfect happiness; and the choice

+of occupation, that is, of his way of life—now that that was so

+restricted—seemed to him such an easy matter that he forgot that a

+superfluity of the comforts of life destroys all joy in satisfying one’s

+needs, while great freedom in the choice of occupation—such freedom as

+his wealth, his education, and his social position had given him in his

+own life—is just what makes the choice of occupation insolubly difficult

+and destroys the desire and possibility of having an occupation.

+

+All Pierre’s daydreams now turned on the time when he would be free. Yet

+subsequently, and for the rest of his life, he thought and spoke with

+enthusiasm of that month of captivity, of those irrecoverable, strong,

+joyful sensations, and chiefly of the complete peace of mind and inner

+freedom which he experienced only during those weeks.

+

+When on the first day he got up early, went out of the shed at dawn, and

+saw the cupolas and crosses of the New Convent of the Virgin still dark

+at first, the hoarfrost on the dusty grass, the Sparrow Hills, and the

+wooded banks above the winding river vanishing in the purple distance,

+when he felt the contact of the fresh air and heard the noise of the

+crows flying from Moscow across the field, and when afterwards light

+gleamed from the east and the sun’s rim appeared solemnly from behind a

+cloud, and the cupolas and crosses, the hoarfrost, the distance and the

+river, all began to sparkle in the glad light—Pierre felt a new joy and

+strength in life such as he had never before known. And this not only

+stayed with him during the whole of his imprisonment, but even grew in

+strength as the hardships of his position increased.

+

+That feeling of alertness and of readiness for anything was still

+further strengthened in him by the high opinion his fellow prisoners

+formed of him soon after his arrival at the shed. With his knowledge

+of languages, the respect shown him by the French, his simplicity, his

+readiness to give anything asked of him (he received the allowance

+of three rubles a week made to officers); with his strength, which he

+showed to the soldiers by pressing nails into the walls of the hut; his

+gentleness to his companions, and his capacity for sitting still and

+thinking without doing anything (which seemed to them incomprehensible),

+he appeared to them a rather mysterious and superior being. The very

+qualities that had been a hindrance, if not actually harmful, to him in

+the world he had lived in—his strength, his disdain for the comforts of

+life, his absent-mindedness and simplicity—here among these people gave

+him almost the status of a hero. And Pierre felt that their opinion

+placed responsibilities upon him.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XIII

+

+The French evacuation began on the night between the sixth and seventh

+of October: kitchens and sheds were dismantled, carts loaded, and troops

+and baggage trains started.

+

+At seven in the morning a French convoy in marching trim, wearing shakos

+and carrying muskets, knapsacks, and enormous sacks, stood in front

+of the sheds, and animated French talk mingled with curses sounded all

+along the lines.

+

+In the shed everyone was ready, dressed, belted, shod, and only awaited

+the order to start. The sick soldier, Sokolóv, pale and thin with dark

+shadows round his eyes, alone sat in his place barefoot and not dressed.

+His eyes, prominent from the emaciation of his face, gazed inquiringly

+at his comrades who were paying no attention to him, and he moaned

+regularly and quietly. It was evidently not so much his sufferings that

+caused him to moan (he had dysentery) as his fear and grief at being

+left alone.

+

+Pierre, girt with a rope round his waist and wearing shoes Karatáev had

+made for him from some leather a French soldier had torn off a tea chest

+and brought to have his boots mended with, went up to the sick man and

+squatted down beside him.

+

+“You know, Sokolóv, they are not all going away! They have a hospital

+here. You may be better off than we others,” said Pierre.

+

+“O Lord! Oh, it will be the death of me! O Lord!” moaned the man in a

+louder voice.

+

+“I’ll go and ask them again directly,” said Pierre, rising and going to

+the door of the shed.

+

+Just as Pierre reached the door, the corporal who had offered him a

+pipe the day before came up to it with two soldiers. The corporal and

+soldiers were in marching kit with knapsacks and shakos that had metal

+straps, and these changed their familiar faces.

+

+The corporal came, according to orders, to shut the door. The prisoners

+had to be counted before being let out.

+

+“Corporal, what will they do with the sick man?...” Pierre began.

+

+But even as he spoke he began to doubt whether this was the corporal

+he knew or a stranger, so unlike himself did the corporal seem at that

+moment. Moreover, just as Pierre was speaking a sharp rattle of drums

+was suddenly heard from both sides. The corporal frowned at Pierre’s

+words and, uttering some meaningless oaths, slammed the door. The shed

+became semidark, and the sharp rattle of the drums on two sides drowned

+the sick man’s groans.

+

+“There it is!... It again!...” said Pierre to himself, and an

+involuntary shudder ran down his spine. In the corporal’s changed face,

+in the sound of his voice, in the stirring and deafening noise of the

+drums, he recognized that mysterious, callous force which compelled

+people against their will to kill their fellow men—that force the effect

+of which he had witnessed during the executions. To fear or to try to

+escape that force, to address entreaties or exhortations to those who

+served as its tools, was useless. Pierre knew this now. One had to wait

+and endure. He did not again go to the sick man, nor turn to look at

+him, but stood frowning by the door of the hut.

+

+When that door was opened and the prisoners, crowding against one

+another like a flock of sheep, squeezed into the exit, Pierre pushed

+his way forward and approached that very captain who as the corporal had

+assured him was ready to do anything for him. The captain was also in

+marching kit, and on his cold face appeared that same it which Pierre

+had recognized in the corporal’s words and in the roll of the drums.

+

+“Pass on, pass on!” the captain reiterated, frowning sternly, and

+looking at the prisoners who thronged past him.

+

+Pierre went up to him, though he knew his attempt would be vain.

+

+“What now?” the officer asked with a cold look as if not recognizing

+Pierre.

+

+Pierre told him about the sick man.

+

+“He’ll manage to walk, devil take him!” said the captain. “Pass on, pass

+on!” he continued without looking at Pierre.

+

+“But he is dying,” Pierre again began.

+

+“Be so good...” shouted the captain, frowning angrily.

+

+“Dram-da-da-dam, dam-dam...” rattled the drums, and Pierre understood

+that this mysterious force completely controlled these men and that it

+was now useless to say any more.

+

+The officer prisoners were separated from the soldiers and told to march

+in front. There were about thirty officers, with Pierre among them, and

+about three hundred men.

+

+The officers, who had come from the other sheds, were all strangers to

+Pierre and much better dressed than he. They looked at him and at his

+shoes mistrustfully, as at an alien. Not far from him walked a fat major

+with a sallow, bloated, angry face, who was wearing a Kazán dressing

+gown tied round with a towel, and who evidently enjoyed the respect of

+his fellow prisoners. He kept one hand, in which he clasped his tobacco

+pouch, inside the bosom of his dressing gown and held the stem of his

+pipe firmly with the other. Panting and puffing, the major grumbled and

+growled at everybody because he thought he was being pushed and that

+they were all hurrying when they had nowhere to hurry to and were

+all surprised at something when there was nothing to be surprised at.

+Another, a thin little officer, was speaking to everyone, conjecturing

+where they were now being taken and how far they would get that day. An

+official in felt boots and wearing a commissariat uniform ran round from

+side to side and gazed at the ruins of Moscow, loudly announcing his

+observations as to what had been burned down and what this or that part

+of the city was that they could see. A third officer, who by his accent

+was a Pole, disputed with the commissariat officer, arguing that he was

+mistaken in his identification of the different wards of Moscow.

+

+“What are you disputing about?” said the major angrily. “What does it

+matter whether it is St. Nicholas or St. Blasius? You see it’s burned

+down, and there’s an end of it.... What are you pushing for? Isn’t the

+road wide enough?” said he, turning to a man behind him who was not

+pushing him at all.

+

+“Oh, oh, oh! What have they done?” the prisoners on one side and another

+were heard saying as they gazed on the charred ruins. “All beyond the

+river, and Zúbova, and in the Krémlin.... Just look! There’s not half of

+it left. Yes, I told you—the whole quarter beyond the river, and so it

+is.”

+

+“Well, you know it’s burned, so what’s the use of talking?” said the

+major.

+

+As they passed near a church in the Khamóvniki (one of the few unburned

+quarters of Moscow) the whole mass of prisoners suddenly started to one

+side and exclamations of horror and disgust were heard.

+

+“Ah, the villains! What heathens! Yes; dead, dead, so he is... And

+smeared with something!”

+

+Pierre too drew near the church where the thing was that evoked these

+exclamations, and dimly made out something leaning against the palings

+surrounding the church. From the words of his comrades who saw better

+than he did, he found that this was the body of a man, set upright

+against the palings with its face smeared with soot.

+

+“Go on! What the devil... Go on! Thirty thousand devils!...” the convoy

+guards began cursing and the French soldiers, with fresh virulence,

+drove away with their swords the crowd of prisoners who were gazing at

+the dead man.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XIV

+

+Through the cross streets of the Khamóvniki quarter the prisoners

+marched, followed only by their escort and the vehicles and wagons

+belonging to that escort, but when they reached the supply stores they

+came among a huge and closely packed train of artillery mingled with

+private vehicles.

+

+At the bridge they all halted, waiting for those in front to get across.

+From the bridge they had a view of endless lines of moving baggage

+trains before and behind them. To the right, where the Kalúga road turns

+near Neskúchny, endless rows of troops and carts stretched away into

+the distance. These were troops of Beauharnais’ corps which had started

+before any of the others. Behind, along the riverside and across the

+Stone Bridge, were Ney’s troops and transport.

+

+Davout’s troops, in whose charge were the prisoners, were crossing the

+Crimean bridge and some were already debouching into the Kalúga road.

+But the baggage trains stretched out so that the last of Beauharnais’

+train had not yet got out of Moscow and reached the Kalúga road when

+the vanguard of Ney’s army was already emerging from the Great Ordýnka

+Street.

+

+When they had crossed the Crimean bridge the prisoners moved a few steps

+forward, halted, and again moved on, and from all sides vehicles and men

+crowded closer and closer together. They advanced the few hundred paces

+that separated the bridge from the Kalúga road, taking more than an

+hour to do so, and came out upon the square where the streets of the

+Transmoskvá ward and the Kalúga road converge, and the prisoners jammed

+close together had to stand for some hours at that crossway. From all

+sides, like the roar of the sea, were heard the rattle of wheels, the

+tramp of feet, and incessant shouts of anger and abuse. Pierre stood

+pressed against the wall of a charred house, listening to that noise

+which mingled in his imagination with the roll of the drums.

+

+To get a better view, several officer prisoners climbed onto the wall of

+the half-burned house against which Pierre was leaning.

+

+“What crowds! Just look at the crowds!... They’ve loaded goods even on

+the cannon! Look there, those are furs!” they exclaimed. “Just see what

+the blackguards have looted.... There! See what that one has behind

+in the cart.... Why, those are settings taken from some icons, by

+heaven!... Oh, the rascals!... See how that fellow has loaded

+himself up, he can hardly walk! Good lord, they’ve even grabbed those

+chaises!... See that fellow there sitting on the trunks.... Heavens!

+They’re fighting.”

+

+“That’s right, hit him on the snout—on his snout! Like this, we

+shan’t get away before evening. Look, look there.... Why, that must be

+Napoleon’s own. See what horses! And the monograms with a crown! It’s

+like a portable house.... That fellow’s dropped his sack and doesn’t see

+it. Fighting again... A woman with a baby, and not bad-looking either!

+Yes, I dare say, that’s the way they’ll let you pass.... Just look,

+there’s no end to it. Russian wenches, by heaven, so they are! In

+carriages—see how comfortably they’ve settled themselves!”

+

+Again, as at the church in Khamóvniki, a wave of general curiosity

+bore all the prisoners forward onto the road, and Pierre, thanks to

+his stature, saw over the heads of the others what so attracted their

+curiosity. In three carriages involved among the munition carts, closely

+squeezed together, sat women with rouged faces, dressed in glaring

+colors, who were shouting something in shrill voices.

+

+From the moment Pierre had recognized the appearance of the mysterious

+force nothing had seemed to him strange or dreadful: neither the corpse

+smeared with soot for fun nor these women hurrying away nor the burned

+ruins of Moscow. All that he now witnessed scarcely made an impression

+on him—as if his soul, making ready for a hard struggle, refused to

+receive impressions that might weaken it.

+

+The women’s vehicles drove by. Behind them came more carts, soldiers,

+wagons, soldiers, gun carriages, carriages, soldiers, ammunition carts,

+more soldiers, and now and then women.

+

+Pierre did not see the people as individuals but saw their movement.

+

+All these people and horses seemed driven forward by some invisible

+power. During the hour Pierre watched them they all came flowing from

+the different streets with one and the same desire to get on quickly;

+they all jostled one another, began to grow angry and to fight, white

+teeth gleamed, brows frowned, ever the same words of abuse flew from

+side to side, and all the faces bore the same swaggeringly resolute

+and coldly cruel expression that had struck Pierre that morning on the

+corporal’s face when the drums were beating.

+

+It was not till nearly evening that the officer commanding the escort

+collected his men and with shouts and quarrels forced his way in among

+the baggage trains, and the prisoners, hemmed in on all sides, emerged

+onto the Kalúga road.

+

+They marched very quickly, without resting, and halted only when the sun

+began to set. The baggage carts drew up close together and the men

+began to prepare for their night’s rest. They all appeared angry and

+dissatisfied. For a long time, oaths, angry shouts, and fighting could

+be heard from all sides. A carriage that followed the escort ran

+into one of the carts and knocked a hole in it with its pole. Several

+soldiers ran toward the cart from different sides: some beat the

+carriage horses on their heads, turning them aside, others fought among

+themselves, and Pierre saw that one German was badly wounded on the head

+by a sword.

+

+It seemed that all these men, now that they had stopped amid fields

+in the chill dusk of the autumn evening, experienced one and the same

+feeling of unpleasant awakening from the hurry and eagerness to push on

+that had seized them at the start. Once at a standstill they all seemed

+to understand that they did not yet know where they were going, and that

+much that was painful and difficult awaited them on this journey.

+

+During this halt the escort treated the prisoners even worse than they

+had done at the start. It was here that the prisoners for the first time

+received horseflesh for their meat ration.

+

+From the officer down to the lowest soldier they showed what seemed like

+personal spite against each of the prisoners, in unexpected contrast to

+their former friendly relations.

+

+This spite increased still more when, on calling over the roll of

+prisoners, it was found that in the bustle of leaving Moscow one Russian

+soldier, who had pretended to suffer from colic, had escaped. Pierre saw

+a Frenchman beat a Russian soldier cruelly for straying too far from

+the road, and heard his friend the captain reprimand and threaten to

+court-martial a noncommissioned officer on account of the escape of the

+Russian. To the noncommissioned officer’s excuse that the prisoner was

+ill and could not walk, the officer replied that the order was to shoot

+those who lagged behind. Pierre felt that that fatal force which had

+crushed him during the executions, but which he had not felt during his

+imprisonment, now again controlled his existence. It was terrible, but

+he felt that in proportion to the efforts of that fatal force to crush

+him, there grew and strengthened in his soul a power of life independent

+of it.

+

+He ate his supper of buckwheat soup with horseflesh and chatted with his

+comrades.

+

+Neither Pierre nor any of the others spoke of what they had seen in

+Moscow, or of the roughness of their treatment by the French, or of the

+order to shoot them which had been announced to them. As if in reaction

+against the worsening of their position they were all particularly

+animated and gay. They spoke of personal reminiscences, of amusing

+scenes they had witnessed during the campaign, and avoided all talk of

+their present situation.

+

+The sun had set long since. Bright stars shone out here and there in the

+sky. A red glow as of a conflagration spread above the horizon from the

+rising full moon, and that vast red ball swayed strangely in the gray

+haze. It grew light. The evening was ending, but the night had not yet

+come. Pierre got up and left his new companions, crossing between the

+campfires to the other side of the road where he had been told the

+common soldier prisoners were stationed. He wanted to talk to them. On

+the road he was stopped by a French sentinel who ordered him back.

+

+Pierre turned back, not to his companions by the campfire, but to an

+unharnessed cart where there was nobody. Tucking his legs under him and

+dropping his head he sat down on the cold ground by the wheel of the

+cart and remained motionless a long while sunk in thought. Suddenly he

+burst out into a fit of his broad, good-natured laughter, so loud that

+men from various sides turned with surprise to see what this strange and

+evidently solitary laughter could mean.

+

+“Ha-ha-ha!” laughed Pierre. And he said aloud to himself: “The soldier

+did not let me pass. They took me and shut me up. They hold me captive.

+What, me? Me? My immortal soul? Ha-ha-ha! Ha-ha-ha!...” and he laughed

+till tears started to his eyes.

+

+A man got up and came to see what this queer big fellow was laughing at

+all by himself. Pierre stopped laughing, got up, went farther away from

+the inquisitive man, and looked around him.

+

+The huge, endless bivouac that had previously resounded with the

+crackling of campfires and the voices of many men had grown quiet, the

+red campfires were growing paler and dying down. High up in the light

+sky hung the full moon. Forests and fields beyond the camp, unseen

+before, were now visible in the distance. And farther still, beyond

+those forests and fields, the bright, oscillating, limitless distance

+lured one to itself. Pierre glanced up at the sky and the twinkling

+stars in its faraway depths. “And all that is me, all that is within me,

+and it is all I!” thought Pierre. “And they caught all that and put it

+into a shed boarded up with planks!” He smiled, and went and lay down to

+sleep beside his companions.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XV

+

+In the early days of October another envoy came to Kutúzov with a letter

+from Napoleon proposing peace and falsely dated from Moscow, though

+Napoleon was already not far from Kutúzov on the old Kalúga road.

+Kutúzov replied to this letter as he had done to the one formerly

+brought by Lauriston, saying that there could be no question of peace.

+

+Soon after that a report was received from Dórokhov’s guerrilla

+detachment operating to the left of Tarútino that troops of Broussier’s

+division had been seen at Formínsk and that being separated from the

+rest of the French army they might easily be destroyed. The soldiers and

+officers again demanded action. Generals on the staff, excited by the

+memory of the easy victory at Tarútino, urged Kutúzov to carry out

+Dórokhov’s suggestion. Kutúzov did not consider any offensive necessary.

+The result was a compromise which was inevitable: a small detachment was

+sent to Formínsk to attack Broussier.

+

+By a strange coincidence, this task, which turned out to be a most

+difficult and important one, was entrusted to Dokhtúrov—that same modest

+little Dokhtúrov whom no one had described to us as drawing up plans

+of battles, dashing about in front of regiments, showering crosses on

+batteries, and so on, and who was thought to be and was spoken of as

+undecided and undiscerning—but whom we find commanding wherever the

+position was most difficult all through the Russo-French wars from

+Austerlitz to the year 1813. At Austerlitz he remained last at the

+Augezd dam, rallying the regiments, saving what was possible when all

+were flying and perishing and not a single general was left in the rear

+guard. Ill with fever he went to Smolénsk with twenty thousand men

+to defend the town against Napoleon’s whole army. In Smolénsk, at the

+Malákhov Gate, he had hardly dozed off in a paroxysm of fever before he

+was awakened by the bombardment of the town—and Smolénsk held out all

+day long. At the battle of Borodinó, when Bagratión was killed and nine

+tenths of the men of our left flank had fallen and the full force of the

+French artillery fire was directed against it, the man sent there was

+this same irresolute and undiscerning Dokhtúrov—Kutúzov hastening to

+rectify a mistake he had made by sending someone else there first.

+And the quiet little Dokhtúrov rode thither, and Borodinó became the

+greatest glory of the Russian army. Many heroes have been described to

+us in verse and prose, but of Dokhtúrov scarcely a word has been said.

+

+It was Dokhtúrov again whom they sent to Formínsk and from there to

+Málo-Yaroslávets, the place where the last battle with the French was

+fought and where the obvious disintegration of the French army began;

+and we are told of many geniuses and heroes of that period of the

+campaign, but of Dokhtúrov nothing or very little is said and that

+dubiously. And this silence about Dokhtúrov is the clearest testimony to

+his merit.

+

+It is natural for a man who does not understand the workings of a

+machine to imagine that a shaving that has fallen into it by chance

+and is interfering with its action and tossing about in it is its most

+important part. The man who does not understand the construction of

+the machine cannot conceive that the small connecting cogwheel which

+revolves quietly is one of the most essential parts of the machine, and

+not the shaving which merely harms and hinders the working.

+

+On the tenth of October when Dokhtúrov had gone halfway to Formínsk and

+stopped at the village of Aristóvo, preparing faithfully to execute the

+orders he had received, the whole French army having, in its convulsive

+movement, reached Murat’s position apparently in order to give

+battle—suddenly without any reason turned off to the left onto the new

+Kalúga road and began to enter Formínsk, where only Broussier had

+been till then. At that time Dokhtúrov had under his command, besides

+Dórokhov’s detachment, the two small guerrilla detachments of Figner and

+Seslávin.

+

+On the evening of October 11 Seslávin came to the Aristóvo headquarters

+with a French guardsman he had captured. The prisoner said that the

+troops that had entered Formínsk that day were the vanguard of the whole

+army, that Napoleon was there and the whole army had left Moscow four

+days previously. That same evening a house serf who had come from

+Bórovsk said he had seen an immense army entering the town. Some

+Cossacks of Dokhtúrov’s detachment reported having sighted the French

+Guards marching along the road to Bórovsk. From all these reports it was

+evident that where they had expected to meet a single division there

+was now the whole French army marching from Moscow in an unexpected

+direction—along the Kalúga road. Dokhtúrov was unwilling to undertake

+any action, as it was not clear to him now what he ought to do. He had

+been ordered to attack Formínsk. But only Broussier had been there at

+that time and now the whole French army was there. Ermólov wished to act

+on his own judgment, but Dokhtúrov insisted that he must have Kutúzov’s

+instructions. So it was decided to send a dispatch to the staff.

+

+For this purpose a capable officer, Bolkhovítinov, was chosen, who

+was to explain the whole affair by word of mouth, besides delivering

+a written report. Toward midnight Bolkhovítinov, having received the

+dispatch and verbal instructions, galloped off to the General Staff

+accompanied by a Cossack with spare horses.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XVI

+

+It was a warm, dark, autumn night. It had been raining for four days.

+Having changed horses twice and galloped twenty miles in an hour and a

+half over a sticky, muddy road, Bolkhovítinov reached Litashëvka after

+one o’clock at night. Dismounting at a cottage on whose wattle fence

+hung a signboard, GENERAL STAFF, and throwing down his reins, he entered

+a dark passage.

+

+“The general on duty, quick! It’s very important!” said he to someone

+who had risen and was sniffing in the dark passage.

+

+“He has been very unwell since the evening and this is the third night

+he has not slept,” said the orderly pleadingly in a whisper. “You should

+wake the captain first.”

+

+“But this is very important, from General Dokhtúrov,” said

+Bolkhovítinov, entering the open door which he had found by feeling in

+the dark.

+

+The orderly had gone in before him and began waking somebody.

+

+“Your honor, your honor! A courier.”

+

+“What? What’s that? From whom?” came a sleepy voice.

+

+“From Dokhtúrov and from Alexéy Petróvich. Napoleon is at Formínsk,”

+said Bolkhovítinov, unable to see in the dark who was speaking but

+guessing by the voice that it was not Konovnítsyn.

+

+The man who had wakened yawned and stretched himself.

+

+“I don’t like waking him,” he said, fumbling for something. “He is very

+ill. Perhaps this is only a rumor.”

+

+“Here is the dispatch,” said Bolkhovítinov. “My orders are to give it at

+once to the general on duty.”

+

+“Wait a moment, I’ll light a candle. You damned rascal, where do you

+always hide it?” said the voice of the man who was stretching himself,

+to the orderly. (This was Shcherbínin, Konovnítsyn’s adjutant.) “I’ve

+found it, I’ve found it!” he added.

+

+The orderly was striking a light and Shcherbínin was fumbling for

+something on the candlestick.

+

+“Oh, the nasty beasts!” said he with disgust.

+

+By the light of the sparks Bolkhovítinov saw Shcherbínin’s youthful face

+as he held the candle, and the face of another man who was still asleep.

+This was Konovnítsyn.

+

+When the flame of the sulphur splinters kindled by the tinder burned

+up, first blue and then red, Shcherbínin lit the tallow candle, from

+the candlestick of which the cockroaches that had been gnawing it were

+running away, and looked at the messenger. Bolkhovítinov was bespattered

+all over with mud and had smeared his face by wiping it with his sleeve.

+

+“Who gave the report?” inquired Shcherbínin, taking the envelope.

+

+“The news is reliable,” said Bolkhovítinov. “Prisoners, Cossacks, and

+the scouts all say the same thing.”

+

+“There’s nothing to be done, we’ll have to wake him,” said Shcherbínin,

+rising and going up to the man in the nightcap who lay covered by a

+greatcoat. “Peter Petróvich!” said he. (Konovnítsyn did not stir.) “To

+the General Staff!” he said with a smile, knowing that those words would

+be sure to arouse him.

+

+And in fact the head in the nightcap was lifted at once. On

+Konovnítsyn’s handsome, resolute face with cheeks flushed by fever,

+there still remained for an instant a faraway dreamy expression remote

+from present affairs, but then he suddenly started and his face assumed

+its habitual calm and firm appearance.

+

+“Well, what is it? From whom?” he asked immediately but without hurry,

+blinking at the light.

+

+While listening to the officer’s report Konovnítsyn broke the seal and

+read the dispatch. Hardly had he done so before he lowered his legs in

+their woolen stockings to the earthen floor and began putting on his

+boots. Then he took off his nightcap, combed his hair over his temples,

+and donned his cap.

+

+“Did you get here quickly? Let us go to his Highness.”

+

+Konovnítsyn had understood at once that the news brought was of great

+importance and that no time must be lost. He did not consider or ask

+himself whether the news was good or bad. That did not interest him. He

+regarded the whole business of the war not with his intelligence or his

+reason but by something else. There was within him a deep unexpressed

+conviction that all would be well, but that one must not trust to this

+and still less speak about it, but must only attend to one’s own work.

+And he did his work, giving his whole strength to the task.

+

+Peter Petróvich Konovnítsyn, like Dokhtúrov, seems to have been included

+merely for propriety’s sake in the list of the so-called heroes of

+1812—the Barclays, Raévskis, Ermólovs, Plátovs, and Milorádoviches. Like

+Dokhtúrov he had the reputation of being a man of very limited capacity

+and information, and like Dokhtúrov he never made plans of battle but

+was always found where the situation was most difficult. Since his

+appointment as general on duty he had always slept with his door open,

+giving orders that every messenger should be allowed to wake him up. In

+battle he was always under fire, so that Kutúzov reproved him for it and

+feared to send him to the front, and like Dokhtúrov he was one of those

+unnoticed cogwheels that, without clatter or noise, constitute the most

+essential part of the machine.

+

+Coming out of the hut into the damp, dark night Konovnítsyn

+frowned—partly from an increased pain in his head and partly at the

+unpleasant thought that occurred to him, of how all that nest of

+influential men on the staff would be stirred up by this news,

+especially Bennigsen, who ever since Tarútino had been at daggers

+drawn with Kutúzov; and how they would make suggestions, quarrel, issue

+orders, and rescind them. And this premonition was disagreeable to him

+though he knew it could not be helped.

+

+And in fact Toll, to whom he went to communicate the news, immediately

+began to expound his plans to a general sharing his quarters, until

+Konovnítsyn, who listened in weary silence, reminded him that they must

+go to see his Highness.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XVII

+

+Kutúzov like all old people did not sleep much at night. He often fell

+asleep unexpectedly in the daytime, but at night, lying on his bed

+without undressing, he generally remained awake thinking.

+

+So he lay now on his bed, supporting his large, heavy, scarred head on

+his plump hand, with his one eye open, meditating and peering into the

+darkness.

+

+Since Bennigsen, who corresponded with the Emperor and had more

+influence than anyone else on the staff, had begun to avoid him, Kutúzov

+was more at ease as to the possibility of himself and his troops being

+obliged to take part in useless aggressive movements. The lesson of the

+Tarútino battle and of the day before it, which Kutúzov remembered with

+pain, must, he thought, have some effect on others too.

+

+“They must understand that we can only lose by taking the offensive.

+Patience and time are my warriors, my champions,” thought Kutúzov. He

+knew that an apple should not be plucked while it is green. It will fall

+of itself when ripe, but if picked unripe the apple is spoiled, the tree

+is harmed, and your teeth are set on edge. Like an experienced sportsman

+he knew that the beast was wounded, and wounded as only the whole

+strength of Russia could have wounded it, but whether it was mortally

+wounded or not was still an undecided question. Now by the fact of

+Lauriston and Barthélemi having been sent, and by the reports of the

+guerrillas, Kutúzov was almost sure that the wound was mortal. But he

+needed further proofs and it was necessary to wait.

+

+“They want to run to see how they have wounded it. Wait and we shall

+see! Continual maneuvers, continual advances!” thought he. “What for?

+Only to distinguish themselves! As if fighting were fun. They are

+like children from whom one can’t get any sensible account of what has

+happened because they all want to show how well they can fight. But

+that’s not what is needed now.

+

+“And what ingenious maneuvers they all propose to me! It seems to

+them that when they have thought of two or three contingencies” (he

+remembered the general plan sent him from Petersburg) “they have

+foreseen everything. But the contingencies are endless.”

+

+The undecided question as to whether the wound inflicted at Borodinó was

+mortal or not had hung over Kutúzov’s head for a whole month. On the one

+hand the French had occupied Moscow. On the other Kutúzov felt assured

+with all his being that the terrible blow into which he and all the

+Russians had put their whole strength must have been mortal. But in any

+case proofs were needed; he had waited a whole month for them and grew

+more impatient the longer he waited. Lying on his bed during those

+sleepless nights he did just what he reproached those younger generals

+for doing. He imagined all sorts of possible contingencies, just like

+the younger men, but with this difference, that he saw thousands of

+contingencies instead of two or three and based nothing on them. The

+longer he thought the more contingencies presented themselves. He

+imagined all sorts of movements of the Napoleonic army as a whole or

+in sections—against Petersburg, or against him, or to outflank him.

+He thought too of the possibility (which he feared most of all) that

+Napoleon might fight him with his own weapon and remain in Moscow

+awaiting him. Kutúzov even imagined that Napoleon’s army might turn back

+through Medýn and Yukhnóv, but the one thing he could not foresee was

+what happened—the insane, convulsive stampede of Napoleon’s army during

+its first eleven days after leaving Moscow: a stampede which made

+possible what Kutúzov had not yet even dared to think of—the complete

+extermination of the French. Dórokhov’s report about Broussier’s

+division, the guerrillas’ reports of distress in Napoleon’s army, rumors

+of preparations for leaving Moscow, all confirmed the supposition that

+the French army was beaten and preparing for flight. But these were

+only suppositions, which seemed important to the younger men but not to

+Kutúzov. With his sixty years’ experience he knew what value to attach

+to rumors, knew how apt people who desire anything are to group all news

+so that it appears to confirm what they desire, and he knew how readily

+in such cases they omit all that makes for the contrary. And the more

+he desired it the less he allowed himself to believe it. This question

+absorbed all his mental powers. All else was to him only life’s

+customary routine. To such customary routine belonged his conversations

+with the staff, the letters he wrote from Tarútino to Madame de Staël,

+the reading of novels, the distribution of awards, his correspondence

+with Petersburg, and so on. But the destruction of the French, which he

+alone foresaw, was his heart’s one desire.

+

+On the night of the eleventh of October he lay leaning on his arm and

+thinking of that.

+

+There was a stir in the next room and he heard the steps of Toll,

+Konovnítsyn, and Bolkhovítinov.

+

+“Eh, who’s there? Come in, come in! What news?” the field marshal called

+out to them.

+

+While a footman was lighting a candle, Toll communicated the substance

+of the news.

+

+“Who brought it?” asked Kutúzov with a look which, when the candle was

+lit, struck Toll by its cold severity.

+

+“There can be no doubt about it, your Highness.”

+

+“Call him in, call him here.”

+

+Kutúzov sat up with one leg hanging down from the bed and his big paunch

+resting against the other which was doubled under him. He screwed up his

+seeing eye to scrutinize the messenger more carefully, as if wishing to

+read in his face what preoccupied his own mind.

+

+“Tell me, tell me, friend,” said he to Bolkhovítinov in his low, aged

+voice, as he pulled together the shirt which gaped open on his chest,

+“come nearer—nearer. What news have you brought me? Eh? That Napoleon

+has left Moscow? Are you sure? Eh?”

+

+Bolkhovítinov gave a detailed account from the beginning of all he had

+been told to report.

+

+“Speak quicker, quicker! Don’t torture me!” Kutúzov interrupted him.

+

+Bolkhovítinov told him everything and was then silent, awaiting

+instructions. Toll was beginning to say something but Kutúzov checked

+him. He tried to say something, but his face suddenly puckered and

+wrinkled; he waved his arm at Toll and turned to the opposite side of

+the room, to the corner darkened by the icons that hung there.

+

+“O Lord, my Creator, Thou has heard our prayer...” said he in a

+tremulous voice with folded hands. “Russia is saved. I thank Thee, O

+Lord!” and he wept.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XVIII

+

+From the time he received this news to the end of the campaign all

+Kutúzov’s activity was directed toward restraining his troops, by

+authority, by guile, and by entreaty, from useless attacks,

+maneuvers, or encounters with the perishing enemy. Dokhtúrov went to

+Málo-Yaroslávets, but Kutúzov lingered with the main army and gave

+orders for the evacuation of Kalúga—a retreat beyond which town seemed

+to him quite possible.

+

+Everywhere Kutúzov retreated, but the enemy without waiting for his

+retreat fled in the opposite direction.

+

+Napoleon’s historians describe to us his skilled maneuvers at Tarútino

+and Málo-Yaroslávets, and make conjectures as to what would have

+happened had Napoleon been in time to penetrate into the rich southern

+provinces.

+

+But not to speak of the fact that nothing prevented him from advancing

+into those southern provinces (for the Russian army did not bar his

+way), the historians forget that nothing could have saved his army, for

+then already it bore within itself the germs of inevitable ruin. How

+could that army—which had found abundant supplies in Moscow and had

+trampled them underfoot instead of keeping them, and on arriving at

+Smolénsk had looted provisions instead of storing them—how could that

+army recuperate in Kalúga province, which was inhabited by Russians such

+as those who lived in Moscow, and where fire had the same property of

+consuming what was set ablaze?

+

+That army could not recover anywhere. Since the battle of Borodinó

+and the pillage of Moscow it had borne within itself, as it were, the

+chemical elements of dissolution.

+

+The members of what had once been an army—Napoleon himself and all his

+soldiers fled—without knowing whither, each concerned only to make his

+escape as quickly as possible from this position, of the hopelessness of

+which they were all more or less vaguely conscious.

+

+So it came about that at the council at Málo-Yaroslávets, when the

+generals pretending to confer together expressed various opinions, all

+mouths were closed by the opinion uttered by the simple-minded soldier

+Mouton who, speaking last, said what they all felt: that the one thing

+needful was to get away as quickly as possible; and no one, not

+even Napoleon, could say anything against that truth which they all

+recognized.

+

+But though they all realized that it was necessary to get away, there

+still remained a feeling of shame at admitting that they must flee. An

+external shock was needed to overcome that shame, and this shock came in

+due time. It was what the French called “le hourra de l’Empereur.”

+

+The day after the council at Málo-Yaroslávets Napoleon rode out early in

+the morning amid the lines of his army with his suite of marshals and

+an escort, on the pretext of inspecting the army and the scene of the

+previous and of the impending battle. Some Cossacks on the prowl for

+booty fell in with the Emperor and very nearly captured him. If the

+Cossacks did not capture Napoleon then, what saved him was the very

+thing that was destroying the French army, the booty on which the

+Cossacks fell. Here as at Tarútino they went after plunder, leaving the

+men. Disregarding Napoleon they rushed after the plunder and Napoleon

+managed to escape.

+

+When les enfants du Don might so easily have taken the Emperor himself

+in the midst of his army, it was clear that there was nothing for it but

+to fly as fast as possible along the nearest, familiar road. Napoleon

+with his forty-year-old stomach understood that hint, not feeling his

+former agility and boldness, and under the influence of the fright

+the Cossacks had given him he at once agreed with Mouton and issued

+orders—as the historians tell us—to retreat by the Smolénsk road.

+

+That Napoleon agreed with Mouton, and that the army retreated, does

+not prove that Napoleon caused it to retreat, but that the forces which

+influenced the whole army and directed it along the Mozháysk (that is,

+the Smolénsk) road acted simultaneously on him also.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XIX

+

+A man in motion always devises an aim for that motion. To be able to go

+a thousand miles he must imagine that something good awaits him at the

+end of those thousand miles. One must have the prospect of a promised

+land to have the strength to move.

+

+The promised land for the French during their advance had been Moscow,

+during their retreat it was their native land. But that native land

+was too far off, and for a man going a thousand miles it is absolutely

+necessary to set aside his final goal and to say to himself: “Today I

+shall get to a place twenty-five miles off where I shall rest and

+spend the night,” and during the first day’s journey that resting place

+eclipses his ultimate goal and attracts all his hopes and desires. And

+the impulses felt by a single person are always magnified in a crowd.

+

+For the French retreating along the old Smolénsk road, the final

+goal—their native land—was too remote, and their immediate goal

+was Smolénsk, toward which all their desires and hopes, enormously

+intensified in the mass, urged them on. It was not that they knew that

+much food and fresh troops awaited them in Smolénsk, nor that they were

+told so (on the contrary their superior officers, and Napoleon himself,

+knew that provisions were scarce there), but because this alone could

+give them strength to move on and endure their present privations. So

+both those who knew and those who did not know deceived themselves, and

+pushed on to Smolénsk as to a promised land.

+

+Coming out onto the highroad the French fled with surprising energy

+and unheard-of rapidity toward the goal they had fixed on. Besides the

+common impulse which bound the whole crowd of French into one mass and

+supplied them with a certain energy, there was another cause binding

+them together—their great numbers. As with the physical law of gravity,

+their enormous mass drew the individual human atoms to itself. In their

+hundreds of thousands they moved like a whole nation.

+

+Each of them desired nothing more than to give himself up as a prisoner

+to escape from all this horror and misery; but on the one hand the force

+of this common attraction to Smolénsk, their goal, drew each of them in

+the same direction; on the other hand an army corps could not surrender

+to a company, and though the French availed themselves of every

+convenient opportunity to detach themselves and to surrender on the

+slightest decent pretext, such pretexts did not always occur. Their

+very numbers and their crowded and swift movement deprived them of that

+possibility and rendered it not only difficult but impossible for the

+Russians to stop this movement, to which the French were directing all

+their energies. Beyond a certain limit no mechanical disruption of the

+body could hasten the process of decomposition.

+

+A lump of snow cannot be melted instantaneously. There is a certain

+limit of time in less than which no amount of heat can melt the snow. On

+the contrary the greater the heat the more solidified the remaining snow

+becomes.

+

+Of the Russian commanders Kutúzov alone understood this. When the flight

+of the French army along the Smolénsk road became well defined, what

+Konovnítsyn had foreseen on the night of the eleventh of October began

+to occur. The superior officers all wanted to distinguish themselves,

+to cut off, to seize, to capture, and to overthrow the French, and all

+clamored for action.

+

+Kutúzov alone used all his power (and such power is very limited in the

+case of any commander in chief) to prevent an attack.

+

+He could not tell them what we say now: “Why fight, why block the road,

+losing our own men and inhumanly slaughtering unfortunate wretches? What

+is the use of that, when a third of their army has melted away on the

+road from Moscow to Vyázma without any battle?” But drawing from his

+aged wisdom what they could understand, he told them of the golden

+bridge, and they laughed at and slandered him, flinging themselves on,

+rending and exulting over the dying beast.

+

+Ermólov, Milorádovich, Plátov, and others in proximity to the French

+near Vyázma could not resist their desire to cut off and break up two

+French corps, and by way of reporting their intention to Kutúzov they

+sent him a blank sheet of paper in an envelope.

+

+And try as Kutúzov might to restrain the troops, our men attacked,

+trying to bar the road. Infantry regiments, we are told, advanced to the

+attack with music and with drums beating, and killed and lost thousands

+of men.

+

+But they did not cut off or overthrow anybody and the French army,

+closing up more firmly at the danger, continued, while steadily melting

+away, to pursue its fatal path to Smolénsk.

+

+

+

+

+

+BOOK FOURTEEN: 1812

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER I

+

+The Battle of Borodinó, with the occupation of Moscow that followed it

+and the flight of the French without further conflicts, is one of the

+most instructive phenomena in history.

+

+All historians agree that the external activity of states and nations

+in their conflicts with one another is expressed in wars, and that as a

+direct result of greater or less success in war the political strength

+of states and nations increases or decreases.

+

+Strange as may be the historical account of how some king or emperor,

+having quarreled with another, collects an army, fights his enemy’s

+army, gains a victory by killing three, five, or ten thousand men, and

+subjugates a kingdom and an entire nation of several millions, all

+the facts of history (as far as we know it) confirm the truth of the

+statement that the greater or lesser success of one army against another

+is the cause, or at least an essential indication, of an increase or

+decrease in the strength of the nation—even though it is unintelligible

+why the defeat of an army—a hundredth part of a nation—should oblige

+that whole nation to submit. An army gains a victory, and at once the

+rights of the conquering nation have increased to the detriment of the

+defeated. An army has suffered defeat, and at once a people loses its

+rights in proportion to the severity of the reverse, and if its army

+suffers a complete defeat the nation is quite subjugated.

+

+So according to history it has been found from the most ancient times,

+and so it is to our own day. All Napoleon’s wars serve to confirm this

+rule. In proportion to the defeat of the Austrian army Austria loses

+its rights, and the rights and the strength of France increase. The

+victories of the French at Jena and Auerstädt destroy the independent

+existence of Prussia.

+

+But then, in 1812, the French gain a victory near Moscow. Moscow is

+taken and after that, with no further battles, it is not Russia that

+ceases to exist, but the French army of six hundred thousand, and

+then Napoleonic France itself. To strain the facts to fit the rules of

+history: to say that the field of battle at Borodinó remained in the

+hands of the Russians, or that after Moscow there were other battles

+that destroyed Napoleon’s army, is impossible.

+

+After the French victory at Borodinó there was no general engagement nor

+any that were at all serious, yet the French army ceased to exist. What

+does this mean? If it were an example taken from the history of China,

+we might say that it was not an historic phenomenon (which is the

+historians’ usual expedient when anything does not fit their standards);

+if the matter concerned some brief conflict in which only a small number

+of troops took part, we might treat it as an exception; but this event

+occurred before our fathers’ eyes, and for them it was a question of the

+life or death of their fatherland, and it happened in the greatest of

+all known wars.

+

+The period of the campaign of 1812 from the battle of Borodinó to the

+expulsion of the French proved that the winning of a battle does not

+produce a conquest and is not even an invariable indication of conquest;

+it proved that the force which decides the fate of peoples lies not in

+the conquerors, nor even in armies and battles, but in something else.

+

+The French historians, describing the condition of the French army

+before it left Moscow, affirm that all was in order in the Grand Army,

+except the cavalry, the artillery, and the transport—there was no forage

+for the horses or the cattle. That was a misfortune no one could remedy,

+for the peasants of the district burned their hay rather than let the

+French have it.

+

+The victory gained did not bring the usual results because the peasants

+Karp and Vlas (who after the French had evacuated Moscow drove in their

+carts to pillage the town, and in general personally failed to manifest

+any heroic feelings), and the whole innumerable multitude of such

+peasants, did not bring their hay to Moscow for the high price offered

+them, but burned it instead.

+

+Let us imagine two men who have come out to fight a duel with rapiers

+according to all the rules of the art of fencing. The fencing has

+gone on for some time; suddenly one of the combatants, feeling himself

+wounded and understanding that the matter is no joke but concerns his

+life, throws down his rapier, and seizing the first cudgel that comes to

+hand begins to brandish it. Then let us imagine that the combatant who

+so sensibly employed the best and simplest means to attain his end was

+at the same time influenced by traditions of chivalry and, desiring to

+conceal the facts of the case, insisted that he had gained his victory

+with the rapier according to all the rules of art. One can imagine what

+confusion and obscurity would result from such an account of the duel.

+

+The fencer who demanded a contest according to the rules of fencing was

+the French army; his opponent who threw away the rapier and snatched up

+the cudgel was the Russian people; those who try to explain the matter

+according to the rules of fencing are the historians who have described

+the event.

+

+After the burning of Smolénsk a war began which did not follow any

+previous traditions of war. The burning of towns and villages, the

+retreats after battles, the blow dealt at Borodinó and the renewed

+retreat, the burning of Moscow, the capture of marauders, the seizure of

+transports, and the guerrilla war were all departures from the rules.

+

+Napoleon felt this, and from the time he took up the correct fencing

+attitude in Moscow and instead of his opponent’s rapier saw a cudgel

+raised above his head, he did not cease to complain to Kutúzov and to

+the Emperor Alexander that the war was being carried on contrary to all

+the rules—as if there were any rules for killing people. In spite of the

+complaints of the French as to the nonobservance of the rules, in

+spite of the fact that to some highly placed Russians it seemed rather

+disgraceful to fight with a cudgel and they wanted to assume a pose en

+quarte or en tierce according to all the rules, and to make an adroit

+thrust en prime, and so on—the cudgel of the people’s war was lifted

+with all its menacing and majestic strength, and without consulting

+anyone’s tastes or rules and regardless of anything else, it rose and

+fell with stupid simplicity, but consistently, and belabored the French

+till the whole invasion had perished.

+

+And it is well for a people who do not—as the French did in 1813—salute

+according to all the rules of art, and, presenting the hilt of their

+rapier gracefully and politely, hand it to their magnanimous conqueror,

+but at the moment of trial, without asking what rules others have

+adopted in similar cases, simply and easily pick up the first cudgel

+that comes to hand and strike with it till the feeling of resentment and

+revenge in their soul yields to a feeling of contempt and compassion.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER II

+

+One of the most obvious and advantageous departures from the so-called

+laws of war is the action of scattered groups against men pressed

+together in a mass. Such action always occurs in wars that take on a

+national character. In such actions, instead of two crowds opposing

+each other, the men disperse, attack singly, run away when attacked by

+stronger forces, but again attack when opportunity offers. This was done

+by the guerrillas in Spain, by the mountain tribes in the Caucasus, and

+by the Russians in 1812.

+

+People have called this kind of war “guerrilla warfare” and assume that

+by so calling it they have explained its meaning. But such a war does

+not fit in under any rule and is directly opposed to a well-known rule

+of tactics which is accepted as infallible. That rule says that an

+attacker should concentrate his forces in order to be stronger than his

+opponent at the moment of conflict.

+

+Guerrilla war (always successful, as history shows) directly infringes

+that rule.

+

+This contradiction arises from the fact that military science assumes

+the strength of an army to be identical with its numbers. Military

+science says that the more troops the greater the strength. Les gros

+bataillons ont toujours raison. *

+

+    * Large battalions are always victorious.

+

+For military science to say this is like defining momentum in mechanics

+by reference to the mass only: stating that momenta are equal or unequal

+to each other simply because the masses involved are equal or unequal.

+

+Momentum (quantity of motion) is the product of mass and velocity.

+

+In military affairs the strength of an army is the product of its mass

+and some unknown x.

+

+Military science, seeing in history innumerable instances of the fact

+that the size of any army does not coincide with its strength and that

+small detachments defeat larger ones, obscurely admits the existence

+of this unknown factor and tries to discover it—now in a geometric

+formation, now in the equipment employed, now, and most usually, in the

+genius of the commanders. But the assignment of these various meanings

+to the factor does not yield results which accord with the historic

+facts.

+

+Yet it is only necessary to abandon the false view (adopted to gratify

+the “heroes”) of the efficacy of the directions issued in wartime by

+commanders, in order to find this unknown quantity.

+

+That unknown quantity is the spirit of the army, that is to say, the

+greater or lesser readiness to fight and face danger felt by all the men

+composing an army, quite independently of whether they are, or are not,

+fighting under the command of a genius, in two—or three-line formation,

+with cudgels or with rifles that repeat thirty times a minute. Men

+who want to fight will always put themselves in the most advantageous

+conditions for fighting.

+

+The spirit of an army is the factor which multiplied by the mass gives

+the resulting force. To define and express the significance of this

+unknown factor—the spirit of an army—is a problem for science.

+

+This problem is only solvable if we cease arbitrarily to substitute

+for the unknown x itself the conditions under which that force becomes

+apparent—such as the commands of the general, the equipment employed,

+and so on—mistaking these for the real significance of the factor,

+and if we recognize this unknown quantity in its entirety as being

+the greater or lesser desire to fight and to face danger. Only then,

+expressing known historic facts by equations and comparing the relative

+significance of this factor, can we hope to define the unknown.

+

+Ten men, battalions, or divisions, fighting fifteen men, battalions, or

+divisions, conquer—that is, kill or take captive—all the others, while

+themselves losing four, so that on the one side four and on the other

+fifteen were lost. Consequently the four were equal to the fifteen, and

+therefore 4x = 15y. Consequently x/y = 15/4. This equation does not

+give us the value of the unknown factor but gives us a ratio between two

+unknowns. And by bringing variously selected historic units (battles,

+campaigns, periods of war) into such equations, a series of numbers

+could be obtained in which certain laws should exist and might be

+discovered.

+

+The tactical rule that an army should act in masses when attacking, and

+in smaller groups in retreat, unconsciously confirms the truth that the

+strength of an army depends on its spirit. To lead men forward under

+fire more discipline (obtainable only by movement in masses) is needed

+than is needed to resist attacks. But this rule which leaves out of

+account the spirit of the army continually proves incorrect and is in

+particularly striking contrast to the facts when some strong rise or

+fall in the spirit of the troops occurs, as in all national wars.

+

+The French, retreating in 1812—though according to tactics they should

+have separated into detachments to defend themselves—congregated into

+a mass because the spirit of the army had so fallen that only the mass

+held the army together. The Russians, on the contrary, ought according

+to tactics to have attacked in mass, but in fact they split up

+into small units, because their spirit had so risen that separate

+individuals, without orders, dealt blows at the French without needing

+any compulsion to induce them to expose themselves to hardships and

+dangers.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER III

+

+The so-called partisan war began with the entry of the French into

+Smolénsk.

+

+Before partisan warfare had been officially recognized by the

+government, thousands of enemy stragglers, marauders, and foragers had

+been destroyed by the Cossacks and the peasants, who killed them off

+as instinctively as dogs worry a stray mad dog to death. Denís Davýdov,

+with his Russian instinct, was the first to recognize the value of

+this terrible cudgel which regardless of the rules of military science

+destroyed the French, and to him belongs the credit for taking the first

+step toward regularizing this method of warfare.

+

+On August 24 Davýdov’s first partisan detachment was formed and then

+others were recognized. The further the campaign progressed the more

+numerous these detachments became.

+

+The irregulars destroyed the great army piecemeal. They gathered the

+fallen leaves that dropped of themselves from that withered tree—the

+French army—and sometimes shook that tree itself. By October, when

+the French were fleeing toward Smolénsk, there were hundreds of such

+companies, of various sizes and characters. There were some that adopted

+all the army methods and had infantry, artillery, staffs, and the

+comforts of life. Others consisted solely of Cossack cavalry. There were

+also small scratch groups of foot and horse, and groups of peasants and

+landowners that remained unknown. A sacristan commanded one party which

+captured several hundred prisoners in the course of a month; and there

+was Vasílisa, the wife of a village elder, who slew hundreds of the

+French.

+

+The partisan warfare flamed up most fiercely in the latter days of

+October. Its first period had passed: when the partisans themselves,

+amazed at their own boldness, feared every minute to be surrounded

+and captured by the French, and hid in the forests without unsaddling,

+hardly daring to dismount and always expecting to be pursued. By the end

+of October this kind of warfare had taken definite shape: it had become

+clear to all what could be ventured against the French and what could

+not. Now only the commanders of detachments with staffs, and moving

+according to rules at a distance from the French, still regarded many

+things as impossible. The small bands that had started their activities

+long before and had already observed the French closely considered

+things possible which the commanders of the big detachments did not dare

+to contemplate. The Cossacks and peasants who crept in among the French

+now considered everything possible.

+

+On October 22, Denísov (who was one of the irregulars) was with his

+group at the height of the guerrilla enthusiasm. Since early morning he

+and his party had been on the move. All day long he had been watching

+from the forest that skirted the highroad a large French convoy of

+cavalry baggage and Russian prisoners separated from the rest of the

+army, which—as was learned from spies and prisoners—was moving under a

+strong escort to Smolénsk. Besides Denísov and Dólokhov (who also led

+a small party and moved in Denísov’s vicinity), the commanders of some

+large divisions with staffs also knew of this convoy and, as Denísov

+expressed it, were sharpening their teeth for it. Two of the commanders

+of large parties—one a Pole and the other a German—sent invitations

+to Denísov almost simultaneously, requesting him to join up with their

+divisions to attack the convoy.

+

+“No, bwother, I have gwown mustaches myself,” said Denísov on reading

+these documents, and he wrote to the German that, despite his heartfelt

+desire to serve under so valiant and renowned a general, he had to forgo

+that pleasure because he was already under the command of the Polish

+general. To the Polish general he replied to the same effect, informing

+him that he was already under the command of the German.

+

+Having arranged matters thus, Denísov and Dólokhov intended, without

+reporting matters to the higher command, to attack and seize that

+convoy with their own small forces. On October 22 it was moving from

+the village of Mikúlino to that of Shámshevo. To the left of the road

+between Mikúlino and Shámshevo there were large forests, extending in

+some places up to the road itself though in others a mile or more back

+from it. Through these forests Denísov and his party rode all day,

+sometimes keeping well back in them and sometimes coming to the very

+edge, but never losing sight of the moving French. That morning,

+Cossacks of Denísov’s party had seized and carried off into the forest

+two wagons loaded with cavalry saddles, which had stuck in the mud not

+far from Mikúlino where the forest ran close to the road. Since then,

+and until evening, the party had watched the movements of the French

+without attacking. It was necessary to let the French reach Shámshevo

+quietly without alarming them and then, after joining Dólokhov who was

+to come that evening to a consultation at a watchman’s hut in the forest

+less than a mile from Shámshevo, to surprise the French at dawn, falling

+like an avalanche on their heads from two sides, and rout and capture

+them all at one blow.

+

+In their rear, more than a mile from Mikúlino where the forest came

+right up to the road, six Cossacks were posted to report if any fresh

+columns of French should show themselves.

+

+Beyond Shámshevo, Dólokhov was to observe the road in the same way, to

+find out at what distance there were other French troops. They reckoned

+that the convoy had fifteen hundred men. Denísov had two hundred, and

+Dólokhov might have as many more, but the disparity of numbers did not

+deter Denísov. All that he now wanted to know was what troops these were

+and to learn that he had to capture a “tongue”—that is, a man from

+the enemy column. That morning’s attack on the wagons had been made so

+hastily that the Frenchmen with the wagons had all been killed; only a

+little drummer boy had been taken alive, and as he was a straggler he

+could tell them nothing definite about the troops in that column.

+

+Denísov considered it dangerous to make a second attack for fear of

+putting the whole column on the alert, so he sent Tíkhon Shcherbáty, a

+peasant of his party, to Shámshevo to try and seize at least one of the

+French quartermasters who had been sent on in advance.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER IV

+

+It was a warm rainy autumn day. The sky and the horizon were both

+the color of muddy water. At times a sort of mist descended, and then

+suddenly heavy slanting rain came down.

+

+Denísov in a felt cloak and a sheepskin cap from which the rain ran down

+was riding a thin thoroughbred horse with sunken sides. Like his horse,

+which turned its head and laid its ears back, he shrank from the driving

+rain and gazed anxiously before him. His thin face with its short, thick

+black beard looked angry.

+

+Beside Denísov rode an esaul, * Denísov’s fellow worker, also in felt

+cloak and sheepskin cap, and riding a large sleek Don horse.

+

+    * A captain of Cossacks.

+

+Esaul Lováyski the Third was a tall man as straight as an arrow,

+pale-faced, fair-haired, with narrow light eyes and with calm

+self-satisfaction in his face and bearing. Though it was impossible to

+say in what the peculiarity of the horse and rider lay, yet at first

+glance at the esaul and Denísov one saw that the latter was wet and

+uncomfortable and was a man mounted on a horse, while looking at the

+esaul one saw that he was as comfortable and as much at ease as always

+and that he was not a man who had mounted a horse, but a man who was one

+with his horse, a being consequently possessed of twofold strength.

+

+A little ahead of them walked a peasant guide, wet to the skin and

+wearing a gray peasant coat and a white knitted cap.

+

+A little behind, on a poor, small, lean Kirghíz mount with an enormous

+tail and mane and a bleeding mouth, rode a young officer in a blue

+French overcoat.

+

+Beside him rode an hussar, with a boy in a tattered French uniform and

+blue cap behind him on the crupper of his horse. The boy held on to the

+hussar with cold, red hands, and raising his eyebrows gazed about him

+with surprise. This was the French drummer boy captured that morning.

+

+Behind them along the narrow, sodden, cutup forest road came hussars in

+threes and fours, and then Cossacks: some in felt cloaks, some in French

+greatcoats, and some with horsecloths over their heads. The horses,

+being drenched by the rain, all looked black whether chestnut or bay.

+Their necks, with their wet, close-clinging manes, looked strangely

+thin. Steam rose from them. Clothes, saddles, reins, were all wet,

+slippery, and sodden, like the ground and the fallen leaves that strewed

+the road. The men sat huddled up trying not to stir, so as to warm the

+water that had trickled to their bodies and not admit the fresh cold

+water that was leaking in under their seats, their knees, and at the

+back of their necks. In the midst of the outspread line of Cossacks two

+wagons, drawn by French horses and by saddled Cossack horses that had

+been hitched on in front, rumbled over the tree stumps and branches and

+splashed through the water that lay in the ruts.

+

+Denísov’s horse swerved aside to avoid a pool in the track and bumped

+his rider’s knee against a tree.

+

+“Oh, the devil!” exclaimed Denísov angrily, and showing his teeth he

+struck his horse three times with his whip, splashing himself and his

+comrades with mud.

+

+Denísov was out of sorts both because of the rain and also from hunger

+(none of them had eaten anything since morning), and yet more because he

+still had no news from Dólokhov and the man sent to capture a “tongue”

+had not returned.

+

+“There’ll hardly be another such chance to fall on a transport as today.

+It’s too risky to attack them by oneself, and if we put it off till

+another day one of the big guerrilla detachments will snatch the prey

+from under our noses,” thought Denísov, continually peering forward,

+hoping to see a messenger from Dólokhov.

+

+On coming to a path in the forest along which he could see far to the

+right, Denísov stopped.

+

+“There’s someone coming,” said he.

+

+The esaul looked in the direction Denísov indicated.

+

+“There are two, an officer and a Cossack. But it is not presupposable

+that it is the lieutenant colonel himself,” said the esaul, who was fond

+of using words the Cossacks did not know.

+

+The approaching riders having descended a decline were no longer

+visible, but they reappeared a few minutes later. In front, at a weary

+gallop and using his leather whip, rode an officer, disheveled and

+drenched, whose trousers had worked up to above his knees. Behind him,

+standing in the stirrups, trotted a Cossack. The officer, a very young

+lad with a broad rosy face and keen merry eyes, galloped up to Denísov

+and handed him a sodden envelope.

+

+“From the general,” said the officer. “Please excuse its not being quite

+dry.”

+

+Denísov, frowning, took the envelope and opened it.

+

+“There, they kept telling us: ‘It’s dangerous, it’s dangerous,’”

+said the officer, addressing the esaul while Denísov was reading the

+dispatch. “But Komaróv and I”—he pointed to the Cossack—“were prepared.

+We have each of us two pistols.... But what’s this?” he asked, noticing

+the French drummer boy. “A prisoner? You’ve already been in action? May

+I speak to him?”

+

+“Wostóv! Pétya!” exclaimed Denísov, having run through the dispatch.

+“Why didn’t you say who you were?” and turning with a smile he held out

+his hand to the lad.

+

+The officer was Pétya Rostóv.

+

+All the way Pétya had been preparing himself to behave with Denísov as

+befitted a grown-up man and an officer—without hinting at their previous

+acquaintance. But as soon as Denísov smiled at him Pétya brightened

+up, blushed with pleasure, forgot the official manner he had been

+rehearsing, and began telling him how he had already been in a battle

+near Vyázma and how a certain hussar had distinguished himself there.

+

+“Well, I am glad to see you,” Denísov interrupted him, and his face

+again assumed its anxious expression.

+

+“Michael Feoklítych,” said he to the esaul, “this is again fwom that

+German, you know. He”—he indicated Pétya—“is serving under him.”

+

+And Denísov told the esaul that the dispatch just delivered was a

+repetition of the German general’s demand that he should join forces

+with him for an attack on the transport.

+

+“If we don’t take it tomowwow, he’ll snatch it fwom under our noses,” he

+added.

+

+While Denísov was talking to the esaul, Pétya—abashed by Denísov’s

+cold tone and supposing that it was due to the condition of his

+trousers—furtively tried to pull them down under his greatcoat so

+that no one should notice it, while maintaining as martial an air as

+possible.

+

+“Will there be any orders, your honor?” he asked Denísov, holding his

+hand at the salute and resuming the game of adjutant and general for

+which he had prepared himself, “or shall I remain with your honor?”

+

+“Orders?” Denísov repeated thoughtfully. “But can you stay till

+tomowwow?”

+

+“Oh, please... May I stay with you?” cried Pétya.

+

+“But, just what did the genewal tell you? To weturn at once?” asked

+Denísov.

+

+Pétya blushed.

+

+“He gave me no instructions. I think I could?” he returned, inquiringly.

+

+“Well, all wight,” said Denísov.

+

+And turning to his men he directed a party to go on to the halting place

+arranged near the watchman’s hut in the forest, and told the officer on

+the Kirghíz horse (who performed the duties of an adjutant) to go and

+find out where Dólokhov was and whether he would come that evening.

+Denísov himself intended going with the esaul and Pétya to the edge of

+the forest where it reached out to Shámshevo, to have a look at the part

+of the French bivouac they were to attack next day.

+

+“Well, old fellow,” said he to the peasant guide, “lead us to

+Shámshevo.”

+

+Denísov, Pétya, and the esaul, accompanied by some Cossacks and the

+hussar who had the prisoner, rode to the left across a ravine to the

+edge of the forest.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER V

+

+The rain had stopped, and only the mist was falling and drops from

+the trees. Denísov, the esaul, and Pétya rode silently, following the

+peasant in the knitted cap who, stepping lightly with outturned toes

+and moving noiselessly in his bast shoes over the roots and wet leaves,

+silently led them to the edge of the forest.

+

+He ascended an incline, stopped, looked about him, and advanced to where

+the screen of trees was less dense. On reaching a large oak tree that

+had not yet shed its leaves, he stopped and beckoned mysteriously to

+them with his hand.

+

+Denísov and Pétya rode up to him. From the spot where the peasant was

+standing they could see the French. Immediately beyond the forest, on a

+downward slope, lay a field of spring rye. To the right, beyond a steep

+ravine, was a small village and a landowner’s house with a broken roof.

+In the village, in the house, in the garden, by the well, by the pond,

+over all the rising ground, and all along the road uphill from the

+bridge leading to the village, not more than five hundred yards

+away, crowds of men could be seen through the shimmering mist. Their

+un-Russian shouting at their horses which were straining uphill with the

+carts, and their calls to one another, could be clearly heard.

+

+“Bwing the prisoner here,” said Denísov in a low voice, not taking his

+eyes off the French.

+

+A Cossack dismounted, lifted the boy down, and took him to Denísov.

+Pointing to the French troops, Denísov asked him what these and those

+of them were. The boy, thrusting his cold hands into his pockets and

+lifting his eyebrows, looked at Denísov in affright, but in spite of

+an evident desire to say all he knew gave confused answers, merely

+assenting to everything Denísov asked him. Denísov turned away from him

+frowning and addressed the esaul, conveying his own conjectures to him.

+

+Pétya, rapidly turning his head, looked now at the drummer boy, now

+at Denísov, now at the esaul, and now at the French in the village and

+along the road, trying not to miss anything of importance.

+

+“Whether Dólokhov comes or not, we must seize it, eh?” said Denísov with

+a merry sparkle in his eyes.

+

+“It is a very suitable spot,” said the esaul.

+

+“We’ll send the infantwy down by the swamps,” Denísov continued.

+“They’ll cweep up to the garden; you’ll wide up fwom there with the

+Cossacks”—he pointed to a spot in the forest beyond the village—“and I

+with my hussars fwom here. And at the signal shot...”

+

+“The hollow is impassable—there’s a swamp there,” said the esaul. “The

+horses would sink. We must ride round more to the left....”

+

+While they were talking in undertones the crack of a shot sounded

+from the low ground by the pond, a puff of white smoke appeared, then

+another, and the sound of hundreds of seemingly merry French voices

+shouting together came up from the slope. For a moment Denísov and the

+esaul drew back. They were so near that they thought they were the cause

+of the firing and shouting. But the firing and shouting did not relate

+to them. Down below, a man wearing something red was running through the

+marsh. The French were evidently firing and shouting at him.

+

+“Why, that’s our Tíkhon,” said the esaul.

+

+“So it is! It is!”

+

+“The wascal!” said Denísov.

+

+“He’ll get away!” said the esaul, screwing up his eyes.

+

+The man whom they called Tíkhon, having run to the stream, plunged in

+so that the water splashed in the air, and, having disappeared for an

+instant, scrambled out on all fours, all black with the wet, and ran on.

+The French who had been pursuing him stopped.

+

+“Smart, that!” said the esaul.

+

+“What a beast!” said Denísov with his former look of vexation. “What has

+he been doing all this time?”

+

+“Who is he?” asked Pétya.

+

+“He’s our plastún. I sent him to capture a ‘tongue.’”

+

+“Oh, yes,” said Pétya, nodding at the first words Denísov uttered as if

+he understood it all, though he really did not understand anything of

+it.

+

+Tíkhon Shcherbáty was one of the most indispensable men in their band.

+He was a peasant from Pokróvsk, near the river Gzhat. When Denísov had

+come to Pokróvsk at the beginning of his operations and had as usual

+summoned the village elder and asked him what he knew about the French,

+the elder, as though shielding himself, had replied, as all village

+elders did, that he had neither seen nor heard anything of them. But

+when Denísov explained that his purpose was to kill the French, and

+asked if no French had strayed that way, the elder replied that some

+“more-orderers” had really been at their village, but that Tíkhon

+Shcherbáty was the only man who dealt with such matters. Denísov had

+Tíkhon called and, having praised him for his activity, said a few words

+in the elder’s presence about loyalty to the Tsar and the country and

+the hatred of the French that all sons of the fatherland should cherish.

+

+“We don’t do the French any harm,” said Tíkhon, evidently frightened by

+Denísov’s words. “We only fooled about with the lads for fun, you know!

+We killed a score or so of ‘more-orderers,’ but we did no harm else....”

+

+Next day when Denísov had left Pokróvsk, having quite forgotten about

+this peasant, it was reported to him that Tíkhon had attached himself

+to their party and asked to be allowed to remain with it. Denísov gave

+orders to let him do so.

+

+Tíkhon, who at first did rough work, laying campfires, fetching water,

+flaying dead horses, and so on, soon showed a great liking and aptitude

+for partisan warfare. At night he would go out for booty and always

+brought back French clothing and weapons, and when told to would bring

+in French captives also. Denísov then relieved him from drudgery and

+began taking him with him when he went out on expeditions and had him

+enrolled among the Cossacks.

+

+Tíkhon did not like riding, and always went on foot, never lagging

+behind the cavalry. He was armed with a musketoon (which he carried

+rather as a joke), a pike and an ax, which latter he used as a wolf uses

+its teeth, with equal ease picking fleas out of its fur or crunching

+thick bones. Tíkhon with equal accuracy would split logs with blows at

+arm’s length, or holding the head of the ax would cut thin little pegs

+or carve spoons. In Denísov’s party he held a peculiar and exceptional

+position. When anything particularly difficult or nasty had to be

+done—to push a cart out of the mud with one’s shoulders, pull a horse

+out of a swamp by its tail, skin it, slink in among the French, or walk

+more than thirty miles in a day—everybody pointed laughingly at Tíkhon.

+

+“It won’t hurt that devil—he’s as strong as a horse!” they said of him.

+

+Once a Frenchman Tíkhon was trying to capture fired a pistol at him

+and shot him in the fleshy part of the back. That wound (which Tíkhon

+treated only with internal and external applications of vodka) was the

+subject of the liveliest jokes by the whole detachment—jokes in which

+Tíkhon readily joined.

+

+“Hallo, mate! Never again? Gave you a twist?” the Cossacks would banter

+him. And Tíkhon, purposely writhing and making faces, pretended to be

+angry and swore at the French with the funniest curses. The only effect

+of this incident on Tíkhon was that after being wounded he seldom

+brought in prisoners.

+

+He was the bravest and most useful man in the party. No one found more

+opportunities for attacking, no one captured or killed more Frenchmen,

+and consequently he was made the buffoon of all the Cossacks and hussars

+and willingly accepted that role. Now he had been sent by Denísov

+overnight to Shámshevo to capture a “tongue.” But whether because he

+had not been content to take only one Frenchman or because he had slept

+through the night, he had crept by day into some bushes right among the

+French and, as Denísov had witnessed from above, had been detected by

+them.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER VI

+

+After talking for some time with the esaul about next day’s attack,

+which now, seeing how near they were to the French, he seemed to have

+definitely decided on, Denísov turned his horse and rode back.

+

+“Now, my lad, we’ll go and get dwy,” he said to Pétya.

+

+As they approached the watchhouse Denísov stopped, peering into the

+forest. Among the trees a man with long legs and long, swinging arms,

+wearing a short jacket, bast shoes, and a Kazán hat, was approaching

+with long, light steps. He had a musketoon over his shoulder and an ax

+stuck in his girdle. When he espied Denísov he hastily threw something

+into the bushes, removed his sodden hat by its floppy brim, and

+approached his commander. It was Tíkhon. His wrinkled and pockmarked

+face and narrow little eyes beamed with self-satisfied merriment. He

+lifted his head high and gazed at Denísov as if repressing a laugh.

+

+“Well, where did you disappear to?” inquired Denísov.

+

+“Where did I disappear to? I went to get Frenchmen,” answered Tíkhon

+boldly and hurriedly, in a husky but melodious bass voice.

+

+“Why did you push yourself in there by daylight? You ass! Well, why

+haven’t you taken one?”

+

+“Oh, I took one all right,” said Tíkhon.

+

+“Where is he?”

+

+“You see, I took him first thing at dawn,” Tíkhon continued, spreading

+out his flat feet with outturned toes in their bast shoes. “I took him

+into the forest. Then I see he’s no good and think I’ll go and fetch a

+likelier one.”

+

+“You see?... What a wogue—it’s just as I thought,” said Denísov to the

+esaul. “Why didn’t you bwing that one?”

+

+“What was the good of bringing him?” Tíkhon interrupted hastily and

+angrily—“that one wouldn’t have done for you. As if I don’t know what

+sort you want!”

+

+“What a bwute you are!... Well?”

+

+“I went for another one,” Tíkhon continued, “and I crept like this

+through the wood and lay down.” (He suddenly lay down on his stomach

+with a supple movement to show how he had done it.) “One turned up and

+I grabbed him, like this.” (He jumped up quickly and lightly.) “‘Come

+along to the colonel,’ I said. He starts yelling, and suddenly there

+were four of them. They rushed at me with their little swords. So I went

+for them with my ax, this way: ‘What are you up to?’ says I. ‘Christ

+be with you!’” shouted Tíkhon, waving his arms with an angry scowl and

+throwing out his chest.

+

+“Yes, we saw from the hill how you took to your heels through the

+puddles!” said the esaul, screwing up his glittering eyes.

+

+Pétya badly wanted to laugh, but noticed that they all refrained from

+laughing. He turned his eyes rapidly from Tíkhon’s face to the esaul’s

+and Denísov’s, unable to make out what it all meant.

+

+“Don’t play the fool!” said Denísov, coughing angrily. “Why didn’t you

+bwing the first one?”

+

+Tíkhon scratched his back with one hand and his head with the other,

+then suddenly his whole face expanded into a beaming, foolish grin,

+disclosing a gap where he had lost a tooth (that was why he was called

+Shcherbáty—the gap-toothed). Denísov smiled, and Pétya burst into a peal

+of merry laughter in which Tíkhon himself joined.

+

+“Oh, but he was a regular good-for-nothing,” said Tíkhon. “The clothes

+on him—poor stuff! How could I bring him? And so rude, your honor! Why,

+he says: ‘I’m a general’s son myself, I won’t go!’ he says.”

+

+“You are a bwute!” said Denísov. “I wanted to question...”

+

+“But I questioned him,” said Tíkhon. “He said he didn’t know much.

+‘There are a lot of us,’ he says, ‘but all poor stuff—only soldiers in

+name,’ he says. ‘Shout loud at them,’ he says, ‘and you’ll take

+them all,’” Tíkhon concluded, looking cheerfully and resolutely into

+Denísov’s eyes.

+

+“I’ll give you a hundwed sharp lashes—that’ll teach you to play the

+fool!” said Denísov severely.

+

+“But why are you angry?” remonstrated Tíkhon, “just as if I’d never seen

+your Frenchmen! Only wait till it gets dark and I’ll fetch you any of

+them you want—three if you like.”

+

+“Well, let’s go,” said Denísov, and rode all the way to the watchhouse

+in silence and frowning angrily.

+

+Tíkhon followed behind and Pétya heard the Cossacks laughing with him

+and at him, about some pair of boots he had thrown into the bushes.

+

+When the fit of laughter that had seized him at Tíkhon’s words and smile

+had passed and Pétya realized for a moment that this Tíkhon had killed a

+man, he felt uneasy. He looked round at the captive drummer boy and felt

+a pang in his heart. But this uneasiness lasted only a moment. He felt

+it necessary to hold his head higher, to brace himself, and to question

+the esaul with an air of importance about tomorrow’s undertaking, that

+he might not be unworthy of the company in which he found himself.

+

+The officer who had been sent to inquire met Denísov on the way with the

+news that Dólokhov was soon coming and that all was well with him.

+

+Denísov at once cheered up and, calling Pétya to him, said: “Well, tell

+me about yourself.”

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER VII

+

+Pétya, having left his people after their departure from Moscow, joined

+his regiment and was soon taken as orderly by a general commanding a

+large guerrilla detachment. From the time he received his commission,

+and especially since he had joined the active army and taken part in

+the battle of Vyázma, Pétya had been in a constant state of blissful

+excitement at being grown-up and in a perpetual ecstatic hurry not to

+miss any chance to do something really heroic. He was highly delighted

+with what he saw and experienced in the army, but at the same time

+it always seemed to him that the really heroic exploits were being

+performed just where he did not happen to be. And he was always in a

+hurry to get where he was not.

+

+When on the twenty-first of October his general expressed a wish to send

+somebody to Denísov’s detachment, Pétya begged so piteously to be sent

+that the general could not refuse. But when dispatching him he recalled

+Pétya’s mad action at the battle of Vyázma, where instead of riding by

+the road to the place to which he had been sent, he had galloped to the

+advanced line under the fire of the French and had there twice fired

+his pistol. So now the general explicitly forbade his taking part in any

+action whatever of Denísov’s. That was why Pétya had blushed and grown

+confused when Denísov asked him whether he could stay. Before they had

+ridden to the outskirts of the forest Pétya had considered he must carry

+out his instructions strictly and return at once. But when he saw the

+French and saw Tíkhon and learned that there would certainly be an

+attack that night, he decided, with the rapidity with which young people

+change their views, that the general, whom he had greatly respected till

+then, was a rubbishy German, that Denísov was a hero, the esaul a hero,

+and Tíkhon a hero too, and that it would be shameful for him to leave

+them at a moment of difficulty.

+

+It was already growing dusk when Denísov, Pétya, and the esaul rode up

+to the watchhouse. In the twilight saddled horses could be seen, and

+Cossacks and hussars who had rigged up rough shelters in the glade and

+were kindling glowing fires in a hollow of the forest where the French

+could not see the smoke. In the passage of the small watchhouse a

+Cossack with sleeves rolled up was chopping some mutton. In the room

+three officers of Denísov’s band were converting a door into a tabletop.

+Pétya took off his wet clothes, gave them to be dried, and at once began

+helping the officers to fix up the dinner table.

+

+In ten minutes the table was ready and a napkin spread on it. On the

+table were vodka, a flask of rum, white bread, roast mutton, and salt.

+

+Sitting at table with the officers and tearing the fat savory mutton

+with his hands, down which the grease trickled, Pétya was in an ecstatic

+childish state of love for all men, and consequently of confidence that

+others loved him in the same way.

+

+“So then what do you think, Vasíli Dmítrich?” said he to Denísov. “It’s

+all right my staying a day with you?” And not waiting for a reply he

+answered his own question: “You see I was told to find out—well, I am

+finding out.... Only do let me into the very... into the chief... I

+don’t want a reward.... But I want...”

+

+Pétya clenched his teeth and looked around, throwing back his head and

+flourishing his arms.

+

+“Into the vewy chief...” Denísov repeated with a smile.

+

+“Only, please let me command something, so that I may really command...”

+Pétya went on. “What would it be to you?... Oh, you want a knife?” he

+said, turning to an officer who wished to cut himself a piece of mutton.

+

+And he handed him his clasp knife. The officer admired it.

+

+“Please keep it. I have several like it,” said Pétya, blushing.

+“Heavens! I was quite forgetting!” he suddenly cried. “I have some

+raisins, fine ones; you know, seedless ones. We have a new sutler and

+he has such capital things. I bought ten pounds. I am used to something

+sweet. Would you like some?...” and Pétya ran out into the passage to

+his Cossack and brought back some bags which contained about five pounds

+of raisins. “Have some, gentlemen, have some!”

+

+“You want a coffeepot, don’t you?” he asked the esaul. “I bought a

+capital one from our sutler! He has splendid things. And he’s very

+honest, that’s the chief thing. I’ll be sure to send it to you. Or

+perhaps your flints are giving out, or are worn out—that happens

+sometimes, you know. I have brought some with me, here they are”—and he

+showed a bag—“a hundred flints. I bought them very cheap. Please take as

+many as you want, or all if you like....”

+

+Then suddenly, dismayed lest he had said too much, Pétya stopped and

+blushed.

+

+He tried to remember whether he had not done anything else that was

+foolish. And running over the events of the day he remembered the French

+drummer boy. “It’s capital for us here, but what of him? Where have they

+put him? Have they fed him? Haven’t they hurt his feelings?” he thought.

+But having caught himself saying too much about the flints, he was now

+afraid to speak out.

+

+“I might ask,” he thought, “but they’ll say: ‘He’s a boy himself and so

+he pities the boy.’ I’ll show them tomorrow whether I’m a boy. Will it

+seem odd if I ask?” Pétya thought. “Well, never mind!” and immediately,

+blushing and looking anxiously at the officers to see if they appeared

+ironical, he said:

+

+“May I call in that boy who was taken prisoner and give him something to

+eat?... Perhaps...”

+

+“Yes, he’s a poor little fellow,” said Denísov, who evidently saw

+nothing shameful in this reminder. “Call him in. His name is Vincent

+Bosse. Have him fetched.”

+

+“I’ll call him,” said Pétya.

+

+“Yes, yes, call him. A poor little fellow,” Denísov repeated.

+

+Pétya was standing at the door when Denísov said this. He slipped in

+between the officers, came close to Denísov, and said:

+

+“Let me kiss you, dear old fellow! Oh, how fine, how splendid!”

+

+And having kissed Denísov he ran out of the hut.

+

+“Bosse! Vincent!” Pétya cried, stopping outside the door.

+

+“Who do you want, sir?” asked a voice in the darkness.

+

+Pétya replied that he wanted the French lad who had been captured that

+day.

+

+“Ah, Vesénny?” said a Cossack.

+

+Vincent, the boy’s name, had already been changed by the Cossacks into

+Vesénny (vernal) and into Vesénya by the peasants and soldiers. In both

+these adaptations the reference to spring (vesná) matched the impression

+made by the young lad.

+

+“He is warming himself there by the bonfire. Ho, Vesénya!

+Vesénya!—Vesénny!” laughing voices were heard calling to one another in

+the darkness.

+

+“He’s a smart lad,” said an hussar standing near Pétya. “We gave him

+something to eat a while ago. He was awfully hungry!”

+

+The sound of bare feet splashing through the mud was heard in the

+darkness, and the drummer boy came to the door.

+

+“Ah, c’est vous!” said Pétya. “Voulez-vous manger? N’ayez pas peur, on

+ne vous fera pas de mal,” * he added shyly and affectionately, touching

+the boy’s hand. “Entrez, entrez.” *(2)

+

+     * “Ah, it’s you! Do you want something to eat? Don’t be

+     afraid, they won’t hurt you.”

+

+     * (2) “Come in, come in.”

+

+

+“Merci, monsieur,” * said the drummer boy in a trembling almost childish

+voice, and he began scraping his dirty feet on the threshold.

+

+    * “Thank you, sir.”

+

+

+There were many things Pétya wanted to say to the drummer boy, but did

+not dare to. He stood irresolutely beside him in the passage. Then in

+the darkness he took the boy’s hand and pressed it.

+

+“Come in, come in!” he repeated in a gentle whisper. “Oh, what can I do

+for him?” he thought, and opening the door he let the boy pass in first.

+

+When the boy had entered the hut, Pétya sat down at a distance from

+him, considering it beneath his dignity to pay attention to him. But

+he fingered the money in his pocket and wondered whether it would seem

+ridiculous to give some to the drummer boy.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER VIII

+

+The arrival of Dólokhov diverted Pétya’s attention from the drummer boy,

+to whom Denísov had had some mutton and vodka given, and whom he had had

+dressed in a Russian coat so that he might be kept with their band and

+not sent away with the other prisoners. Pétya had heard in the army many

+stories of Dólokhov’s extraordinary bravery and of his cruelty to the

+French, so from the moment he entered the hut Pétya did not take his

+eyes from him, but braced himself up more and more and held his head

+high, that he might not be unworthy even of such company.

+

+Dólokhov’s appearance amazed Pétya by its simplicity.

+

+Denísov wore a Cossack coat, had a beard, had an icon of Nicholas the

+Wonder-Worker on his breast, and his way of speaking and everything he

+did indicated his unusual position. But Dólokhov, who in Moscow had worn

+a Persian costume, had now the appearance of a most correct officer of

+the Guards. He was clean-shaven and wore a Guardsman’s padded coat with

+an Order of St. George at his buttonhole and a plain forage cap set

+straight on his head. He took off his wet felt cloak in a corner of

+the room, and without greeting anyone went up to Denísov and began

+questioning him about the matter in hand. Denísov told him of the

+designs the large detachments had on the transport, of the message Pétya

+had brought, and his own replies to both generals. Then he told him all

+he knew of the French detachment.

+

+“That’s so. But we must know what troops they are and their numbers,”

+said Dólokhov. “It will be necessary to go there. We can’t start the

+affair without knowing for certain how many there are. I like to work

+accurately. Here now—wouldn’t one of these gentlemen like to ride over

+to the French camp with me? I have brought a spare uniform.”

+

+“I, I... I’ll go with you!” cried Pétya.

+

+“There’s no need for you to go at all,” said Denísov, addressing

+Dólokhov, “and as for him, I won’t let him go on any account.”

+

+“I like that!” exclaimed Pétya. “Why shouldn’t I go?”

+

+“Because it’s useless.”

+

+“Well, you must excuse me, because... because... I shall go, and that’s

+all. You’ll take me, won’t you?” he said, turning to Dólokhov.

+

+“Why not?” Dólokhov answered absently, scrutinizing the face of the

+French drummer boy. “Have you had that youngster with you long?” he

+asked Denísov.

+

+“He was taken today but he knows nothing. I’m keeping him with me.”

+

+“Yes, and where do you put the others?” inquired Dólokhov.

+

+“Where? I send them away and take a weceipt for them,” shouted Denísov,

+suddenly flushing. “And I say boldly that I have not a single man’s life

+on my conscience. Would it be difficult for you to send thirty or

+thwee hundwed men to town under escort, instead of staining—I speak

+bluntly—staining the honor of a soldier?”

+

+“That kind of amiable talk would be suitable from this young count of

+sixteen,” said Dólokhov with cold irony, “but it’s time for you to drop

+it.”

+

+“Why, I’ve not said anything! I only say that I’ll certainly go with

+you,” said Pétya shyly.

+

+“But for you and me, old fellow, it’s time to drop these amenities,”

+continued Dólokhov, as if he found particular pleasure in speaking of

+this subject which irritated Denísov. “Now, why have you kept this lad?”

+he went on, swaying his head. “Because you are sorry for him! Don’t we

+know those ‘receipts’ of yours? You send a hundred men away, and thirty

+get there. The rest either starve or get killed. So isn’t it all the

+same not to send them?”

+

+The esaul, screwing up his light-colored eyes, nodded approvingly.

+

+“That’s not the point. I’m not going to discuss the matter. I do not

+wish to take it on my conscience. You say they’ll die. All wight. Only

+not by my fault!”

+

+Dólokhov began laughing.

+

+“Who has told them not to capture me these twenty times over? But if

+they did catch me they’d string me up to an aspen tree, and with all

+your chivalry just the same.” He paused. “However, we must get to work.

+Tell the Cossack to fetch my kit. I have two French uniforms in it.

+Well, are you coming with me?” he asked Pétya.

+

+“I? Yes, yes, certainly!” cried Pétya, blushing almost to tears and

+glancing at Denísov.

+

+While Dólokhov had been disputing with Denísov what should be done with

+prisoners, Pétya had once more felt awkward and restless; but again he

+had no time to grasp fully what they were talking about. “If grown-up,

+distinguished men think so, it must be necessary and right,” thought he.

+“But above all Denísov must not dare to imagine that I’ll obey him and

+that he can order me about. I will certainly go to the French camp with

+Dólokhov. If he can, so can I!”

+

+And to all Denísov’s persuasions, Pétya replied that he too was

+accustomed to do everything accurately and not just anyhow, and that he

+never considered personal danger.

+

+“For you’ll admit that if we don’t know for sure how many of them there

+are... hundreds of lives may depend on it, while there are only two

+of us. Besides, I want to go very much and certainly will go, so don’t

+hinder me,” said he. “It will only make things worse....”

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER IX

+

+Having put on French greatcoats and shakos, Pétya and Dólokhov rode to

+the clearing from which Denísov had reconnoitered the French camp,

+and emerging from the forest in pitch darkness they descended into the

+hollow. On reaching the bottom, Dólokhov told the Cossacks accompanying

+him to await him there and rode on at a quick trot along the road to the

+bridge. Pétya, his heart in his mouth with excitement, rode by his side.

+

+“If we’re caught, I won’t be taken alive! I have a pistol,” whispered

+he.

+

+“Don’t talk Russian,” said Dólokhov in a hurried whisper, and at that

+very moment they heard through the darkness the challenge: “Qui vive?” *

+and the click of a musket.

+

+    * “Who goes there?”

+

+

+The blood rushed to Pétya’s face and he grasped his pistol.

+

+“Lanciers du 6-me,” * replied Dólokhov, neither hastening nor slackening

+his horse’s pace.

+

+    * “Lancers of the 6th Regiment.”

+

+

+The black figure of a sentinel stood on the bridge.

+

+“Mot d’ordre.” *

+

+    * “Password.”

+

+

+Dólokhov reined in his horse and advanced at a walk.

+

+“Dites donc, le colonel Gérard est ici?” * he asked.

+

+    * “Tell me, is Colonel Gérard here?”

+

+

+“Mot d’ordre,” repeated the sentinel, barring the way and not replying.

+

+“Quand un officier fait sa ronde, les sentinelles ne demandent pas le

+mot d’ordre...” cried Dólokhov suddenly flaring up and riding straight

+at the sentinel. “Je vous demande si le colonel est ici.” *

+

+     * “When an officer is making his round, sentinels don’t ask

+     him for the password.... I am asking you if the colonel is

+     here.”

+

+

+And without waiting for an answer from the sentinel, who had stepped

+aside, Dólokhov rode up the incline at a walk.

+

+Noticing the black outline of a man crossing the road, Dólokhov stopped

+him and inquired where the commander and officers were. The man,

+a soldier with a sack over his shoulder, stopped, came close up to

+Dólokhov’s horse, touched it with his hand, and explained simply and in

+a friendly way that the commander and the officers were higher up

+the hill to the right in the courtyard of the farm, as he called the

+landowner’s house.

+

+Having ridden up the road, on both sides of which French talk could be

+heard around the campfires, Dólokhov turned into the courtyard of the

+landowner’s house. Having ridden in, he dismounted and approached a

+big blazing campfire, around which sat several men talking noisily.

+Something was boiling in a small cauldron at the edge of the fire and

+a soldier in a peaked cap and blue overcoat, lit up by the fire, was

+kneeling beside it stirring its contents with a ramrod.

+

+“Oh, he’s a hard nut to crack,” said one of the officers who was sitting

+in the shadow at the other side of the fire.

+

+“He’ll make them get a move on, those fellows!” said another, laughing.

+

+Both fell silent, peering out through the darkness at the sound of

+Dólokhov’s and Pétya’s steps as they advanced to the fire leading their

+horses.

+

+“Bonjour, messieurs!” * said Dólokhov loudly and clearly.

+

+    * “Good day, gentlemen.”

+

+

+There was a stir among the officers in the shadow beyond the fire,

+and one tall, long-necked officer, walking round the fire, came up to

+Dólokhov.

+

+“Is that you, Clément?” he asked. “Where the devil...?” But, noticing

+his mistake, he broke off short and, with a frown, greeted Dólokhov as a

+stranger, asking what he could do for him.

+

+Dólokhov said that he and his companion were trying to overtake their

+regiment, and addressing the company in general asked whether they knew

+anything of the 6th Regiment. None of them knew anything, and Pétya

+thought the officers were beginning to look at him and Dólokhov with

+hostility and suspicion. For some seconds all were silent.

+

+“If you were counting on the evening soup, you have come too late,” said

+a voice from behind the fire with a repressed laugh.

+

+Dólokhov replied that they were not hungry and must push on farther that

+night.

+

+He handed the horses over to the soldier who was stirring the pot and

+squatted down on his heels by the fire beside the officer with the long

+neck. That officer did not take his eyes from Dólokhov and again asked

+to what regiment he belonged. Dólokhov, as if he had not heard the

+question, did not reply, but lighting a short French pipe which he took

+from his pocket began asking the officer in how far the road before them

+was safe from Cossacks.

+

+“Those brigands are everywhere,” replied an officer from behind the

+fire.

+

+Dólokhov remarked that the Cossacks were a danger only to stragglers

+such as his companion and himself, “but probably they would not dare to

+attack large detachments?” he added inquiringly. No one replied.

+

+“Well, now he’ll come away,” Pétya thought every moment as he stood by

+the campfire listening to the talk.

+

+But Dólokhov restarted the conversation which had dropped and began

+putting direct questions as to how many men there were in the battalion,

+how many battalions, and how many prisoners. Asking about the Russian

+prisoners with that detachment, Dólokhov said:

+

+“A horrid business dragging these corpses about with one! It would be

+better to shoot such rabble,” and burst into loud laughter, so strange

+that Pétya thought the French would immediately detect their disguise,

+and involuntarily took a step back from the campfire.

+

+No one replied a word to Dólokhov’s laughter, and a French officer whom

+they could not see (he lay wrapped in a greatcoat) rose and whispered

+something to a companion. Dólokhov got up and called to the soldier who

+was holding their horses.

+

+“Will they bring our horses or not?” thought Pétya, instinctively

+drawing nearer to Dólokhov.

+

+The horses were brought.

+

+“Good evening, gentlemen,” said Dólokhov.

+

+Pétya wished to say “Good night” but could not utter a word. The

+officers were whispering together. Dólokhov was a long time mounting

+his horse which would not stand still, then he rode out of the yard at a

+footpace. Pétya rode beside him, longing to look round to see whether or

+not the French were running after them, but not daring to.

+

+Coming out onto the road Dólokhov did not ride back across the open

+country, but through the village. At one spot he stopped and listened.

+“Do you hear?” he asked. Pétya recognized the sound of Russian voices

+and saw the dark figures of Russian prisoners round their campfires.

+When they had descended to the bridge Pétya and Dólokhov rode past the

+sentinel, who without saying a word paced morosely up and down it, then

+they descended into the hollow where the Cossacks awaited them.

+

+“Well now, good-by. Tell Denísov, ‘at the first shot at daybreak,’” said

+Dólokhov and was about to ride away, but Pétya seized hold of him.

+

+“Really!” he cried, “you are such a hero! Oh, how fine, how splendid!

+How I love you!”

+

+“All right, all right!” said Dólokhov. But Pétya did not let go of him

+and Dólokhov saw through the gloom that Pétya was bending toward him and

+wanted to kiss him. Dólokhov kissed him, laughed, turned his horse, and

+vanished into the darkness.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER X

+

+Having returned to the watchman’s hut, Pétya found Denísov in the

+passage. He was awaiting Pétya’s return in a state of agitation,

+anxiety, and self-reproach for having let him go.

+

+“Thank God!” he exclaimed. “Yes, thank God!” he repeated, listening to

+Pétya’s rapturous account. “But, devil take you, I haven’t slept because

+of you! Well, thank God. Now lie down. We can still get a nap before

+morning.”

+

+“But... no,” said Pétya, “I don’t want to sleep yet. Besides I know

+myself, if I fall asleep it’s finished. And then I am used to not

+sleeping before a battle.”

+

+He sat awhile in the hut joyfully recalling the details of his

+expedition and vividly picturing to himself what would happen next day.

+

+Then, noticing that Denísov was asleep, he rose and went out of doors.

+

+It was still quite dark outside. The rain was over, but drops were still

+falling from the trees. Near the watchman’s hut the black shapes of the

+Cossacks’ shanties and of horses tethered together could be seen. Behind

+the hut the dark shapes of the two wagons with their horses beside them

+were discernible, and in the hollow the dying campfire gleamed red.

+Not all the Cossacks and hussars were asleep; here and there, amid the

+sounds of falling drops and the munching of the horses near by, could be

+heard low voices which seemed to be whispering.

+

+Pétya came out, peered into the darkness, and went up to the wagons.

+Someone was snoring under them, and around them stood saddled horses

+munching their oats. In the dark Pétya recognized his own horse, which

+he called “Karabákh” though it was of Ukranian breed, and went up to it.

+

+“Well, Karabákh! We’ll do some service tomorrow,” said he, sniffing its

+nostrils and kissing it.

+

+“Why aren’t you asleep, sir?” said a Cossack who was sitting under a

+wagon.

+

+“No, ah... Likhachëv—isn’t that your name? Do you know I have only just

+come back! We’ve been into the French camp.”

+

+And Pétya gave the Cossack a detailed account not only of his ride but

+also of his object, and why he considered it better to risk his life

+than to act “just anyhow.”

+

+“Well, you should get some sleep now,” said the Cossack.

+

+“No, I am used to this,” said Pétya. “I say, aren’t the flints in your

+pistols worn out? I brought some with me. Don’t you want any? You can

+have some.”

+

+The Cossack bent forward from under the wagon to get a closer look at

+Pétya.

+

+“Because I am accustomed to doing everything accurately,” said Pétya.

+“Some fellows do things just anyhow, without preparation, and then

+they’re sorry for it afterwards. I don’t like that.”

+

+“Just so,” said the Cossack.

+

+“Oh yes, another thing! Please, my dear fellow, will you sharpen my

+saber for me? It’s got bl...” (Pétya feared to tell a lie, and the saber

+never had been sharpened.) “Can you do it?”

+

+“Of course I can.”

+

+Likhachëv got up, rummaged in his pack, and soon Pétya heard the warlike

+sound of steel on whetstone. He climbed onto the wagon and sat on its

+edge. The Cossack was sharpening the saber under the wagon.

+

+“I say! Are the lads asleep?” asked Pétya.

+

+“Some are, and some aren’t—like us.”

+

+“Well, and that boy?”

+

+“Vesénny? Oh, he’s thrown himself down there in the passage. Fast asleep

+after his fright. He was that glad!”

+

+After that Pétya remained silent for a long time, listening to the

+sounds. He heard footsteps in the darkness and a black figure appeared.

+

+“What are you sharpening?” asked a man coming up to the wagon.

+

+“Why, this gentleman’s saber.”

+

+“That’s right,” said the man, whom Pétya took to be an hussar. “Was the

+cup left here?”

+

+“There, by the wheel!”

+

+The hussar took the cup.

+

+“It must be daylight soon,” said he, yawning, and went away.

+

+Pétya ought to have known that he was in a forest with Denísov’s

+guerrilla band, less than a mile from the road, sitting on a wagon

+captured from the French beside which horses were tethered, that under

+it Likhachëv was sitting sharpening a saber for him, that the big dark

+blotch to the right was the watchman’s hut, and the red blotch below to

+the left was the dying embers of a campfire, that the man who had come

+for the cup was an hussar who wanted a drink; but he neither knew nor

+waited to know anything of all this. He was in a fairy kingdom where

+nothing resembled reality. The big dark blotch might really be the

+watchman’s hut or it might be a cavern leading to the very depths of

+the earth. Perhaps the red spot was a fire, or it might be the eye of an

+enormous monster. Perhaps he was really sitting on a wagon, but it might

+very well be that he was not sitting on a wagon but on a terribly high

+tower from which, if he fell, he would have to fall for a whole day or a

+whole month, or go on falling and never reach the bottom. Perhaps it

+was just the Cossack, Likhachëv, who was sitting under the wagon, but it

+might be the kindest, bravest, most wonderful, most splendid man in the

+world, whom no one knew of. It might really have been that the hussar

+came for water and went back into the hollow, but perhaps he had simply

+vanished—disappeared altogether and dissolved into nothingness.

+

+Nothing Pétya could have seen now would have surprised him. He was in a

+fairy kingdom where everything was possible.

+

+He looked up at the sky. And the sky was a fairy realm like the earth.

+It was clearing, and over the tops of the trees clouds were swiftly

+sailing as if unveiling the stars. Sometimes it looked as if the clouds

+were passing, and a clear black sky appeared. Sometimes it seemed as

+if the black spaces were clouds. Sometimes the sky seemed to be rising

+high, high overhead, and then it seemed to sink so low that one could

+touch it with one’s hand.

+

+Pétya’s eyes began to close and he swayed a little.

+

+The trees were dripping. Quiet talking was heard. The horses neighed and

+jostled one another. Someone snored.

+

+“Ozheg-zheg, Ozheg-zheg...” hissed the saber against the whetstone,

+and suddenly Pétya heard an harmonious orchestra playing some unknown,

+sweetly solemn hymn. Pétya was as musical as Natásha and more so than

+Nicholas, but had never learned music or thought about it, and so the

+melody that unexpectedly came to his mind seemed to him particularly

+fresh and attractive. The music became more and more audible. The melody

+grew and passed from one instrument to another. And what was played was

+a fugue—though Pétya had not the least conception of what a fugue is.

+Each instrument—now resembling a violin and now a horn, but better

+and clearer than violin or horn—played its own part, and before it had

+finished the melody merged with another instrument that began almost the

+same air, and then with a third and a fourth; and they all blended into

+one and again became separate and again blended, now into solemn church

+music, now into something dazzlingly brilliant and triumphant.

+

+“Oh—why, that was in a dream!” Pétya said to himself, as he lurched

+forward. “It’s in my ears. But perhaps it’s music of my own. Well, go

+on, my music! Now!...”

+

+He closed his eyes, and, from all sides as if from a distance, sounds

+fluttered, grew into harmonies, separated, blended, and again all

+mingled into the same sweet and solemn hymn. “Oh, this is delightful!

+As much as I like and as I like!” said Pétya to himself. He tried to

+conduct that enormous orchestra.

+

+“Now softly, softly die away!” and the sounds obeyed him. “Now fuller,

+more joyful. Still more and more joyful!” And from an unknown depth rose

+increasingly triumphant sounds. “Now voices join in!” ordered Pétya. And

+at first from afar he heard men’s voices and then women’s. The voices

+grew in harmonious triumphant strength, and Pétya listened to their

+surpassing beauty in awe and joy.

+

+With a solemn triumphal march there mingled a song, the drip from the

+trees, and the hissing of the saber, “Ozheg-zheg-zheg...” and again the

+horses jostled one another and neighed, not disturbing the choir but

+joining in it.

+

+Pétya did not know how long this lasted: he enjoyed himself all the

+time, wondered at his enjoyment and regretted that there was no one to

+share it. He was awakened by Likhachëv’s kindly voice.

+

+“It’s ready, your honor; you can split a Frenchman in half with it!”

+

+Pétya woke up.

+

+“It’s getting light, it’s really getting light!” he exclaimed.

+

+The horses that had previously been invisible could now be seen to their

+very tails, and a watery light showed itself through the bare branches.

+Pétya shook himself, jumped up, took a ruble from his pocket and gave it

+to Likhachëv; then he flourished the saber, tested it, and sheathed

+it. The Cossacks were untying their horses and tightening their saddle

+girths.

+

+“And here’s the commander,” said Likhachëv.

+

+Denísov came out of the watchman’s hut and, having called Pétya, gave

+orders to get ready.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XI

+

+The men rapidly picked out their horses in the semidarkness, tightened

+their saddle girths, and formed companies. Denísov stood by the

+watchman’s hut giving final orders. The infantry of the detachment

+passed along the road and quickly disappeared amid the trees in the mist

+of early dawn, hundreds of feet splashing through the mud. The esaul

+gave some orders to his men. Pétya held his horse by the bridle,

+impatiently awaiting the order to mount. His face, having been bathed

+in cold water, was all aglow, and his eyes were particularly brilliant.

+Cold shivers ran down his spine and his whole body pulsed rhythmically.

+

+“Well, is ev’wything weady?” asked Denísov. “Bwing the horses.”

+

+The horses were brought. Denísov was angry with the Cossack because the

+saddle girths were too slack, reproved him, and mounted. Pétya put his

+foot in the stirrup. His horse by habit made as if to nip his leg, but

+Pétya leaped quickly into the saddle unconscious of his own weight and,

+turning to look at the hussars starting in the darkness behind him, rode

+up to Denísov.

+

+“Vasíli Dmítrich, entrust me with some commission! Please... for God’s

+sake...!” said he.

+

+Denísov seemed to have forgotten Pétya’s very existence. He turned to

+glance at him.

+

+“I ask one thing of you,” he said sternly, “to obey me and not shove

+yourself forward anywhere.”

+

+He did not say another word to Pétya but rode in silence all the way.

+When they had come to the edge of the forest it was noticeably growing

+light over the field. Denísov talked in whispers with the esaul and

+the Cossacks rode past Pétya and Denísov. When they had all ridden by,

+Denísov touched his horse and rode down the hill. Slipping onto their

+haunches and sliding, the horses descended with their riders into the

+ravine. Pétya rode beside Denísov, the pulsation of his body constantly

+increasing. It was getting lighter and lighter, but the mist still hid

+distant objects. Having reached the valley, Denísov looked back and

+nodded to a Cossack beside him.

+

+“The signal!” said he.

+

+The Cossack raised his arm and a shot rang out. In an instant the tramp

+of horses galloping forward was heard, shouts came from various sides,

+and then more shots.

+

+At the first sound of trampling hoofs and shouting, Pétya lashed his

+horse and loosening his rein galloped forward, not heeding Denísov who

+shouted at him. It seemed to Pétya that at the moment the shot was

+fired it suddenly became as bright as noon. He galloped to the bridge.

+Cossacks were galloping along the road in front of him. On the bridge

+he collided with a Cossack who had fallen behind, but he galloped on.

+In front of him soldiers, probably Frenchmen, were running from right

+to left across the road. One of them fell in the mud under his horse’s

+feet.

+

+Cossacks were crowding about a hut, busy with something. From the midst

+of that crowd terrible screams arose. Pétya galloped up, and the

+first thing he saw was the pale face and trembling jaw of a Frenchman,

+clutching the handle of a lance that had been aimed at him.

+

+“Hurrah!... Lads!... ours!” shouted Pétya, and giving rein to his

+excited horse he galloped forward along the village street.

+

+He could hear shooting ahead of him. Cossacks, hussars, and ragged

+Russian prisoners, who had come running from both sides of the road,

+were shouting something loudly and incoherently. A gallant-looking

+Frenchman, in a blue overcoat, capless, and with a frowning red face,

+had been defending himself against the hussars. When Pétya galloped

+up the Frenchman had already fallen. “Too late again!” flashed through

+Pétya’s mind and he galloped on to the place from which the rapid firing

+could be heard. The shots came from the yard of the landowner’s house

+he had visited the night before with Dólokhov. The French were making

+a stand there behind a wattle fence in a garden thickly overgrown with

+bushes and were firing at the Cossacks who crowded at the gateway.

+Through the smoke, as he approached the gate, Pétya saw Dólokhov, whose

+face was of a pale-greenish tint, shouting to his men. “Go round! Wait

+for the infantry!” he exclaimed as Pétya rode up to him.

+

+“Wait?... Hurrah-ah-ah!” shouted Pétya, and without pausing a moment

+galloped to the place whence came the sounds of firing and where the

+smoke was thickest.

+

+A volley was heard, and some bullets whistled past, while others plashed

+against something. The Cossacks and Dólokhov galloped after Pétya into

+the gateway of the courtyard. In the dense wavering smoke some of the

+French threw down their arms and ran out of the bushes to meet the

+Cossacks, while others ran down the hill toward the pond. Pétya was

+galloping along the courtyard, but instead of holding the reins he waved

+both his arms about rapidly and strangely, slipping farther and farther

+to one side in his saddle. His horse, having galloped up to a campfire

+that was smoldering in the morning light, stopped suddenly, and Pétya

+fell heavily on to the wet ground. The Cossacks saw that his arms and

+legs jerked rapidly though his head was quite motionless. A bullet had

+pierced his skull.

+

+After speaking to the senior French officer, who came out of the house

+with a white handkerchief tied to his sword and announced that

+they surrendered, Dólokhov dismounted and went up to Pétya, who lay

+motionless with outstretched arms.

+

+“Done for!” he said with a frown, and went to the gate to meet Denísov

+who was riding toward him.

+

+“Killed?” cried Denísov, recognizing from a distance the unmistakably

+lifeless attitude—very familiar to him—in which Pétya’s body was lying.

+

+“Done for!” repeated Dólokhov as if the utterance of these words

+afforded him pleasure, and he went quickly up to the prisoners, who

+were surrounded by Cossacks who had hurried up. “We won’t take them!” he

+called out to Denísov.

+

+Denísov did not reply; he rode up to Pétya, dismounted, and with

+trembling hands turned toward himself the bloodstained, mud-bespattered

+face which had already gone white.

+

+“I am used to something sweet. Raisins, fine ones... take them all!” he

+recalled Pétya’s words. And the Cossacks looked round in surprise at the

+sound, like the yelp of a dog, with which Denísov turned away, walked to

+the wattle fence, and seized hold of it.

+

+Among the Russian prisoners rescued by Denísov and Dólokhov was Pierre

+Bezúkhov.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XII

+

+During the whole of their march from Moscow no fresh orders had been

+issued by the French authorities concerning the party of prisoners

+among whom was Pierre. On the twenty-second of October that party was

+no longer with the same troops and baggage trains with which it had left

+Moscow. Half the wagons laden with hardtack that had traveled the first

+stages with them had been captured by Cossacks, the other half had gone

+on ahead. Not one of those dismounted cavalrymen who had marched in

+front of the prisoners was left; they had all disappeared. The artillery

+the prisoners had seen in front of them during the first days was

+now replaced by Marshal Junot’s enormous baggage train, convoyed by

+Westphalians. Behind the prisoners came a cavalry baggage train.

+

+From Vyázma onwards the French army, which had till then moved in three

+columns, went on as a single group. The symptoms of disorder that Pierre

+had noticed at their first halting place after leaving Moscow had now

+reached the utmost limit.

+

+The road along which they moved was bordered on both sides by dead

+horses; ragged men who had fallen behind from various regiments

+continually changed about, now joining the moving column, now again

+lagging behind it.

+

+Several times during the march false alarms had been given and the

+soldiers of the escort had raised their muskets, fired, and run

+headlong, crushing one another, but had afterwards reassembled and

+abused each other for their causeless panic.

+

+These three groups traveling together—the cavalry stores, the convoy of

+prisoners, and Junot’s baggage train—still constituted a separate and

+united whole, though each of the groups was rapidly melting away.

+

+Of the artillery baggage train which had consisted of a hundred and

+twenty wagons, not more than sixty now remained; the rest had been

+captured or left behind. Some of Junot’s wagons also had been captured

+or abandoned. Three wagons had been raided and robbed by stragglers

+from Davout’s corps. From the talk of the Germans Pierre learned that

+a larger guard had been allotted to that baggage train than to the

+prisoners, and that one of their comrades, a German soldier, had been

+shot by the marshal’s own order because a silver spoon belonging to the

+marshal had been found in his possession.

+

+The group of prisoners had melted away most of all. Of the three hundred

+and thirty men who had set out from Moscow fewer than a hundred now

+remained. The prisoners were more burdensome to the escort than even the

+cavalry saddles or Junot’s baggage. They understood that the saddles and

+Junot’s spoon might be of some use, but that cold and hungry soldiers

+should have to stand and guard equally cold and hungry Russians who

+froze and lagged behind on the road (in which case the order was to

+shoot them) was not merely incomprehensible but revolting. And the

+escort, as if afraid, in the grievous condition they themselves were in,

+of giving way to the pity they felt for the prisoners and so rendering

+their own plight still worse, treated them with particular moroseness

+and severity.

+

+At Dorogobúzh while the soldiers of the convoy, after locking the

+prisoners in a stable, had gone off to pillage their own stores, several

+of the soldier prisoners tunneled under the wall and ran away, but were

+recaptured by the French and shot.

+

+The arrangement adopted when they started, that the officer prisoners

+should be kept separate from the rest, had long since been abandoned.

+All who could walk went together, and after the third stage Pierre had

+rejoined Karatáev and the gray-blue bandy-legged dog that had chosen

+Karatáev for its master.

+

+On the third day after leaving Moscow Karatáev again fell ill with the

+fever he had suffered from in the hospital in Moscow, and as he grew

+gradually weaker Pierre kept away from him. Pierre did not know why, but

+since Karatáev had begun to grow weaker it had cost him an effort to

+go near him. When he did so and heard the subdued moaning with which

+Karatáev generally lay down at the halting places, and when he smelled

+the odor emanating from him which was now stronger than before, Pierre

+moved farther away and did not think about him.

+

+While imprisoned in the shed Pierre had learned not with his intellect

+but with his whole being, by life itself, that man is created for

+happiness, that happiness is within him, in the satisfaction of simple

+human needs, and that all unhappiness arises not from privation but from

+superfluity. And now during these last three weeks of the march he had

+learned still another new, consolatory truth—that nothing in this world

+is terrible. He had learned that as there is no condition in which man

+can be happy and entirely free, so there is no condition in which he

+need be unhappy and lack freedom. He learned that suffering and freedom

+have their limits and that those limits are very near together; that the

+person in a bed of roses with one crumpled petal suffered as keenly as

+he now, sleeping on the bare damp earth with one side growing chilled

+while the other was warming; and that when he had put on tight dancing

+shoes he had suffered just as he did now when he walked with bare feet

+that were covered with sores—his footgear having long since fallen to

+pieces. He discovered that when he had married his wife—of his own free

+will as it had seemed to him—he had been no more free than now when they

+locked him up at night in a stable. Of all that he himself subsequently

+termed his sufferings, but which at the time he scarcely felt, the worst

+was the state of his bare, raw, and scab-covered feet. (The horseflesh

+was appetizing and nourishing, the saltpeter flavor of the gunpowder

+they used instead of salt was even pleasant; there was no great cold,

+it was always warm walking in the daytime, and at night there were the

+campfires; the lice that devoured him warmed his body.) The one thing

+that was at first hard to bear was his feet.

+

+After the second day’s march Pierre, having examined his feet by the

+campfire, thought it would be impossible to walk on them; but when

+everybody got up he went along, limping, and, when he had warmed up,

+walked without feeling the pain, though at night his feet were more

+terrible to look at than before. However, he did not look at them now,

+but thought of other things.

+

+Only now did Pierre realize the full strength of life in man and the

+saving power he has of transferring his attention from one thing

+to another, which is like the safety valve of a boiler that allows

+superfluous steam to blow off when the pressure exceeds a certain limit.

+

+He did not see and did not hear how they shot the prisoners who lagged

+behind, though more than a hundred perished in that way. He did not

+think of Karatáev who grew weaker every day and evidently would soon

+have to share that fate. Still less did Pierre think about himself. The

+harder his position became and the more terrible the future, the more

+independent of that position in which he found himself were the joyful

+and comforting thoughts, memories, and imaginings that came to him.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XIII

+

+At midday on the twenty-second of October Pierre was going uphill along

+the muddy, slippery road, looking at his feet and at the roughness of

+the way. Occasionally he glanced at the familiar crowd around him and

+then again at his feet. The former and the latter were alike familiar

+and his own. The blue-gray bandy legged dog ran merrily along the side

+of the road, sometimes in proof of its agility and self-satisfaction

+lifting one hind leg and hopping along on three, and then again going on

+all four and rushing to bark at the crows that sat on the carrion. The

+dog was merrier and sleeker than it had been in Moscow. All around lay

+the flesh of different animals—from men to horses—in various stages of

+decomposition; and as the wolves were kept off by the passing men the

+dog could eat all it wanted.

+

+It had been raining since morning and had seemed as if at any moment it

+might cease and the sky clear, but after a short break it began raining

+harder than before. The saturated road no longer absorbed the water,

+which ran along the ruts in streams.

+

+Pierre walked along, looking from side to side, counting his steps in

+threes, and reckoning them off on his fingers. Mentally addressing the

+rain, he repeated: “Now then, now then, go on! Pelt harder!”

+

+It seemed to him that he was thinking of nothing, but far down and

+deep within him his soul was occupied with something important and

+comforting. This something was a most subtle spiritual deduction from a

+conversation with Karatáev the day before.

+

+At their yesterday’s halting place, feeling chilly by a dying campfire,

+Pierre had got up and gone to the next one, which was burning better.

+There Platón Karatáev was sitting covered up—head and all—with his

+greatcoat as if it were a vestment, telling the soldiers in his

+effective and pleasant though now feeble voice a story Pierre knew. It

+was already past midnight, the hour when Karatáev was usually free of

+his fever and particularly lively. When Pierre reached the fire and

+heard Platón’s voice enfeebled by illness, and saw his pathetic face

+brightly lit up by the blaze, he felt a painful prick at his heart. His

+feeling of pity for this man frightened him and he wished to go away,

+but there was no other fire, and Pierre sat down, trying not to look at

+Platón.

+

+“Well, how are you?” he asked.

+

+“How am I? If we grumble at sickness, God won’t grant us death,” replied

+Platón, and at once resumed the story he had begun.

+

+“And so, brother,” he continued, with a smile on his pale emaciated face

+and a particularly happy light in his eyes, “you see, brother...”

+

+Pierre had long been familiar with that story. Karatáev had told it

+to him alone some half-dozen times and always with a specially joyful

+emotion. But well as he knew it, Pierre now listened to that tale as to

+something new, and the quiet rapture Karatáev evidently felt as he told

+it communicated itself also to Pierre. The story was of an old merchant

+who lived a good and God-fearing life with his family, and who went once

+to the Nízhni fair with a companion—a rich merchant.

+

+Having put up at an inn they both went to sleep, and next morning his

+companion was found robbed and with his throat cut. A bloodstained knife

+was found under the old merchant’s pillow. He was tried, knouted, and

+his nostrils having been torn off, “all in due form” as Karatáev put it,

+he was sent to hard labor in Siberia.

+

+“And so, brother” (it was at this point that Pierre came up), “ten years

+or more passed by. The old man was living as a convict, submitting as

+he should and doing no wrong. Only he prayed to God for death. Well, one

+night the convicts were gathered just as we are, with the old man among

+them. And they began telling what each was suffering for, and how they

+had sinned against God. One told how he had taken a life, another had

+taken two, a third had set a house on fire, while another had simply

+been a vagrant and had done nothing. So they asked the old man: ‘What

+are you being punished for, Daddy?’—‘I, my dear brothers,’ said he, ‘am

+being punished for my own and other men’s sins. But I have not killed

+anyone or taken anything that was not mine, but have only helped my

+poorer brothers. I was a merchant, my dear brothers, and had much

+property. ‘And he went on to tell them all about it in due order. ‘I

+don’t grieve for myself,’ he says, ‘God, it seems, has chastened me.

+Only I am sorry for my old wife and the children,’ and the old man began

+to weep. Now it happened that in the group was the very man who had

+killed the other merchant. ‘Where did it happen, Daddy?’ he said. ‘When,

+and in what month?’ He asked all about it and his heart began to ache.

+So he comes up to the old man like this, and falls down at his feet!

+‘You are perishing because of me, Daddy,’ he says. ‘It’s quite true,

+lads, that this man,’ he says, ‘is being tortured innocently and for

+nothing! I,’ he says, ‘did that deed, and I put the knife under your

+head while you were asleep. Forgive me, Daddy,’ he says, ‘for Christ’s

+sake!’”

+

+Karatáev paused, smiling joyously as he gazed into the fire, and he drew

+the logs together.

+

+“And the old man said, ‘God will forgive you, we are all sinners in His

+sight. I suffer for my own sins,’ and he wept bitter tears. Well,

+and what do you think, dear friends?” Karatáev continued, his face

+brightening more and more with a rapturous smile as if what he now had

+to tell contained the chief charm and the whole meaning of his story:

+“What do you think, dear fellows? That murderer confessed to the

+authorities. ‘I have taken six lives,’ he says (he was a great sinner),

+‘but what I am most sorry for is this old man. Don’t let him suffer

+because of me.’ So he confessed and it was all written down and the

+papers sent off in due form. The place was a long way off, and while

+they were judging, what with one thing and another, filling in the

+papers all in due form—the authorities I mean—time passed. The affair

+reached the Tsar. After a while the Tsar’s decree came: to set the

+merchant free and give him a compensation that had been awarded. The

+paper arrived and they began to look for the old man. ‘Where is the old

+man who has been suffering innocently and in vain? A paper has come from

+the Tsar!’ so they began looking for him,” here Karatáev’s lower jaw

+trembled, “but God had already forgiven him—he was dead! That’s how it

+was, dear fellows!” Karatáev concluded and sat for a long time silent,

+gazing before him with a smile.

+

+And Pierre’s soul was dimly but joyfully filled not by the story itself

+but by its mysterious significance: by the rapturous joy that lit up

+Karatáev’s face as he told it, and the mystic significance of that joy.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XIV

+

+“À vos places!” * suddenly cried a voice.

+

+    * “To your places.”

+

+

+A pleasant feeling of excitement and an expectation of something

+joyful and solemn was aroused among the soldiers of the convoy and the

+prisoners. From all sides came shouts of command, and from the left came

+smartly dressed cavalrymen on good horses, passing the prisoners at a

+trot. The expression on all faces showed the tension people feel at the

+approach of those in authority. The prisoners thronged together and were

+pushed off the road. The convoy formed up.

+

+“The Emperor! The Emperor! The Marshal! The Duke!” and hardly had the

+sleek cavalry passed, before a carriage drawn by six gray horses rattled

+by. Pierre caught a glimpse of a man in a three-cornered hat with a

+tranquil look on his handsome, plump, white face. It was one of the

+marshals. His eye fell on Pierre’s large and striking figure, and in

+the expression with which he frowned and looked away Pierre thought he

+detected sympathy and a desire to conceal that sympathy.

+

+The general in charge of the stores galloped after the carriage with a

+red and frightened face, whipping up his skinny horse. Several officers

+formed a group and some soldiers crowded round them. Their faces all

+looked excited and worried.

+

+“What did he say? What did he say?” Pierre heard them ask.

+

+While the marshal was passing, the prisoners had huddled together in a

+crowd, and Pierre saw Karatáev whom he had not yet seen that morning.

+He sat in his short overcoat leaning against a birch tree. On his face,

+besides the look of joyful emotion it had worn yesterday while telling

+the tale of the merchant who suffered innocently, there was now an

+expression of quiet solemnity.

+

+Karatáev looked at Pierre with his kindly round eyes now filled with

+tears, evidently wishing him to come near that he might say something to

+him. But Pierre was not sufficiently sure of himself. He made as if he

+did not notice that look and moved hastily away.

+

+When the prisoners again went forward Pierre looked round. Karatáev

+was still sitting at the side of the road under the birch tree and two

+Frenchmen were talking over his head. Pierre did not look round again

+but went limping up the hill.

+

+From behind, where Karatáev had been sitting, came the sound of a shot.

+Pierre heard it plainly, but at that moment he remembered that he

+had not yet finished reckoning up how many stages still remained to

+Smolénsk—a calculation he had begun before the marshal went by. And he

+again started reckoning. Two French soldiers ran past Pierre, one of

+whom carried a lowered and smoking gun. They both looked pale, and

+in the expression on their faces—one of them glanced timidly at

+Pierre—there was something resembling what he had seen on the face of

+the young soldier at the execution. Pierre looked at the soldier and

+remembered that, two days before, that man had burned his shirt while

+drying it at the fire and how they had laughed at him.

+

+Behind him, where Karatáev had been sitting, the dog began to howl.

+“What a stupid beast! Why is it howling?” thought Pierre.

+

+His comrades, the prisoner soldiers walking beside him, avoided looking

+back at the place where the shot had been fired and the dog was howling,

+just as Pierre did, but there was a set look on all their faces.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XV

+

+The stores, the prisoners, and the marshal’s baggage train stopped at

+the village of Shámshevo. The men crowded together round the campfires.

+Pierre went up to the fire, ate some roast horseflesh, lay down with his

+back to the fire, and immediately fell asleep. He again slept as he had

+done at Mozháysk after the battle of Borodinó.

+

+Again real events mingled with dreams and again someone, he or another,

+gave expression to his thoughts, and even to the same thoughts that had

+been expressed in his dream at Mozháysk.

+

+“Life is everything. Life is God. Everything changes and moves and that

+movement is God. And while there is life there is joy in consciousness

+of the divine. To love life is to love God. Harder and more blessed

+than all else is to love this life in one’s sufferings, in innocent

+sufferings.”

+

+“Karatáev!” came to Pierre’s mind.

+

+And suddenly he saw vividly before him a long-forgotten, kindly old man

+who had given him geography lessons in Switzerland. “Wait a bit,” said

+the old man, and showed Pierre a globe. This globe was alive—a vibrating

+ball without fixed dimensions. Its whole surface consisted of drops

+closely pressed together, and all these drops moved and changed places,

+sometimes several of them merging into one, sometimes one dividing

+into many. Each drop tried to spread out and occupy as much space as

+possible, but others striving to do the same compressed it, sometimes

+destroyed it, and sometimes merged with it.

+

+“That is life,” said the old teacher.

+

+“How simple and clear it is,” thought Pierre. “How is it I did not know

+it before?”

+

+“God is in the midst, and each drop tries to expand so as to reflect

+Him to the greatest extent. And it grows, merges, disappears from the

+surface, sinks to the depths, and again emerges. There now, Karatáev

+has spread out and disappeared. Do you understand, my child?” said the

+teacher.

+

+“Do you understand, damn you?” shouted a voice, and Pierre woke up.

+

+He lifted himself and sat up. A Frenchman who had just pushed a Russian

+soldier away was squatting by the fire, engaged in roasting a piece

+of meat stuck on a ramrod. His sleeves were rolled up and his sinewy,

+hairy, red hands with their short fingers deftly turned the ramrod. His

+brown morose face with frowning brows was clearly visible by the glow of

+the charcoal.

+

+“It’s all the same to him,” he muttered, turning quickly to a soldier

+who stood behind him. “Brigand! Get away!”

+

+And twisting the ramrod he looked gloomily at Pierre, who turned

+away and gazed into the darkness. A prisoner, the Russian soldier the

+Frenchman had pushed away, was sitting near the fire patting something

+with his hand. Looking more closely Pierre recognized the blue-gray dog,

+sitting beside the soldier, wagging its tail.

+

+“Ah, he’s come?” said Pierre. “And Plat—” he began, but did not finish.

+

+Suddenly and simultaneously a crowd of memories awoke in his fancy—of

+the look Platón had given him as he sat under the tree, of the shot

+heard from that spot, of the dog’s howl, of the guilty faces of the two

+Frenchmen as they ran past him, of the lowered and smoking gun, and of

+Karatáev’s absence at this halt—and he was on the point of realizing

+that Karatáev had been killed, but just at that instant, he knew not

+why, the recollection came to his mind of a summer evening he had spent

+with a beautiful Polish lady on the veranda of his house in Kiev. And

+without linking up the events of the day or drawing a conclusion

+from them, Pierre closed his eyes, seeing a vision of the country in

+summertime mingled with memories of bathing and of the liquid, vibrating

+globe, and he sank into water so that it closed over his head.

+

+Before sunrise he was awakened by shouts and loud and rapid firing.

+French soldiers were running past him.

+

+“The Cossacks!” one of them shouted, and a moment later a crowd of

+Russians surrounded Pierre.

+

+For a long time he could not understand what was happening to him. All

+around he heard his comrades sobbing with joy.

+

+“Brothers! Dear fellows! Darlings!” old soldiers exclaimed, weeping, as

+they embraced Cossacks and hussars.

+

+The hussars and Cossacks crowded round the prisoners; one offered them

+clothes, another boots, and a third bread. Pierre sobbed as he sat

+among them and could not utter a word. He hugged the first soldier who

+approached him, and kissed him, weeping.

+

+Dólokhov stood at the gate of the ruined house, letting a crowd

+of disarmed Frenchmen pass by. The French, excited by all that had

+happened, were talking loudly among themselves, but as they passed

+Dólokhov who gently switched his boots with his whip and watched them

+with cold glassy eyes that boded no good, they became silent. On the

+opposite side stood Dólokhov’s Cossack, counting the prisoners and

+marking off each hundred with a chalk line on the gate.

+

+“How many?” Dólokhov asked the Cossack.

+

+“The second hundred,” replied the Cossack.

+

+“Filez, filez!” * Dólokhov kept saying, having adopted this expression

+from the French, and when his eyes met those of the prisoners they

+flashed with a cruel light.

+

+    * “Get along, get along!”

+

+

+Denísov, bareheaded and with a gloomy face, walked behind some Cossacks

+who were carrying the body of Pétya Rostóv to a hole that had been dug

+in the garden.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XVI

+

+After the twenty-eighth of October when the frosts began, the flight of

+the French assumed a still more tragic character, with men freezing,

+or roasting themselves to death at the campfires, while carriages

+with people dressed in furs continued to drive past, carrying away the

+property that had been stolen by the Emperor, kings, and dukes; but

+the process of the flight and disintegration of the French army went on

+essentially as before.

+

+From Moscow to Vyázma the French army of seventy-three thousand men not

+reckoning the Guards (who did nothing during the whole war but pillage)

+was reduced to thirty-six thousand, though not more than five thousand

+had fallen in battle. From this beginning the succeeding terms of the

+progression could be determined mathematically. The French army melted

+away and perished at the same rate from Moscow to Vyázma, from Vyázma

+to Smolénsk, from Smolénsk to the Berëzina, and from the Berëzina to

+Vílna—independently of the greater or lesser intensity of the cold, the

+pursuit, the barring of the way, or any other particular conditions.

+Beyond Vyázma the French army instead of moving in three columns huddled

+together into one mass, and so went on to the end. Berthier wrote to his

+Emperor (we know how far commanding officers allow themselves to diverge

+from the truth in describing the condition of an army) and this is what

+he said:

+

+

+I deem it my duty to report to Your Majesty the condition of the various

+corps I have had occasion to observe during different stages of the last

+two or three days’ march. They are almost disbanded. Scarcely a quarter

+of the soldiers remain with the standards of their regiments, the others

+go off by themselves in different directions hoping to find food and

+escape discipline. In general they regard Smolénsk as the place where

+they hope to recover. During the last few days many of the men have been

+seen to throw away their cartridges and their arms. In such a state

+of affairs, whatever your ultimate plans may be, the interest of Your

+Majesty’s service demands that the army should be rallied at Smolénsk

+and should first of all be freed from ineffectives, such as dismounted

+cavalry, unnecessary baggage, and artillery material that is no longer

+in proportion to the present forces. The soldiers, who are worn out with

+hunger and fatigue, need these supplies as well as a few days’ rest.

+Many have died these last days on the road or at the bivouacs. This

+state of things is continually becoming worse and makes one fear that

+unless a prompt remedy is applied the troops will no longer be under

+control in case of an engagement.

+

+November 9: twenty miles from Smolénsk.

+

+

+After staggering into Smolénsk which seemed to them a promised land, the

+French, searching for food, killed one another, sacked their own stores,

+and when everything had been plundered fled farther.

+

+They all went without knowing whither or why they were going. Still less

+did that genius, Napoleon, know it, for no one issued any orders to

+him. But still he and those about him retained their old habits: wrote

+commands, letters, reports, and orders of the day; called one another

+sire, mon cousin, prince d’Eckmühl, roi de Naples, and so on. But these

+orders and reports were only on paper, nothing in them was acted upon

+for they could not be carried out, and though they entitled one

+another Majesties, Highnesses, or Cousins, they all felt that they were

+miserable wretches who had done much evil for which they had now to

+pay. And though they pretended to be concerned about the army, each

+was thinking only of himself and of how to get away quickly and save

+himself.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XVII

+

+The movements of the Russian and French armies during the campaign

+from Moscow back to the Niemen were like those in a game of Russian

+blindman’s bluff, in which two players are blindfolded and one of

+them occasionally rings a little bell to inform the catcher of his

+whereabouts. First he rings his bell fearlessly, but when he gets into

+a tight place he runs away as quietly as he can, and often thinking to

+escape runs straight into his opponent’s arms.

+

+At first while they were still moving along the Kalúga road, Napoleon’s

+armies made their presence known, but later when they reached the

+Smolénsk road they ran holding the clapper of their bell tight—and often

+thinking they were escaping ran right into the Russians.

+

+Owing to the rapidity of the French flight and the Russian pursuit

+and the consequent exhaustion of the horses, the chief means of

+approximately ascertaining the enemy’s position—by cavalry scouting—was

+not available. Besides, as a result of the frequent and rapid change of

+position by each army, even what information was obtained could not be

+delivered in time. If news was received one day that the enemy had been

+in a certain position the day before, by the third day when something

+could have been done, that army was already two days’ march farther on

+and in quite another position.

+

+One army fled and the other pursued. Beyond Smolénsk there were several

+different roads available for the French, and one would have thought

+that during their stay of four days they might have learned where

+the enemy was, might have arranged some more advantageous plan and

+undertaken something new. But after a four days’ halt the mob, with no

+maneuvers or plans, again began running along the beaten track, neither

+to the right nor to the left but along the old—the worst—road, through

+Krásnoe and Orshá.

+

+Expecting the enemy from behind and not in front, the French separated

+in their flight and spread out over a distance of twenty-four hours. In

+front of them all fled the Emperor, then the kings, then the dukes. The

+Russian army, expecting Napoleon to take the road to the right beyond

+the Dnieper—which was the only reasonable thing for him to do—themselves

+turned to the right and came out onto the highroad at Krásnoe. And here

+as in a game of blindman’s buff the French ran into our vanguard. Seeing

+their enemy unexpectedly the French fell into confusion and stopped

+short from the sudden fright, but then they resumed their flight,

+abandoning their comrades who were farther behind. Then for three days

+separate portions of the French army—first Murat’s (the vice-king’s),

+then Davout’s, and then Ney’s—ran, as it were, the gauntlet of the

+Russian army. They abandoned one another, abandoned all their heavy

+baggage, their artillery, and half their men, and fled, getting past the

+Russians by night by making semicircles to the right.

+

+Ney, who came last, had been busying himself blowing up the walls of

+Smolénsk which were in nobody’s way, because despite the unfortunate

+plight of the French or because of it, they wished to punish the floor

+against which they had hurt themselves. Ney, who had had a corps of ten

+thousand men, reached Napoleon at Orshá with only one thousand men left,

+having abandoned all the rest and all his cannon, and having crossed the

+Dnieper at night by stealth at a wooded spot.

+

+From Orshá they fled farther along the road to Vílna, still playing

+at blindman’s buff with the pursuing army. At the Berëzina they again

+became disorganized, many were drowned and many surrendered, but those

+who got across the river fled farther. Their supreme chief donned a

+fur coat and, having seated himself in a sleigh, galloped on alone,

+abandoning his companions. The others who could do so drove away too,

+leaving those who could not to surrender or die.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XVIII

+

+This campaign consisted in a flight of the French during which they did

+all they could to destroy themselves. From the time they turned onto

+the Kalúga road to the day their leader fled from the army, none of the

+movements of the crowd had any sense. So one might have thought that

+regarding this period of the campaign the historians, who attributed

+the actions of the mass to the will of one man, would have found it

+impossible to make the story of the retreat fit their theory. But

+no! Mountains of books have been written by the historians about this

+campaign, and everywhere are described Napoleon’s arrangements, the

+maneuvers, and his profound plans which guided the army, as well as the

+military genius shown by his marshals.

+

+The retreat from Málo-Yaroslávets when he had a free road into a

+well-supplied district and the parallel road was open to him along

+which Kutúzov afterwards pursued him—this unnecessary retreat along

+a devastated road—is explained to us as being due to profound

+considerations. Similarly profound considerations are given for

+his retreat from Smolénsk to Orshá. Then his heroism at Krásnoe is

+described, where he is reported to have been prepared to accept battle

+and take personal command, and to have walked about with a birch stick

+and said:

+

+“J’ai assez fait l’empereur; il est temps de faire le général,” * but

+nevertheless immediately ran away again, abandoning to its fate the

+scattered fragments of the army he left behind.

+

+     * “I have acted the Emperor long enough; it is time to act

+     the general.”

+

+

+Then we are told of the greatness of soul of the marshals, especially

+of Ney—a greatness of soul consisting in this: that he made his way by

+night around through the forest and across the Dnieper and escaped to

+Orshá, abandoning standards, artillery, and nine tenths of his men.

+

+And lastly, the final departure of the great Emperor from his heroic

+army is presented to us by the historians as something great and

+characteristic of genius. Even that final running away, described in

+ordinary language as the lowest depth of baseness which every child

+is taught to be ashamed of—even that act finds justification in the

+historians’ language.

+

+When it is impossible to stretch the very elastic threads of historical

+ratiocination any farther, when actions are clearly contrary to all

+that humanity calls right or even just, the historians produce a saving

+conception of “greatness.” “Greatness,” it seems, excludes the standards

+of right and wrong. For the “great” man nothing is wrong, there is no

+atrocity for which a “great” man can be blamed.

+

+“C’est grand!” * say the historians, and there no longer exists either

+good or evil but only “grand” and “not grand.” Grand is good, not

+grand is bad. Grand is the characteristic, in their conception, of some

+special animals called “heroes.” And Napoleon, escaping home in a warm

+fur coat and leaving to perish those who were not merely his comrades

+but were (in his opinion) men he had brought there, feels que c’est

+grand, *(2) and his soul is tranquil.

+

+     * “It is great.”

+

+     * (2) That it is great.

+

+“Du sublime (he saw something sublime in himself) au ridicule il n’y

+a qu’un pas,” * said he. And the whole world for fifty years has been

+repeating: “Sublime! Grand! Napoléon le Grand!” Du sublime au ridicule

+il n’y a qu’un pas.

+

+    * “From the sublime to the ridiculous is but a step.”

+

+

+And it occurs to no one that to admit a greatness not commensurable with

+the standard of right and wrong is merely to admit one’s own nothingness

+and immeasurable meanness.

+

+For us with the standard of good and evil given us by Christ, no human

+actions are incommensurable. And there is no greatness where simplicity,

+goodness, and truth are absent.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XIX

+

+What Russian, reading the account of the last part of the campaign

+of 1812, has not experienced an uncomfortable feeling of regret,

+dissatisfaction, and perplexity? Who has not asked himself how it is

+that the French were not all captured or destroyed when our three armies

+surrounded them in superior numbers, when the disordered French, hungry

+and freezing, surrendered in crowds, and when (as the historians relate)

+the aim of the Russians was to stop the French, to cut them off, and

+capture them all?

+

+How was it that the Russian army, which when numerically weaker than the

+French had given battle at Borodinó, did not achieve its purpose when it

+had surrounded the French on three sides and when its aim was to capture

+them? Can the French be so enormously superior to us that when we had

+surrounded them with superior forces we could not beat them? How could

+that happen?

+

+History (or what is called by that name) replying to these questions

+says that this occurred because Kutúzov and Tormásov and Chichagóv, and

+this man and that man, did not execute such and such maneuvers....

+

+But why did they not execute those maneuvers? And why if they were

+guilty of not carrying out a prearranged plan were they not tried and

+punished? But even if we admitted that Kutúzov, Chichagóv, and others

+were the cause of the Russian failures, it is still incomprehensible

+why, the position of the Russian army being what it was at Krásnoe and

+at the Berëzina (in both cases we had superior forces), the French army

+with its marshals, kings, and Emperor was not captured, if that was what

+the Russians aimed at.

+

+The explanation of this strange fact given by Russian military

+historians (to the effect that Kutúzov hindered an attack) is unfounded,

+for we know that he could not restrain the troops from attacking at

+Vyázma and Tarútino.

+

+Why was the Russian army—which with inferior forces had withstood the

+enemy in full strength at Borodinó—defeated at Krásnoe and the Berëzina

+by the disorganized crowds of the French when it was numerically

+superior?

+

+If the aim of the Russians consisted in cutting off and capturing

+Napoleon and his marshals—and that aim was not merely frustrated but all

+attempts to attain it were most shamefully baffled—then this last period

+of the campaign is quite rightly considered by the French to be a

+series of victories, and quite wrongly considered victorious by Russian

+historians.

+

+The Russian military historians in so far as they submit to claims

+of logic must admit that conclusion, and in spite of their lyrical

+rhapsodies about valor, devotion, and so forth, must reluctantly admit

+that the French retreat from Moscow was a series of victories for

+Napoleon and defeats for Kutúzov.

+

+But putting national vanity entirely aside one feels that such a

+conclusion involves a contradiction, since the series of French

+victories brought the French complete destruction, while the series

+of Russian defeats led to the total destruction of their enemy and the

+liberation of their country.

+

+The source of this contradiction lies in the fact that the historians

+studying the events from the letters of the sovereigns and the generals,

+from memoirs, reports, projects, and so forth, have attributed to this

+last period of the war of 1812 an aim that never existed, namely that of

+cutting off and capturing Napoleon with his marshals and his army.

+

+There never was or could have been such an aim, for it would have been

+senseless and its attainment quite impossible.

+

+It would have been senseless, first because Napoleon’s disorganized

+army was flying from Russia with all possible speed, that is to say, was

+doing just what every Russian desired. So what was the use of performing

+various operations on the French who were running away as fast as they

+possibly could?

+

+Secondly, it would have been senseless to block the passage of men whose

+whole energy was directed to flight.

+

+Thirdly, it would have been senseless to sacrifice one’s own troops in

+order to destroy the French army, which without external interference

+was destroying itself at such a rate that, though its path was not

+blocked, it could not carry across the frontier more than it actually

+did in December, namely a hundredth part of the original army.

+

+Fourthly, it would have been senseless to wish to take captive the

+Emperor, kings, and dukes—whose capture would have been in the highest

+degree embarrassing for the Russians, as the most adroit diplomatists of

+the time (Joseph de Maistre and others) recognized. Still more senseless

+would have been the wish to capture army corps of the French, when our

+own army had melted away to half before reaching Krásnoe and a whole

+division would have been needed to convoy the corps of prisoners, and

+when our men were not always getting full rations and the prisoners

+already taken were perishing of hunger.

+

+All the profound plans about cutting off and capturing Napoleon and his

+army were like the plan of a market gardener who, when driving out of

+his garden a cow that had trampled down the beds he had planted, should

+run to the gate and hit the cow on the head. The only thing to be said

+in excuse of that gardener would be that he was very angry. But not even

+that could be said for those who drew up this project, for it was not

+they who had suffered from the trampled beds.

+

+But besides the fact that cutting off Napoleon with his army would have

+been senseless, it was impossible.

+

+It was impossible first because—as experience shows that a three-mile

+movement of columns on a battlefield never coincides with the plans—the

+probability of Chichagóv, Kutúzov, and Wittgenstein effecting a junction

+on time at an appointed place was so remote as to be tantamount to

+impossibility, as in fact thought Kutúzov, who when he received the plan

+remarked that diversions planned over great distances do not yield the

+desired results.

+

+Secondly it was impossible, because to paralyze the momentum with which

+Napoleon’s army was retiring, incomparably greater forces than the

+Russians possessed would have been required.

+

+Thirdly it was impossible, because the military term “to cut off” has no

+meaning. One can cut off a slice of bread, but not an army. To cut off

+an army—to bar its road—is quite impossible, for there is always plenty

+of room to avoid capture and there is the night when nothing can be

+seen, as the military scientists might convince themselves by the

+example of Krásnoe and of the Berëzina. It is only possible to capture

+prisoners if they agree to be captured, just as it is only possible

+to catch a swallow if it settles on one’s hand. Men can only be taken

+prisoners if they surrender according to the rules of strategy and

+tactics, as the Germans did. But the French troops quite rightly did not

+consider that this suited them, since death by hunger and cold awaited

+them in flight or captivity alike.

+

+Fourthly and chiefly it was impossible, because never since the world

+began has a war been fought under such conditions as those that obtained

+in 1812, and the Russian army in its pursuit of the French strained its

+strength to the utmost and could not have done more without destroying

+itself.

+

+During the movement of the Russian army from Tarútino to Krásnoe it

+lost fifty thousand sick or stragglers, that is a number equal to the

+population of a large provincial town. Half the men fell out of the army

+without a battle.

+

+And it is of this period of the campaign—when the army lacked boots

+and sheepskin coats, was short of provisions and without vodka, and

+was camping out at night for months in the snow with fifteen degrees

+of frost, when there were only seven or eight hours of daylight and

+the rest was night in which the influence of discipline cannot be

+maintained, when men were taken into that region of death where

+discipline fails, not for a few hours only as in a battle, but for

+months, where they were every moment fighting death from hunger and

+cold, when half the army perished in a single month—it is of this period

+of the campaign that the historians tell us how Milorádovich should have

+made a flank march to such and such a place, Tormásov to another place,

+and Chichagóv should have crossed (more than knee-deep in snow) to

+somewhere else, and how so-and-so “routed” and “cut off” the French and

+so on and so on.

+

+The Russians, half of whom died, did all that could and should have been

+done to attain an end worthy of the nation, and they are not to blame

+because other Russians, sitting in warm rooms, proposed that they should

+do what was impossible.

+

+All that strange contradiction now difficult to understand between the

+facts and the historical accounts only arises because the historians

+dealing with the matter have written the history of the beautiful words

+and sentiments of various generals, and not the history of the events.

+

+To them the words of Milorádovich seem very interesting, and so do their

+surmises and the rewards this or that general received; but the question

+of those fifty thousand men who were left in hospitals and in graves

+does not even interest them, for it does not come within the range of

+their investigation.

+

+Yet one need only discard the study of the reports and general plans and

+consider the movement of those hundreds of thousands of men who took a

+direct part in the events, and all the questions that seemed insoluble

+easily and simply receive an immediate and certain solution.

+

+The aim of cutting off Napoleon and his army never existed except in

+the imaginations of a dozen people. It could not exist because it was

+senseless and unattainable.

+

+The people had a single aim: to free their land from invasion. That aim

+was attained in the first place of itself, as the French ran away,

+and so it was only necessary not to stop their flight. Secondly it was

+attained by the guerrilla warfare which was destroying the French, and

+thirdly by the fact that a large Russian army was following the French,

+ready to use its strength in case their movement stopped.

+

+The Russian army had to act like a whip to a running animal. And the

+experienced driver knew it was better to hold the whip raised as a

+menace than to strike the running animal on the head.

+

+

+

+

+

+BOOK FIFTEEN: 1812 - 13

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER I

+

+When seeing a dying animal a man feels a sense of horror: substance

+similar to his own is perishing before his eyes. But when it is a

+beloved and intimate human being that is dying, besides this horror at

+the extinction of life there is a severance, a spiritual wound, which

+like a physical wound is sometimes fatal and sometimes heals, but always

+aches and shrinks at any external irritating touch.

+

+After Prince Andrew’s death Natásha and Princess Mary alike felt this.

+Drooping in spirit and closing their eyes before the menacing cloud of

+death that overhung them, they dared not look life in the face. They

+carefully guarded their open wounds from any rough and painful contact.

+Everything: a carriage passing rapidly in the street, a summons to

+dinner, the maid’s inquiry what dress to prepare, or worse still any

+word of insincere or feeble sympathy, seemed an insult, painfully

+irritated the wound, interrupting that necessary quiet in which

+they both tried to listen to the stern and dreadful choir that still

+resounded in their imagination, and hindered their gazing into those

+mysterious limitless vistas that for an instant had opened out before

+them.

+

+Only when alone together were they free from such outrage and pain.

+They spoke little even to one another, and when they did it was of very

+unimportant matters.

+

+Both avoided any allusion to the future. To admit the possibility of

+a future seemed to them to insult his memory. Still more carefully did

+they avoid anything relating to him who was dead. It seemed to them that

+what they had lived through and experienced could not be expressed in

+words, and that any reference to the details of his life infringed the

+majesty and sacredness of the mystery that had been accomplished before

+their eyes.

+

+Continued abstention from speech, and constant avoidance of everything

+that might lead up to the subject—this halting on all sides at the

+boundary of what they might not mention—brought before their minds with

+still greater purity and clearness what they were both feeling.

+

+But pure and complete sorrow is as impossible as pure and complete joy.

+Princess Mary, in her position as absolute and independent arbiter of

+her own fate and guardian and instructor of her nephew, was the first to

+be called back to life from that realm of sorrow in which she had dwelt

+for the first fortnight. She received letters from her relations to

+which she had to reply; the room in which little Nicholas had been put

+was damp and he began to cough; Alpátych came to Yaroslávl with reports

+on the state of their affairs and with advice and suggestions that they

+should return to Moscow to the house on the Vozdvízhenka Street, which

+had remained uninjured and needed only slight repairs. Life did not

+stand still and it was necessary to live. Hard as it was for Princess

+Mary to emerge from the realm of secluded contemplation in which she

+had lived till then, and sorry and almost ashamed as she felt to leave

+Natásha alone, yet the cares of life demanded her attention and she

+involuntarily yielded to them. She went through the accounts with

+Alpátych, conferred with Dessalles about her nephew, and gave orders and

+made preparations for the journey to Moscow.

+

+Natásha remained alone and, from the time Princess Mary began making

+preparations for departure, held aloof from her too.

+

+Princess Mary asked the countess to let Natásha go with her to Moscow,

+and both parents gladly accepted this offer, for they saw their daughter

+losing strength every day and thought that a change of scene and the

+advice of Moscow doctors would be good for her.

+

+“I am not going anywhere,” Natásha replied when this was proposed to

+her. “Do please just leave me alone!” And she ran out of the room, with

+difficulty refraining from tears of vexation and irritation rather than

+of sorrow.

+

+After she felt herself deserted by Princes Mary and alone in her grief,

+Natásha spent most of the time in her room by herself, sitting huddled

+up feet and all in the corner of the sofa, tearing and twisting

+something with her slender nervous fingers and gazing intently and

+fixedly at whatever her eyes chanced to fall on. This solitude exhausted

+and tormented her but she was in absolute need of it. As soon as anyone

+entered she got up quickly, changed her position and expression, and

+picked up a book or some sewing, evidently waiting impatiently for the

+intruder to go.

+

+She felt all the time as if she might at any moment penetrate that

+on which—with a terrible questioning too great for her strength—her

+spiritual gaze was fixed.

+

+One day toward the end of December Natásha, pale and thin, dressed in a

+black woolen gown, her plaited hair negligently twisted into a knot, was

+crouched feet and all in the corner of her sofa, nervously crumpling and

+smoothing out the end of her sash while she looked at a corner of the

+door.

+

+She was gazing in the direction in which he had gone—to the other side

+of life. And that other side of life, of which she had never before

+thought and which had formerly seemed to her so far away and improbable,

+was now nearer and more akin and more comprehensible than this side of

+life, where everything was either emptiness and desolation or suffering

+and indignity.

+

+She was gazing where she knew him to be; but she could not imagine him

+otherwise than as he had been here. She now saw him again as he had been

+at Mytíshchi, at Tróitsa, and at Yaroslávl.

+

+She saw his face, heard his voice, repeated his words and her own, and

+sometimes devised other words they might have spoken.

+

+There he is lying back in an armchair in his velvet cloak, leaning

+his head on his thin pale hand. His chest is dreadfully hollow and his

+shoulders raised. His lips are firmly closed, his eyes glitter, and a

+wrinkle comes and goes on his pale forehead. One of his legs twitches

+just perceptibly, but rapidly. Natásha knows that he is struggling with

+terrible pain. “What is that pain like? Why does he have that pain? What

+does he feel? How does it hurt him?” thought Natásha. He noticed her

+watching him, raised his eyes, and began to speak seriously:

+

+“One thing would be terrible,” said he: “to bind oneself forever to a

+suffering man. It would be continual torture.” And he looked searchingly

+at her. Natásha as usual answered before she had time to think what she

+would say. She said: “This can’t go on—it won’t. You will get well—quite

+well.”

+

+She now saw him from the commencement of that scene and relived what she

+had then felt. She recalled his long sad and severe look at those words

+and understood the meaning of the rebuke and despair in that protracted

+gaze.

+

+“I agreed,” Natásha now said to herself, “that it would be dreadful if

+he always continued to suffer. I said it then only because it would have

+been dreadful for him, but he understood it differently. He thought it

+would be dreadful for me. He then still wished to live and feared death.

+And I said it so awkwardly and stupidly! I did not say what I meant.

+I thought quite differently. Had I said what I thought, I should have

+said: even if he had to go on dying, to die continually before my eyes,

+I should have been happy compared with what I am now. Now there is

+nothing... nobody. Did he know that? No, he did not and never will know

+it. And now it will never, never be possible to put it right.” And

+now he again seemed to be saying the same words to her, only in her

+imagination Natásha this time gave him a different answer. She stopped

+him and said: “Terrible for you, but not for me! You know that for me

+there is nothing in life but you, and to suffer with you is the greatest

+happiness for me,” and he took her hand and pressed it as he had

+pressed it that terrible evening four days before his death. And in her

+imagination she said other tender and loving words which she might have

+said then but only spoke now: “I love thee!... thee! I love, love...”

+she said, convulsively pressing her hands and setting her teeth with a

+desperate effort....

+

+She was overcome by sweet sorrow and tears were already rising in her

+eyes; then she suddenly asked herself to whom she was saying this.

+Again everything was shrouded in hard, dry perplexity, and again with a

+strained frown she peered toward the world where he was. And now, now

+it seemed to her she was penetrating the mystery.... But at the instant

+when it seemed that the incomprehensible was revealing itself to her a

+loud rattle of the door handle struck painfully on her ears. Dunyásha,

+her maid, entered the room quickly and abruptly with a frightened look

+on her face and showing no concern for her mistress.

+

+“Come to your Papa at once, please!” said she with a strange, excited

+look. “A misfortune... about Peter Ilýnich... a letter,” she finished

+with a sob.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER II

+

+Besides a feeling of aloofness from everybody Natásha was feeling a

+special estrangement from the members of her own family. All of

+them—her father, mother, and Sónya—were so near to her, so familiar, so

+commonplace, that all their words and feelings seemed an insult to the

+world in which she had been living of late, and she felt not merely

+indifferent to them but regarded them with hostility. She heard

+Dunyásha’s words about Peter Ilýnich and a misfortune, but did not grasp

+them.

+

+“What misfortune? What misfortune can happen to them? They just live

+their own old, quiet, and commonplace life,” thought Natásha.

+

+As she entered the ballroom her father was hurriedly coming out of

+her mother’s room. His face was puckered up and wet with tears. He

+had evidently run out of that room to give vent to the sobs that were

+choking him. When he saw Natásha he waved his arms despairingly and

+burst into convulsively painful sobs that distorted his soft round face.

+

+“Pe... Pétya... Go, go, she... is calling...” and weeping like a child

+and quickly shuffling on his feeble legs to a chair, he almost fell into

+it, covering his face with his hands.

+

+Suddenly an electric shock seemed to run through Natásha’s whole being.

+Terrible anguish struck her heart, she felt a dreadful ache as if

+something was being torn inside her and she were dying. But the pain

+was immediately followed by a feeling of release from the oppressive

+constraint that had prevented her taking part in life. The sight of her

+father, the terribly wild cries of her mother that she heard through the

+door, made her immediately forget herself and her own grief.

+

+She ran to her father, but he feebly waved his arm, pointing to her

+mother’s door. Princess Mary, pale and with quivering chin, came out

+from that room and taking Natásha by the arm said something to her.

+Natásha neither saw nor heard her. She went in with rapid steps, pausing

+at the door for an instant as if struggling with herself, and then ran

+to her mother.

+

+The countess was lying in an armchair in a strange and awkward position,

+stretching out and beating her head against the wall. Sónya and the

+maids were holding her arms.

+

+“Natásha! Natásha!...” cried the countess. “It’s not true... it’s not

+true... He’s lying... Natásha!” she shrieked, pushing those around her

+away. “Go away, all of you; it’s not true! Killed!... ha, ha, ha!...

+It’s not true!”

+

+Natásha put one knee on the armchair, stooped over her mother, embraced

+her, and with unexpected strength raised her, turned her face toward

+herself, and clung to her.

+

+“Mummy!... darling!... I am here, my dearest Mummy,” she kept on

+whispering, not pausing an instant.

+

+She did not let go of her mother but struggled tenderly with her,

+demanded a pillow and hot water, and unfastened and tore open her

+mother’s dress.

+

+“My dearest darling... Mummy, my precious!...” she whispered

+incessantly, kissing her head, her hands, her face, and feeling her own

+irrepressible and streaming tears tickling her nose and cheeks.

+

+The countess pressed her daughter’s hand, closed her eyes, and became

+quiet for a moment. Suddenly she sat up with unaccustomed swiftness,

+glanced vacantly around her, and seeing Natásha began to press her

+daughter’s head with all her strength. Then she turned toward her

+daughter’s face which was wincing with pain and gazed long at it.

+

+“Natásha, you love me?” she said in a soft trustful whisper. “Natásha,

+you would not deceive me? You’ll tell me the whole truth?”

+

+Natásha looked at her with eyes full of tears and in her look there was

+nothing but love and an entreaty for forgiveness.

+

+“My darling Mummy!” she repeated, straining all the power of her love to

+find some way of taking on herself the excess of grief that crushed her

+mother.

+

+And again in a futile struggle with reality her mother, refusing to

+believe that she could live when her beloved boy was killed in the bloom

+of life, escaped from reality into a world of delirium.

+

+Natásha did not remember how that day passed nor that night, nor the

+next day and night. She did not sleep and did not leave her mother. Her

+persevering and patient love seemed completely to surround the countess

+every moment, not explaining or consoling, but recalling her to life.

+

+During the third night the countess kept very quiet for a few minutes,

+and Natásha rested her head on the arm of her chair and closed her eyes,

+but opened them again on hearing the bedstead creak. The countess was

+sitting up in bed and speaking softly.

+

+“How glad I am you have come. You are tired. Won’t you have some tea?”

+Natásha went up to her. “You have improved in looks and grown more

+manly,” continued the countess, taking her daughter’s hand.

+

+“Mamma! What are you saying...”

+

+“Natásha, he is no more, no more!”

+

+And embracing her daughter, the countess began to weep for the first

+time.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER III

+

+Princess Mary postponed her departure. Sónya and the count tried to

+replace Natásha but could not. They saw that she alone was able to

+restrain her mother from unreasoning despair. For three weeks Natásha

+remained constantly at her mother’s side, sleeping on a lounge chair

+in her room, making her eat and drink, and talking to her incessantly

+because the mere sound of her tender, caressing tones soothed her

+mother.

+

+The mother’s wounded spirit could not heal. Pétya’s death had torn from

+her half her life. When the news of Pétya’s death had come she had been

+a fresh and vigorous woman of fifty, but a month later she left her room

+a listless old woman taking no interest in life. But the same blow that

+almost killed the countess, this second blow, restored Natásha to life.

+

+A spiritual wound produced by a rending of the spiritual body is like

+a physical wound and, strange as it may seem, just as a deep wound may

+heal and its edges join, physical and spiritual wounds alike can yet

+heal completely only as the result of a vital force from within.

+

+Natásha’s wound healed in that way. She thought her life was ended,

+but her love for her mother unexpectedly showed her that the essence of

+life—love—was still active within her. Love awoke and so did life.

+

+Prince Andrew’s last days had bound Princess Mary and Natásha together;

+this new sorrow brought them still closer to one another. Princess Mary

+put off her departure, and for three weeks looked after Natásha as if

+she had been a sick child. The last weeks passed in her mother’s bedroom

+had strained Natásha’s physical strength.

+

+One afternoon noticing Natásha shivering with fever, Princess Mary took

+her to her own room and made her lie down on the bed. Natásha lay down,

+but when Princess Mary had drawn the blinds and was going away she

+called her back.

+

+“I don’t want to sleep, Mary, sit by me a little.”

+

+“You are tired—try to sleep.”

+

+“No, no. Why did you bring me away? She will be asking for me.”

+

+“She is much better. She spoke so well today,” said Princess Mary.

+

+Natásha lay on the bed and in the semidarkness of the room scanned

+Princess Mary’s face.

+

+“Is she like him?” thought Natásha. “Yes, like and yet not like. But she

+is quite original, strange, new, and unknown. And she loves me. What

+is in her heart? All that is good. But how? What is her mind like? What

+does she think about me? Yes, she is splendid!”

+

+“Mary,” she said timidly, drawing Princess Mary’s hand to herself,

+“Mary, you mustn’t think me wicked. No? Mary darling, how I love you!

+Let us be quite, quite friends.”

+

+And Natásha, embracing her, began kissing her face and hands, making

+Princess Mary feel shy but happy by this demonstration of her feelings.

+

+From that day a tender and passionate friendship such as exists only

+between women was established between Princess Mary and Natásha. They

+were continually kissing and saying tender things to one another and

+spent most of their time together. When one went out the other became

+restless and hastened to rejoin her. Together they felt more in harmony

+with one another than either of them felt with herself when alone. A

+feeling stronger than friendship sprang up between them; an exclusive

+feeling of life being possible only in each other’s presence.

+

+Sometimes they were silent for hours; sometimes after they were already

+in bed they would begin talking and go on till morning. They spoke most

+of what was long past. Princess Mary spoke of her childhood, of her

+mother, her father, and her daydreams; and Natásha, who with a passive

+lack of understanding had formerly turned away from that life of

+devotion, submission, and the poetry of Christian self-sacrifice, now

+feeling herself bound to Princess Mary by affection, learned to love her

+past too and to understand a side of life previously incomprehensible to

+her. She did not think of applying submission and self-abnegation to her

+own life, for she was accustomed to seek other joys, but she understood

+and loved in another those previously incomprehensible virtues. For

+Princess Mary, listening to Natásha’s tales of childhood and early

+youth, there also opened out a new and hitherto uncomprehended side of

+life: belief in life and its enjoyment.

+

+Just as before, they never mentioned him so as not to lower (as they

+thought) their exalted feelings by words; but this silence about him had

+the effect of making them gradually begin to forget him without being

+conscious of it.

+

+Natásha had grown thin and pale and physically so weak that they all

+talked about her health, and this pleased her. But sometimes she was

+suddenly overcome by fear not only of death but of sickness, weakness,

+and loss of good looks, and involuntarily she examined her bare arm

+carefully, surprised at its thinness, and in the morning noticed her

+drawn and, as it seemed to her, piteous face in her glass. It seemed to

+her that things must be so, and yet it was dreadfully sad.

+

+One day she went quickly upstairs and found herself out of breath.

+Unconsciously she immediately invented a reason for going down, and

+then, testing her strength, ran upstairs again, observing the result.

+

+Another time when she called Dunyásha her voice trembled, so she called

+again—though she could hear Dunyásha coming—called her in the deep chest

+tones in which she had been wont to sing, and listened attentively to

+herself.

+

+She did not know and would not have believed it, but beneath the layer

+of slime that covered her soul and seemed to her impenetrable, delicate

+young shoots of grass were already sprouting, which taking root would so

+cover with their living verdure the grief that weighed her down that

+it would soon no longer be seen or noticed. The wound had begun to heal

+from within.

+

+At the end of January Princess Mary left for Moscow, and the count

+insisted on Natásha’s going with her to consult the doctors.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER IV

+

+After the encounter at Vyázma, where Kutúzov had been unable to hold

+back his troops in their anxiety to overwhelm and cut off the enemy and

+so on, the farther movement of the fleeing French, and of the Russians

+who pursued them, continued as far as Krásnoe without a battle. The

+flight was so rapid that the Russian army pursuing the French could

+not keep up with them; cavalry and artillery horses broke down, and the

+information received of the movements of the French was never reliable.

+

+The men in the Russian army were so worn out by this continuous marching

+at the rate of twenty-seven miles a day that they could not go any

+faster.

+

+To realize the degree of exhaustion of the Russian army it is only

+necessary to grasp clearly the meaning of the fact that, while not

+losing more than five thousand killed and wounded after Tarútino and

+less than a hundred prisoners, the Russian army which left that place a

+hundred thousand strong reached Krásnoe with only fifty thousand.

+

+The rapidity of the Russian pursuit was just as destructive to our army

+as the flight of the French was to theirs. The only difference was that

+the Russian army moved voluntarily, with no such threat of destruction

+as hung over the French, and that the sick Frenchmen were left behind

+in enemy hands while the sick Russians left behind were among their

+own people. The chief cause of the wastage of Napoleon’s army was

+the rapidity of its movement, and a convincing proof of this is the

+corresponding decrease of the Russian army.

+

+Kutúzov as far as was in his power, instead of trying to check the

+movement of the French as was desired in Petersburg and by the Russian

+army generals, directed his whole activity here, as he had done at

+Tarútino and Vyázma, to hastening it on while easing the movement of our

+army.

+

+But besides this, since the exhaustion and enormous diminution of the

+army caused by the rapidity of the advance had become evident, another

+reason for slackening the pace and delaying presented itself to Kutúzov.

+The aim of the Russian army was to pursue the French. The road the

+French would take was unknown, and so the closer our troops trod on

+their heels the greater distance they had to cover. Only by following

+at some distance could one cut across the zigzag path of the French. All

+the artful maneuvers suggested by our generals meant fresh movements of

+the army and a lengthening of its marches, whereas the only reasonable

+aim was to shorten those marches. To that end Kutúzov’s activity was

+directed during the whole campaign from Moscow to Vílna—not casually or

+intermittently but so consistently that he never once deviated from it.

+

+Kutúzov felt and knew—not by reasoning or science but with the whole of

+his Russian being—what every Russian soldier felt: that the French were

+beaten, that the enemy was flying and must be driven out; but at the

+same time he like the soldiers realized all the hardship of this march,

+the rapidity of which was unparalleled for such a time of the year.

+

+But to the generals, especially the foreign ones in the Russian army,

+who wished to distinguish themselves, to astonish somebody, and for some

+reason to capture a king or a duke—it seemed that now—when any battle

+must be horrible and senseless—was the very time to fight and conquer

+somebody. Kutúzov merely shrugged his shoulders when one after

+another they presented projects of maneuvers to be made with those

+soldiers—ill-shod, insufficiently clad, and half starved—who within a

+month and without fighting a battle had dwindled to half their number,

+and who at the best if the flight continued would have to go a greater

+distance than they had already traversed, before they reached the

+frontier.

+

+This longing to distinguish themselves, to maneuver, to overthrow, and

+to cut off showed itself particularly whenever the Russians stumbled on

+the French army.

+

+So it was at Krásnoe, where they expected to find one of the three

+French columns and stumbled instead on Napoleon himself with sixteen

+thousand men. Despite all Kutúzov’s efforts to avoid that ruinous

+encounter and to preserve his troops, the massacre of the broken mob

+of French soldiers by worn-out Russians continued at Krásnoe for three

+days.

+

+Toll wrote a disposition: “The first column will march to so and so,”

+etc. And as usual nothing happened in accord with the disposition.

+Prince Eugène of Württemberg fired from a hill over the French crowds

+that were running past, and demanded reinforcements which did not

+arrive. The French, avoiding the Russians, dispersed and hid themselves

+in the forest by night, making their way round as best they could, and

+continued their flight.

+

+Milorádovich, who said he did not want to know anything about the

+commissariat affairs of his detachment, and could never be found when

+he was wanted—that chevalier sans peur et sans reproche * as he styled

+himself—who was fond of parleys with the French, sent envoys demanding

+their surrender, wasted time, and did not do what he was ordered to do.

+

+    * Knight without fear and without reproach.

+

+“I give you that column, lads,” he said, riding up to the troops and

+pointing out the French to the cavalry.

+

+And the cavalry, with spurs and sabers urging on horses that could

+scarcely move, trotted with much effort to the column presented

+to them—that is to say, to a crowd of Frenchmen stark with cold,

+frost-bitten, and starving—and the column that had been presented to

+them threw down its arms and surrendered as it had long been anxious to

+do.

+

+At Krásnoe they took twenty-six thousand prisoners, several hundred

+cannon, and a stick called a “marshal’s staff,” and disputed as to who

+had distinguished himself and were pleased with their achievement—though

+they much regretted not having taken Napoleon, or at least a marshal or

+a hero of some sort, and reproached one another and especially Kutúzov

+for having failed to do so.

+

+These men, carried away by their passions, were but blind tools of the

+most melancholy law of necessity, but considered themselves heroes and

+imagined that they were accomplishing a most noble and honorable

+deed. They blamed Kutúzov and said that from the very beginning of the

+campaign he had prevented their vanquishing Napoleon, that he thought of

+nothing but satisfying his passions and would not advance from the Linen

+Factories because he was comfortable there, that at Krásnoe he checked

+the advance because on learning that Napoleon was there he had quite

+lost his head, and that it was probable that he had an understanding

+with Napoleon and had been bribed by him, and so on, and so on.

+

+Not only did his contemporaries, carried away by their passions, talk

+in this way, but posterity and history have acclaimed Napoleon as grand,

+while Kutúzov is described by foreigners as a crafty, dissolute, weak

+old courtier, and by Russians as something indefinite—a sort of puppet

+useful only because he had a Russian name.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER V

+

+In 1812 and 1813 Kutúzov was openly accused of blundering. The Emperor

+was dissatisfied with him. And in a history recently written by order

+of the Highest Authorities it is said that Kutúzov was a cunning court

+liar, frightened of the name of Napoleon, and that by his blunders at

+Krásnoe and the Berëzina he deprived the Russian army of the glory of

+complete victory over the French. *

+

+     * History of the year 1812. The character of Kutúzov and

+     reflections on the unsatisfactory results of the battles at

+     Krásnoe, by Bogdánovich.

+

+Such is the fate not of great men (grands hommes) whom the Russian mind

+does not acknowledge, but of those rare and always solitary individuals

+who, discerning the will of Providence, submit their personal will to

+it. The hatred and contempt of the crowd punish such men for discerning

+the higher laws.

+

+For Russian historians, strange and terrible to say, Napoleon—that most

+insignificant tool of history who never anywhere, even in exile, showed

+human dignity—Napoleon is the object of adulation and enthusiasm; he

+is grand. But Kutúzov—the man who from the beginning to the end of his

+activity in 1812, never once swerving by word or deed from Borodinó to

+Vílna, presented an example exceptional in history of self-sacrifice

+and a present consciousness of the future importance of what was

+happening—Kutúzov seems to them something indefinite and pitiful, and

+when speaking of him and of the year 1812 they always seem a little

+ashamed.

+

+And yet it is difficult to imagine an historical character whose

+activity was so unswervingly directed to a single aim; and it would be

+difficult to imagine any aim more worthy or more consonant with the

+will of the whole people. Still more difficult would it be to find

+an instance in history of the aim of an historical personage being so

+completely accomplished as that to which all Kutúzov’s efforts were

+directed in 1812.

+

+Kutúzov never talked of “forty centuries looking down from the

+Pyramids,” of the sacrifices he offered for the fatherland, or of

+what he intended to accomplish or had accomplished; in general he

+said nothing about himself, adopted no pose, always appeared to be

+the simplest and most ordinary of men, and said the simplest and most

+ordinary things. He wrote letters to his daughters and to Madame de

+Staël, read novels, liked the society of pretty women, jested with

+generals, officers, and soldiers, and never contradicted those who tried

+to prove anything to him. When Count Rostopchín at the Yaúza bridge

+galloped up to Kutúzov with personal reproaches for having caused the

+destruction of Moscow, and said: “How was it you promised not to abandon

+Moscow without a battle?” Kutúzov replied: “And I shall not abandon

+Moscow without a battle,” though Moscow was then already abandoned. When

+Arakchéev, coming to him from the Emperor, said that Ermólov ought to

+be appointed chief of the artillery, Kutúzov replied: “Yes, I was

+just saying so myself,” though a moment before he had said quite the

+contrary. What did it matter to him—who then alone amid a senseless

+crowd understood the whole tremendous significance of what was

+happening—what did it matter to him whether Rostopchín attributed the

+calamities of Moscow to him or to himself? Still less could it matter to

+him who was appointed chief of the artillery.

+

+Not merely in these cases but continually did that old man—who by

+experience of life had reached the conviction that thoughts and the

+words serving as their expression are not what move people—use quite

+meaningless words that happened to enter his head.

+

+But that man, so heedless of his words, did not once during the whole

+time of his activity utter one word inconsistent with the single aim

+toward which he moved throughout the whole war. Obviously in spite of

+himself, in very diverse circumstances, he repeatedly expressed his real

+thoughts with the bitter conviction that he would not be understood.

+Beginning with the battle of Borodinó, from which time his disagreement

+with those about him began, he alone said that the battle of Borodinó

+was a victory, and repeated this both verbally and in his dispatches

+and reports up to the time of his death. He alone said that the loss of

+Moscow is not the loss of Russia. In reply to Lauriston’s proposal of

+peace, he said: There can be no peace, for such is the people’s will. He

+alone during the retreat of the French said that all our maneuvers are

+useless, everything is being accomplished of itself better than we could

+desire; that the enemy must be offered “a golden bridge”; that neither

+the Tarútino, the Vyázma, nor the Krásnoe battles were necessary; that

+we must keep some force to reach the frontier with, and that he would

+not sacrifice a single Russian for ten Frenchmen.

+

+And this courtier, as he is described to us, who lies to Arakchéev

+to please the Emperor, he alone—incurring thereby the Emperor’s

+displeasure—said in Vílna that to carry the war beyond the frontier is

+useless and harmful.

+

+Nor do words alone prove that only he understood the meaning of the

+events. His actions—without the smallest deviation—were all directed

+to one and the same threefold end: (1) to brace all his strength for

+conflict with the French, (2) to defeat them, and (3) to drive them out

+of Russia, minimizing as far as possible the sufferings of our people

+and of our army.

+

+This procrastinator Kutúzov, whose motto was “Patience and Time,”

+this enemy of decisive action, gave battle at Borodinó, investing the

+preparations for it with unparalleled solemnity. This Kutúzov who before

+the battle of Austerlitz began said that it would be lost, he alone, in

+contradiction to everyone else, declared till his death that Borodinó

+was a victory, despite the assurance of generals that the battle was

+lost and despite the fact that for an army to have to retire after

+winning a battle was unprecedented. He alone during the whole retreat

+insisted that battles, which were useless then, should not be fought,

+and that a new war should not be begun nor the frontiers of Russia

+crossed.

+

+It is easy now to understand the significance of these events—if only we

+abstain from attributing to the activity of the mass aims that existed

+only in the heads of a dozen individuals—for the events and results now

+lie before us.

+

+But how did that old man, alone, in opposition to the general opinion,

+so truly discern the importance of the people’s view of the events that

+in all his activity he was never once untrue to it?

+

+The source of that extraordinary power of penetrating the meaning of the

+events then occuring lay in the national feeling which he possessed in

+full purity and strength.

+

+Only the recognition of the fact that he possessed this feeling caused

+the people in so strange a manner, contrary to the Tsar’s wish, to

+select him—an old man in disfavor—to be their representative in the

+national war. And only that feeling placed him on that highest human

+pedestal from which he, the commander in chief, devoted all his powers

+not to slaying and destroying men but to saving and showing pity on

+them.

+

+That simple, modest, and therefore truly great, figure could not be

+cast in the false mold of a European hero—the supposed ruler of men—that

+history has invented.

+

+To a lackey no man can be great, for a lackey has his own conception of

+greatness.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER VI

+

+The fifth of November was the first day of what is called the battle of

+Krásnoe. Toward evening—after much disputing and many mistakes made by

+generals who did not go to their proper places, and after adjutants had

+been sent about with counterorders—when it had become plain that the

+enemy was everywhere in flight and that there could and would be no

+battle, Kutúzov left Krásnoe and went to Dóbroe whither his headquarters

+had that day been transferred.

+

+The day was clear and frosty. Kutúzov rode to Dóbroe on his plump little

+white horse, followed by an enormous suite of discontented generals who

+whispered among themselves behind his back. All along the road groups of

+French prisoners captured that day (there were seven thousand of them)

+were crowding to warm themselves at campfires. Near Dóbroe an immense

+crowd of tattered prisoners, buzzing with talk and wrapped and bandaged

+in anything they had been able to get hold of, were standing in the road

+beside a long row of unharnessed French guns. At the approach of the

+commander in chief the buzz of talk ceased and all eyes were fixed on

+Kutúzov who, wearing a white cap with a red band and a padded overcoat

+that bulged on his round shoulders, moved slowly along the road on his

+white horse. One of the generals was reporting to him where the guns and

+prisoners had been captured.

+

+Kutúzov seemed preoccupied and did not listen to what the general was

+saying. He screwed up his eyes with a dissatisfied look as he gazed

+attentively and fixedly at these prisoners, who presented a specially

+wretched appearance. Most of them were disfigured by frost-bitten noses

+and cheeks, and nearly all had red, swollen and festering eyes.

+

+One group of the French stood close to the road, and two of them, one of

+whom had his face covered with sores, were tearing a piece of raw

+flesh with their hands. There was something horrible and bestial in

+the fleeting glance they threw at the riders and in the malevolent

+expression with which, after a glance at Kutúzov, the soldier with the

+sores immediately turned away and went on with what he was doing.

+

+Kutúzov looked long and intently at these two soldiers. He puckered his

+face, screwed up his eyes, and pensively swayed his head. At another

+spot he noticed a Russian soldier laughingly patting a Frenchman on the

+shoulder, saying something to him in a friendly manner, and Kutúzov with

+the same expression on his face again swayed his head.

+

+“What were you saying?” he asked the general, who continuing his report

+directed the commander in chief’s attention to some standards captured

+from the French and standing in front of the Preobrazhénsk regiment.

+

+“Ah, the standards!” said Kutúzov, evidently detaching himself with

+difficulty from the thoughts that preoccupied him.

+

+He looked about him absently. Thousands of eyes were looking at him from

+all sides awaiting a word from him.

+

+He stopped in front of the Preobrazhénsk regiment, sighed deeply, and

+closed his eyes. One of his suite beckoned to the soldiers carrying

+the standards to advance and surround the commander in chief with them.

+Kutúzov was silent for a few seconds and then, submitting with evident

+reluctance to the duty imposed by his position, raised his head

+and began to speak. A throng of officers surrounded him. He looked

+attentively around at the circle of officers, recognizing several of

+them.

+

+“I thank you all!” he said, addressing the soldiers and then again the

+officers. In the stillness around him his slowly uttered words were

+distinctly heard. “I thank you all for your hard and faithful service.

+The victory is complete and Russia will not forget you! Honor to you

+forever.”

+

+He paused and looked around.

+

+“Lower its head, lower it!” he said to a soldier who had accidentally

+lowered the French eagle he was holding before the Preobrazhénsk

+standards. “Lower, lower, that’s it. Hurrah lads!” he added, addressing

+the men with a rapid movement of his chin.

+

+“Hur-r-rah!” roared thousands of voices.

+

+While the soldiers were shouting Kutúzov leaned forward in his saddle

+and bowed his head, and his eye lit up with a mild and apparently ironic

+gleam.

+

+“You see, brothers...” said he when the shouts had ceased... and all at

+once his voice and the expression of his face changed. It was no longer

+the commander in chief speaking but an ordinary old man who wanted to

+tell his comrades something very important.

+

+There was a stir among the throng of officers and in the ranks of the

+soldiers, who moved that they might hear better what he was going to

+say.

+

+“You see, brothers, I know it’s hard for you, but it can’t be helped!

+Bear up; it won’t be for long now! We’ll see our visitors off and then

+we’ll rest. The Tsar won’t forget your service. It is hard for you, but

+still you are at home while they—you see what they have come to,” said

+he, pointing to the prisoners. “Worse off than our poorest beggars.

+While they were strong we didn’t spare ourselves, but now we may even

+pity them. They are human beings too. Isn’t it so, lads?”

+

+He looked around, and in the direct, respectful, wondering gaze fixed

+upon him he read sympathy with what he had said. His face grew brighter

+and brighter with an old man’s mild smile, which drew the corners of his

+lips and eyes into a cluster of wrinkles. He ceased speaking and bowed

+his head as if in perplexity.

+

+“But after all who asked them here? Serves them right, the bloody

+bastards!” he cried, suddenly lifting his head.

+

+And flourishing his whip he rode off at a gallop for the first time

+during the whole campaign, and left the broken ranks of the soldiers

+laughing joyfully and shouting “Hurrah!”

+

+Kutúzov’s words were hardly understood by the troops. No one could have

+repeated the field marshal’s address, begun solemnly and then changing

+into an old man’s simplehearted talk; but the hearty sincerity of that

+speech, the feeling of majestic triumph combined with pity for the foe

+and consciousness of the justice of our cause, exactly expressed by that

+old man’s good-natured expletives, was not merely understood but lay

+in the soul of every soldier and found expression in their joyous and

+long-sustained shouts. Afterwards when one of the generals addressed

+Kutúzov asking whether he wished his calèche to be sent for, Kutúzov in

+answering unexpectedly gave a sob, being evidently greatly moved.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER VII

+

+When the troops reached their night’s halting place on the eighth of

+November, the last day of the Krásnoe battles, it was already growing

+dusk. All day it had been calm and frosty with occasional lightly

+falling snow and toward evening it began to clear. Through the falling

+snow a purple-black and starry sky showed itself and the frost grew

+keener.

+

+An infantry regiment which had left Tarútino three thousand strong but

+now numbered only nine hundred was one of the first to arrive that night

+at its halting place—a village on the highroad. The quartermasters who

+met the regiment announced that all the huts were full of sick and dead

+Frenchmen, cavalrymen, and members of the staff. There was only one hut

+available for the regimental commander.

+

+The commander rode up to his hut. The regiment passed through the

+village and stacked its arms in front of the last huts.

+

+Like some huge many-limbed animal, the regiment began to prepare its

+lair and its food. One part of it dispersed and waded knee-deep

+through the snow into a birch forest to the right of the village, and

+immediately the sound of axes and swords, the crashing of branches,

+and merry voices could be heard from there. Another section amid the

+regimental wagons and horses which were standing in a group was busy

+getting out caldrons and rye biscuit, and feeding the horses. A third

+section scattered through the village arranging quarters for the staff

+officers, carrying out the French corpses that were in the huts, and

+dragging away boards, dry wood, and thatch from the roofs, for the

+campfires, or wattle fences to serve for shelter.

+

+Some fifteen men with merry shouts were shaking down the high wattle

+wall of a shed, the roof of which had already been removed.

+

+“Now then, all together—shove!” cried the voices, and the huge surface

+of the wall, sprinkled with snow and creaking with frost, was seen

+swaying in the gloom of the night. The lower stakes cracked more and

+more and at last the wall fell, and with it the men who had been pushing

+it. Loud, coarse laughter and joyous shouts ensued.

+

+“Now then, catch hold in twos! Hand up the lever! That’s it.... Where

+are you shoving to?”

+

+“Now, all together! But wait a moment, boys... With a song!”

+

+All stood silent, and a soft, pleasant velvety voice began to sing. At

+the end of the third verse as the last note died away, twenty voices

+roared out at once: “Oo-oo-oo-oo! That’s it. All together! Heave away,

+boys!...” but despite their united efforts the wattle hardly moved, and

+in the silence that followed the heavy breathing of the men was audible.

+

+“Here, you of the Sixth Company! Devils that you are! Lend a hand...

+will you? You may want us one of these days.”

+

+Some twenty men of the Sixth Company who were on their way into the

+village joined the haulers, and the wattle wall, which was about

+thirty-five feet long and seven feet high, moved forward along the

+village street, swaying, pressing upon and cutting the shoulders of the

+gasping men.

+

+“Get along... Falling? What are you stopping for? There now....”

+

+Merry senseless words of abuse flowed freely.

+

+“What are you up to?” suddenly came the authoritative voice of a

+sergeant major who came upon the men who were hauling their burden.

+“There are gentry here; the general himself is in that hut, and you

+foul-mouthed devils, you brutes, I’ll give it to you!” shouted he,

+hitting the first man who came in his way a swinging blow on the back.

+“Can’t you make less noise?”

+

+The men became silent. The soldier who had been struck groaned and wiped

+his face, which had been scratched till it bled by his falling against

+the wattle.

+

+“There, how that devil hits out! He’s made my face all bloody,” said he

+in a frightened whisper when the sergeant major had passed on.

+

+“Don’t you like it?” said a laughing voice, and moderating their tones

+the men moved forward.

+

+When they were out of the village they began talking again as loud as

+before, interlarding their talk with the same aimless expletives.

+

+In the hut which the men had passed, the chief officers had gathered and

+were in animated talk over their tea about the events of the day and the

+maneuvers suggested for tomorrow. It was proposed to make a flank march

+to the left, cut off the Vice-King (Murat) and capture him.

+

+By the time the soldiers had dragged the wattle fence to its place

+the campfires were blazing on all sides ready for cooking, the wood

+crackled, the snow was melting, and black shadows of soldiers flitted

+to and fro all over the occupied space where the snow had been trodden

+down.

+

+Axes and choppers were plied all around. Everything was done without any

+orders being given. Stores of wood were brought for the night, shelters

+were rigged up for the officers, caldrons were being boiled, and muskets

+and accouterments put in order.

+

+The wattle wall the men had brought was set up in a semicircle by the

+Eighth Company as a shelter from the north, propped up by musket rests,

+and a campfire was built before it. They beat the tattoo, called the

+roll, had supper, and settled down round the fires for the night—some

+repairing their footgear, some smoking pipes, and some stripping

+themselves naked to steam the lice out of their shirts.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER VIII

+

+One would have thought that under the almost incredibly wretched

+conditions the Russian soldiers were in at that time—lacking warm boots

+and sheepskin coats, without a roof over their heads, in the snow

+with eighteen degrees of frost, and without even full rations (the

+commissariat did not always keep up with the troops)—they would have

+presented a very sad and depressing spectacle.

+

+On the contrary, the army had never under the best material conditions

+presented a more cheerful and animated aspect. This was because all who

+began to grow depressed or who lost strength were sifted out of the army

+day by day. All the physically or morally weak had long since been left

+behind and only the flower of the army—physically and mentally—remained.

+

+More men collected behind the wattle fence of the Eighth Company than

+anywhere else. Two sergeants major were sitting with them and their

+campfire blazed brighter than others. For leave to sit by their wattle

+they demanded contributions of fuel.

+

+“Eh, Makéev! What has become of you, you son of a bitch? Are you lost or

+have the wolves eaten you? Fetch some more wood!” shouted a red-haired

+and red-faced man, screwing up his eyes and blinking because of the

+smoke but not moving back from the fire. “And you, Jackdaw, go and fetch

+some wood!” said he to another soldier.

+

+This red-haired man was neither a sergeant nor a corporal, but being

+robust he ordered about those weaker than himself. The soldier

+they called “Jackdaw,” a thin little fellow with a sharp nose, rose

+obediently and was about to go but at that instant there came into

+the light of the fire the slender, handsome figure of a young soldier

+carrying a load of wood.

+

+“Bring it here—that’s fine!”

+

+They split up the wood, pressed it down on the fire, blew at it with

+their mouths, and fanned it with the skirts of their greatcoats, making

+the flames hiss and crackle. The men drew nearer and lit their pipes.

+The handsome young soldier who had brought the wood, setting his arms

+akimbo, began stamping his cold feet rapidly and deftly on the spot

+where he stood.

+

+“Mother! The dew is cold but clear.... It’s well that I’m a

+musketeer...” he sang, pretending to hiccough after each syllable.

+

+“Look out, your soles will fly off!” shouted the red-haired man,

+noticing that the sole of the dancer’s boot was hanging loose. “What a

+fellow you are for dancing!”

+

+The dancer stopped, pulled off the loose piece of leather, and threw it

+on the fire.

+

+“Right enough, friend,” said he, and, having sat down, took out of his

+knapsack a scrap of blue French cloth, and wrapped it round his foot.

+“It’s the steam that spoils them,” he added, stretching out his feet

+toward the fire.

+

+“They’ll soon be issuing us new ones. They say that when we’ve finished

+hammering them, we’re to receive double kits!”

+

+“And that son of a bitch Petróv has lagged behind after all, it seems,”

+said one sergeant major.

+

+“I’ve had an eye on him this long while,” said the other.

+

+“Well, he’s a poor sort of soldier....”

+

+“But in the Third Company they say nine men were missing yesterday.”

+

+“Yes, it’s all very well, but when a man’s feet are frozen how can he

+walk?”

+

+“Eh? Don’t talk nonsense!” said a sergeant major.

+

+“Do you want to be doing the same?” said an old soldier, turning

+reproachfully to the man who had spoken of frozen feet.

+

+“Well, you know,” said the sharp-nosed man they called Jackdaw in a

+squeaky and unsteady voice, raising himself at the other side of the

+fire, “a plump man gets thin, but for a thin one it’s death. Take

+me, now! I’ve got no strength left,” he added, with sudden resolution

+turning to the sergeant major. “Tell them to send me to hospital; I’m

+aching all over; anyway I shan’t be able to keep up.”

+

+“That’ll do, that’ll do!” replied the sergeant major quietly.

+

+The soldier said no more and the talk went on.

+

+“What a lot of those Frenchies were taken today, and the fact is that

+not one of them had what you might call real boots on,” said a soldier,

+starting a new theme. “They were no more than make-believes.”

+

+“The Cossacks have taken their boots. They were clearing the hut for the

+colonel and carried them out. It was pitiful to see them, boys,” put in

+the dancer. “As they turned them over one seemed still alive and, would

+you believe it, he jabbered something in their lingo.”

+

+“But they’re a clean folk, lads,” the first man went on; “he was

+white—as white as birchbark—and some of them are such fine fellows, you

+might think they were nobles.”

+

+“Well, what do you think? They make soldiers of all classes there.”

+

+“But they don’t understand our talk at all,” said the dancer with a

+puzzled smile. “I asked him whose subject he was, and he jabbered in his

+own way. A queer lot!”

+

+“But it’s strange, friends,” continued the man who had wondered at their

+whiteness, “the peasants at Mozháysk were saying that when they began

+burying the dead—where the battle was you know—well, those dead had been

+lying there for nearly a month, and says the peasant, ‘they lie as white

+as paper, clean, and not as much smell as a puff of powder smoke.’”

+

+“Was it from the cold?” asked someone.

+

+“You’re a clever fellow! From the cold indeed! Why, it was hot. If it

+had been from the cold, ours would not have rotted either. ‘But,’ he

+says, ‘go up to ours and they are all rotten and maggoty. So,’ he says,

+‘we tie our faces up with kerchiefs and turn our heads away as we drag

+them off: we can hardly do it. But theirs,’ he says, ‘are white as paper

+and not so much smell as a whiff of gunpowder.’”

+

+All were silent.

+

+“It must be from their food,” said the sergeant major. “They used to

+gobble the same food as the gentry.”

+

+No one contradicted him.

+

+“That peasant near Mozháysk where the battle was said the men were all

+called up from ten villages around and they carted for twenty days and

+still didn’t finish carting the dead away. And as for the wolves, he

+says...”

+

+“That was a real battle,” said an old soldier. “It’s the only one worth

+remembering; but since that... it’s only been tormenting folk.”

+

+“And do you know, Daddy, the day before yesterday we ran at them and,

+my word, they didn’t let us get near before they just threw down their

+muskets and went on their knees. ‘Pardon!’ they say. That’s only one

+case. They say Plátov took ‘Poleon himself twice. But he didn’t know

+the right charm. He catches him and catches him—no good! He turns into

+a bird in his hands and flies away. And there’s no way of killing him

+either.”

+

+“You’re a first-class liar, Kiselëv, when I come to look at you!”

+

+“Liar, indeed! It’s the real truth.”

+

+“If he fell into my hands, when I’d caught him I’d bury him in the

+ground with an aspen stake to fix him down. What a lot of men he’s

+ruined!”

+

+“Well, anyhow we’re going to end it. He won’t come here again,” remarked

+the old soldier, yawning.

+

+The conversation flagged, and the soldiers began settling down to sleep.

+

+“Look at the stars. It’s wonderful how they shine! You would think the

+women had spread out their linen,” said one of the men, gazing with

+admiration at the Milky Way.

+

+“That’s a sign of a good harvest next year.”

+

+“We shall want some more wood.”

+

+“You warm your back and your belly gets frozen. That’s queer.”

+

+“O Lord!”

+

+“What are you pushing for? Is the fire only for you? Look how he’s

+sprawling!”

+

+In the silence that ensued, the snoring of those who had fallen asleep

+could be heard. Others turned over and warmed themselves, now and again

+exchanging a few words. From a campfire a hundred paces off came a sound

+of general, merry laughter.

+

+“Hark at them roaring there in the Fifth Company!” said one of the

+soldiers, “and what a lot of them there are!”

+

+One of the men got up and went over to the Fifth Company.

+

+“They’re having such fun,” said he, coming back. “Two Frenchies have

+turned up. One’s quite frozen and the other’s an awful swaggerer. He’s

+singing songs....”

+

+“Oh, I’ll go across and have a look....”

+

+And several of the men went over to the Fifth Company.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER IX

+

+The fifth company was bivouacking at the very edge of the forest. A huge

+campfire was blazing brightly in the midst of the snow, lighting up the

+branches of trees heavy with hoarfrost.

+

+About midnight they heard the sound of steps in the snow of the forest,

+and the crackling of dry branches.

+

+“A bear, lads,” said one of the men.

+

+They all raised their heads to listen, and out of the forest into the

+bright firelight stepped two strangely clad human figures clinging to

+one another.

+

+These were two Frenchmen who had been hiding in the forest. They came up

+to the fire, hoarsely uttering something in a language our soldiers did

+not understand. One was taller than the other; he wore an officer’s hat

+and seemed quite exhausted. On approaching the fire he had been going to

+sit down, but fell. The other, a short sturdy soldier with a shawl

+tied round his head, was stronger. He raised his companion and said

+something, pointing to his mouth. The soldiers surrounded the Frenchmen,

+spread a greatcoat on the ground for the sick man, and brought some

+buckwheat porridge and vodka for both of them.

+

+The exhausted French officer was Ramballe and the man with his head

+wrapped in the shawl was Morel, his orderly.

+

+When Morel had drunk some vodka and finished his bowl of porridge he

+suddenly became unnaturally merry and chattered incessantly to the

+soldiers, who could not understand him. Ramballe refused food and

+resting his head on his elbow lay silent beside the campfire, looking at

+the Russian soldiers with red and vacant eyes. Occasionally he emitted

+a long-drawn groan and then again became silent. Morel, pointing to his

+shoulders, tried to impress on the soldiers the fact that Ramballe was

+an officer and ought to be warmed. A Russian officer who had come up

+to the fire sent to ask his colonel whether he would not take a French

+officer into his hut to warm him, and when the messenger returned and

+said that the colonel wished the officer to be brought to him, Ramballe

+was told to go. He rose and tried to walk, but staggered and would have

+fallen had not a soldier standing by held him up.

+

+“You won’t do it again, eh?” said one of the soldiers, winking and

+turning mockingly to Ramballe.

+

+“Oh, you fool! Why talk rubbish, lout that you are—a real peasant!” came

+rebukes from all sides addressed to the jesting soldier.

+

+They surrounded Ramballe, lifted him on the crossed arms of two

+soldiers, and carried him to the hut. Ramballe put his arms around their

+necks while they carried him and began wailing plaintively:

+

+“Oh, you fine fellows, my kind, kind friends! These are men! Oh, my

+brave, kind friends,” and he leaned his head against the shoulder of one

+of the men like a child.

+

+Meanwhile Morel was sitting in the best place by the fire, surrounded by

+the soldiers.

+

+Morel, a short sturdy Frenchman with inflamed and streaming eyes, was

+wearing a woman’s cloak and had a shawl tied woman fashion round his

+head over his cap. He was evidently tipsy, and was singing a French song

+in a hoarse broken voice, with an arm thrown round the nearest soldier.

+The soldiers simply held their sides as they watched him.

+

+“Now then, now then, teach us how it goes! I’ll soon pick it up. How is

+it?” said the man—a singer and a wag—whom Morel was embracing.

+

+“Vive Henri Quatre! Vive ce roi valiant!” sang Morel, winking. “Ce

+diable à quatre...” *

+

+     * “Long live Henry the Fourth, that valiant king! That rowdy

+     devil.”

+

+

+“Vivarika! Vif-seruvaru! Sedyablyaka!” repeated the soldier, flourishing

+his arm and really catching the tune.

+

+“Bravo! Ha, ha, ha!” rose their rough, joyous laughter from all sides.

+

+Morel, wrinkling up his face, laughed too.

+

+“Well, go on, go on!”

+

+    “Qui eut le triple talent,

+    De boire, de battre,

+    Et d’être un vert galant.” *

+

+      * Who had a triple talent

+      For drinking, for fighting,

+      And for being a gallant old boy...

+

+“It goes smoothly, too. Well, now, Zaletáev!”

+

+“Ke...” Zaletáev, brought out with effort: “ke-e-e-e,” he drawled,

+laboriously pursing his lips, “le-trip-ta-la-de-bu-de-ba, e

+de-tra-va-ga-la” he sang.

+

+“Fine! Just like the Frenchie! Oh, ho ho! Do you want some more to eat?”

+

+“Give him some porridge: it takes a long time to get filled up after

+starving.”

+

+They gave him some more porridge and Morel with a laugh set to work on

+his third bowl. All the young soldiers smiled gaily as they watched him.

+The older men, who thought it undignified to amuse themselves with such

+nonsense, continued to lie at the opposite side of the fire, but one

+would occasionally raise himself on an elbow and glance at Morel with a

+smile.

+

+“They are men too,” said one of them as he wrapped himself up in his

+coat. “Even wormwood grows on its own root.”

+

+“O Lord, O Lord! How starry it is! Tremendous! That means a hard

+frost....”

+

+They all grew silent. The stars, as if knowing that no one was looking

+at them, began to disport themselves in the dark sky: now flaring

+up, now vanishing, now trembling, they were busy whispering something

+gladsome and mysterious to one another.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER X

+

+The French army melted away at the uniform rate of a mathematical

+progression; and that crossing of the Berëzina about which so much has

+been written was only one intermediate stage in its destruction, and

+not at all the decisive episode of the campaign. If so much has been

+and still is written about the Berëzina, on the French side this is only

+because at the broken bridge across that river the calamities their army

+had been previously enduring were suddenly concentrated at one moment

+into a tragic spectacle that remained in every memory, and on the

+Russian side merely because in Petersburg—far from the seat of war—a

+plan (again one of Pfuel’s) had been devised to catch Napoleon in a

+strategic trap at the Berëzina River. Everyone assured himself that all

+would happen according to plan, and therefore insisted that it was just

+the crossing of the Berëzina that destroyed the French army. In reality

+the results of the crossing were much less disastrous to the French—in

+guns and men lost—than Krásnoe had been, as the figures show.

+

+The sole importance of the crossing of the Berëzina lies in the fact

+that it plainly and indubitably proved the fallacy of all the plans for

+cutting off the enemy’s retreat and the soundness of the only possible

+line of action—the one Kutúzov and the general mass of the army

+demanded—namely, simply to follow the enemy up. The French crowd fled

+at a continually increasing speed and all its energy was directed to

+reaching its goal. It fled like a wounded animal and it was impossible

+to block its path. This was shown not so much by the arrangements it

+made for crossing as by what took place at the bridges. When the bridges

+broke down, unarmed soldiers, people from Moscow and women with

+children who were with the French transport, all—carried on by vis

+inertiæ—pressed forward into boats and into the ice-covered water and

+did not, surrender.

+

+That impulse was reasonable. The condition of fugitives and of pursuers

+was equally bad. As long as they remained with their own people each

+might hope for help from his fellows and the definite place he held

+among them. But those who surrendered, while remaining in the same

+pitiful plight, would be on a lower level to claim a share in the

+necessities of life. The French did not need to be informed of the fact

+that half the prisoners—with whom the Russians did not know what to

+do—perished of cold and hunger despite their captors’ desire to save

+them; they felt that it could not be otherwise. The most compassionate

+Russian commanders, those favorable to the French—and even the Frenchmen

+in the Russian service—could do nothing for the prisoners. The French

+perished from the conditions to which the Russian army was itself

+exposed. It was impossible to take bread and clothes from our hungry and

+indispensable soldiers to give to the French who, though not harmful, or

+hated, or guilty, were simply unnecessary. Some Russians even did that,

+but they were exceptions.

+

+Certain destruction lay behind the French but in front there was hope.

+Their ships had been burned, there was no salvation save in collective

+flight, and on that the whole strength of the French was concentrated.

+

+The farther they fled the more wretched became the plight of the

+remnant, especially after the Berëzina, on which (in consequence of the

+Petersburg plan) special hopes had been placed by the Russians, and

+the keener grew the passions of the Russian commanders, who blamed one

+another and Kutúzov most of all. Anticipation that the failure of

+the Petersburg Berëzina plan would be attributed to Kutúzov led

+to dissatisfaction, contempt, and ridicule, more and more strongly

+expressed. The ridicule and contempt were of course expressed in a

+respectful form, making it impossible for him to ask wherein he was

+to blame. They did not talk seriously to him; when reporting to him or

+asking for his sanction they appeared to be fulfilling a regrettable

+formality, but they winked behind his back and tried to mislead him at

+every turn.

+

+Because they could not understand him all these people assumed that

+it was useless to talk to the old man; that he would never grasp the

+profundity of their plans, that he would answer with his phrases (which

+they thought were mere phrases) about a “golden bridge,” about the

+impossibility of crossing the frontier with a crowd of tatterdemalions,

+and so forth. They had heard all that before. And all he said—that it

+was necessary to await provisions, or that the men had no boots—was so

+simple, while what they proposed was so complicated and clever, that

+it was evident that he was old and stupid and that they, though not in

+power, were commanders of genius.

+

+After the junction with the army of the brilliant admiral and Petersburg

+hero Wittgenstein, this mood and the gossip of the staff reached their

+maximum. Kutúzov saw this and merely sighed and shrugged his shoulders.

+Only once, after the affair of the Berëzina, did he get angry and write

+to Bennigsen (who reported separately to the Emperor) the following

+letter:

+

+“On account of your spells of ill health, will your excellency please

+be so good as to set off for Kalúga on receipt of this, and there await

+further commands and appointments from His Imperial Majesty.”

+

+But after Bennigsen’s departure, the Grand Duke Tsarévich Constantine

+Pávlovich joined the army. He had taken part in the beginning of the

+campaign but had subsequently been removed from the army by Kutúzov.

+Now having come to the army, he informed Kutúzov of the Emperor’s

+displeasure at the poor success of our forces and the slowness of their

+advance. The Emperor intended to join the army personally in a few days’

+time.

+

+The old man, experienced in court as well as in military affairs—this

+same Kutúzov who in August had been chosen commander in chief

+against the sovereign’s wishes and who had removed the Grand Duke and

+heir—apparent from the army—who on his own authority and contrary to the

+Emperor’s will had decided on the abandonment of Moscow, now realized at

+once that his day was over, that his part was played, and that the power

+he was supposed to hold was no longer his. And he understood this not

+merely from the attitude of the court. He saw on the one hand that the

+military business in which he had played his part was ended and felt

+that his mission was accomplished; and at the same time he began to

+be conscious of the physical weariness of his aged body and of the

+necessity of physical rest.

+

+On the twenty-ninth of November Kutúzov entered Vílna—his “dear Vílna”

+as he called it. Twice during his career Kutúzov had been governor of

+Vílna. In that wealthy town, which had not been injured, he found old

+friends and associations, besides the comforts of life of which he had

+so long been deprived. And he suddenly turned from the cares of army

+and state and, as far as the passions that seethed around him allowed,

+immersed himself in the quiet life to which he had formerly been

+accustomed, as if all that was taking place and all that had still to be

+done in the realm of history did not concern him at all.

+

+Chichagóv, one of the most zealous “cutters-off” and “breakers-up,” who

+had first wanted to effect a diversion in Greece and then in Warsaw but

+never wished to go where he was sent: Chichagóv, noted for the boldness

+with which he spoke to the Emperor, and who considered Kutúzov to be

+under an obligation to him because when he was sent to make peace

+with Turkey in 1811 independently of Kutúzov, and found that peace had

+already been concluded, he admitted to the Emperor that the merit of

+securing that peace was really Kutúzov’s; this Chichagóv was the first

+to meet Kutúzov at the castle where the latter was to stay. In undress

+naval uniform, with a dirk, and holding his cap under his arm, he handed

+Kutúzov a garrison report and the keys of the town. The contemptuously

+respectful attitude of the younger men to the old man in his dotage was

+expressed in the highest degree by the behavior of Chichagóv, who knew

+of the accusations that were being directed against Kutúzov.

+

+When speaking to Chichagóv, Kutúzov incidentally mentioned that the

+vehicles packed with china that had been captured from him at Borísov

+had been recovered and would be restored to him.

+

+“You mean to imply that I have nothing to eat out of.... On the

+contrary, I can supply you with everything even if you want to give

+dinner parties,” warmly replied Chichagóv, who tried by every word he

+spoke to prove his own rectitude and therefore imagined Kutúzov to be

+animated by the same desire.

+

+Kutúzov, shrugging his shoulders, replied with his subtle penetrating

+smile: “I meant merely to say what I said.”

+

+Contrary to the Emperor’s wish Kutúzov detained the greater part of the

+army at Vílna. Those about him said that he became extraordinarily slack

+and physically feeble during his stay in that town. He attended to army

+affairs reluctantly, left everything to his generals, and while awaiting

+the Emperor’s arrival led a dissipated life.

+

+Having left Petersburg on the seventh of December with his suite—Count

+Tolstóy, Prince Volkónski, Arakchéev, and others—the Emperor reached

+Vílna on the eleventh, and in his traveling sleigh drove straight to

+the castle. In spite of the severe frost some hundred generals and staff

+officers in full parade uniform stood in front of the castle, as well as

+a guard of honor of the Semënov regiment.

+

+A courier who galloped to the castle in advance, in a troyka with three

+foam-flecked horses, shouted “Coming!” and Konovnítsyn rushed into the

+vestibule to inform Kutúzov, who was waiting in the hall porter’s little

+lodge.

+

+A minute later the old man’s large stout figure in full-dress uniform,

+his chest covered with orders and a scarf drawn round his stomach,

+waddled out into the porch. He put on his hat with its peaks to the

+sides and, holding his gloves in his hand and walking with an effort

+sideways down the steps to the level of the street, took in his hand the

+report he had prepared for the Emperor.

+

+There was running to and fro and whispering; another troyka flew

+furiously up, and then all eyes were turned on an approaching sleigh

+in which the figures of the Emperor and Volkónski could already be

+descried.

+

+From the habit of fifty years all this had a physically agitating effect

+on the old general. He carefully and hastily felt himself all over,

+readjusted his hat, and pulling himself together drew himself up and,

+at the very moment when the Emperor, having alighted from the sleigh,

+lifted his eyes to him, handed him the report and began speaking in his

+smooth, ingratiating voice.

+

+The Emperor with a rapid glance scanned Kutúzov from head to foot,

+frowned for an instant, but immediately mastering himself went up to the

+old man, extended his arms and embraced him. And this embrace too, owing

+to a long-standing impression related to his innermost feelings, had its

+usual effect on Kutúzov and he gave a sob.

+

+The Emperor greeted the officers and the Semënov guard, and again

+pressing the old man’s hand went with him into the castle.

+

+When alone with the field marshal the Emperor expressed his

+dissatisfaction at the slowness of the pursuit and at the mistakes made

+at Krásnoe and the Berëzina, and informed him of his intentions for a

+future campaign abroad. Kutúzov made no rejoinder or remark. The same

+submissive, expressionless look with which he had listened to the

+Emperor’s commands on the field of Austerlitz seven years before settled

+on his face now.

+

+When Kutúzov came out of the study and with lowered head was crossing

+the ballroom with his heavy waddling gait, he was arrested by someone’s

+voice saying:

+

+“Your Serene Highness!”

+

+Kutúzov raised his head and looked for a long while into the eyes of

+Count Tolstóy, who stood before him holding a silver salver on which lay

+a small object. Kutúzov seemed not to understand what was expected of

+him.

+

+Suddenly he seemed to remember; a scarcely perceptible smile flashed

+across his puffy face, and bowing low and respectfully he took the

+object that lay on the salver. It was the Order of St. George of the

+First Class.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XI

+

+Next day the field marshal gave a dinner and ball which the Emperor

+honored by his presence. Kutúzov had received the Order of St. George

+of the First Class and the Emperor showed him the highest honors, but

+everyone knew of the imperial dissatisfaction with him. The proprieties

+were observed and the Emperor was the first to set that example,

+but everybody understood that the old man was blameworthy and

+good-for-nothing. When Kutúzov, conforming to a custom of Catherine’s

+day, ordered the standards that had been captured to be lowered at the

+Emperor’s feet on his entering the ballroom, the Emperor made a wry face

+and muttered something in which some people caught the words, “the old

+comedian.”

+

+The Emperor’s displeasure with Kutúzov was specially increased at Vílna

+by the fact that Kutúzov evidently could not or would not understand the

+importance of the coming campaign.

+

+When on the following morning the Emperor said to the officers assembled

+about him: “You have not only saved Russia, you have saved Europe!” they

+all understood that the war was not ended.

+

+Kutúzov alone would not see this and openly expressed his opinion that

+no fresh war could improve the position or add to the glory of Russia,

+but could only spoil and lower the glorious position that Russia had

+gained. He tried to prove to the Emperor the impossibility of levying

+fresh troops, spoke of the hardships already endured by the people, of

+the possibility of failure and so forth.

+

+This being the field marshal’s frame of mind he was naturally regarded

+as merely a hindrance and obstacle to the impending war.

+

+To avoid unpleasant encounters with the old man, the natural method was

+to do what had been done with him at Austerlitz and with Barclay at

+the beginning of the Russian campaign—to transfer the authority to the

+Emperor himself, thus cutting the ground from under the commander in

+chief’s feet without upsetting the old man by informing him of the

+change.

+

+With this object his staff was gradually reconstructed and its real

+strength removed and transferred to the Emperor. Toll, Konovnítsyn, and

+Ermólov received fresh appointments. Everyone spoke loudly of the field

+marshal’s great weakness and failing health.

+

+His health had to be bad for his place to be taken away and given to

+another. And in fact his health was poor.

+

+So naturally, simply, and gradually—just as he had come from Turkey to

+the Treasury in Petersburg to recruit the militia, and then to the army

+when he was needed there—now when his part was played out, Kutúzov’s

+place was taken by a new and necessary performer.

+

+The war of 1812, besides its national significance dear to every Russian

+heart, was now to assume another, a European, significance.

+

+The movement of peoples from west to east was to be succeeded by a

+movement of peoples from east to west, and for this fresh war another

+leader was necessary, having qualities and views differing from

+Kutúzov’s and animated by different motives.

+

+Alexander I was as necessary for the movement of the peoples from east

+to west and for the refixing of national frontiers as Kutúzov had been

+for the salvation and glory of Russia.

+

+Kutúzov did not understand what Europe, the balance of power, or

+Napoleon meant. He could not understand it. For the representative of

+the Russian people, after the enemy had been destroyed and Russia had

+been liberated and raised to the summit of her glory, there was nothing

+left to do as a Russian. Nothing remained for the representative of the

+national war but to die, and Kutúzov died.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XII

+

+As generally happens, Pierre did not feel the full effects of the

+physical privation and strain he had suffered as prisoner until after

+they were over. After his liberation he reached Orël, and on the third

+day there, when preparing to go to Kiev, he fell ill and was laid up

+for three months. He had what the doctors termed “bilious fever.” But

+despite the fact that the doctors treated him, bled him, and gave him

+medicines to drink, he recovered.

+

+Scarcely any impression was left on Pierre’s mind by all that happened

+to him from the time of his rescue till his illness. He remembered

+only the dull gray weather now rainy and now snowy, internal physical

+distress, and pains in his feet and side. He remembered a general

+impression of the misfortunes and sufferings of people and of being

+worried by the curiosity of officers and generals who questioned him, he

+also remembered his difficulty in procuring a conveyance and horses, and

+above all he remembered his incapacity to think and feel all that time.

+On the day of his rescue he had seen the body of Pétya Rostóv. That same

+day he had learned that Prince Andrew, after surviving the battle of

+Borodinó for more than a month had recently died in the Rostóvs’ house

+at Yaroslávl, and Denísov who told him this news also mentioned Hélène’s

+death, supposing that Pierre had heard of it long before. All this at

+the time seemed merely strange to Pierre: he felt he could not grasp its

+significance. Just then he was only anxious to get away as quickly as

+possible from places where people were killing one another, to some

+peaceful refuge where he could recover himself, rest, and think over

+all the strange new facts he had learned; but on reaching Orël he

+immediately fell ill. When he came to himself after his illness he saw

+in attendance on him two of his servants, Terénty and Váska, who had

+come from Moscow; and also his cousin the eldest princess, who had been

+living on his estate at Eléts and hearing of his rescue and illness had

+come to look after him.

+

+It was only gradually during his convalescence that Pierre lost the

+impressions he had become accustomed to during the last few months

+and got used to the idea that no one would oblige him to go anywhere

+tomorrow, that no one would deprive him of his warm bed, and that he

+would be sure to get his dinner, tea, and supper. But for a long time in

+his dreams he still saw himself in the conditions of captivity. In the

+same way little by little he came to understand the news he had been

+told after his rescue, about the death of Prince Andrew, the death of

+his wife, and the destruction of the French.

+

+A joyous feeling of freedom—that complete inalienable freedom natural

+to man which he had first experienced at the first halt outside

+Moscow—filled Pierre’s soul during his convalescence. He was surprised

+to find that this inner freedom, which was independent of external

+conditions, now had as it were an additional setting of external

+liberty. He was alone in a strange town, without acquaintances. No one

+demanded anything of him or sent him anywhere. He had all he wanted:

+the thought of his wife which had been a continual torment to him was no

+longer there, since she was no more.

+

+“Oh, how good! How splendid!” said he to himself when a cleanly laid

+table was moved up to him with savory beef tea, or when he lay down for

+the night on a soft clean bed, or when he remembered that the French had

+gone and that his wife was no more. “Oh, how good, how splendid!”

+

+And by old habit he asked himself the question: “Well, and what then?

+What am I going to do?” And he immediately gave himself the answer:

+“Well, I shall live. Ah, how splendid!”

+

+The very question that had formerly tormented him, the thing he had

+continually sought to find—the aim of life—no longer existed for

+him now. That search for the aim of life had not merely disappeared

+temporarily—he felt that it no longer existed for him and could not

+present itself again. And this very absence of an aim gave him the

+complete, joyous sense of freedom which constituted his happiness at

+this time.

+

+He could not see an aim, for he now had faith—not faith in any kind of

+rule, or words, or ideas, but faith in an ever-living, ever-manifest

+God. Formerly he had sought Him in aims he set himself. That search for

+an aim had been simply a search for God, and suddenly in his captivity

+he had learned not by words or reasoning but by direct feeling what his

+nurse had told him long ago: that God is here and everywhere. In his

+captivity he had learned that in Karatáev God was greater, more infinite

+and unfathomable than in the Architect of the Universe recognized by the

+Freemasons. He felt like a man who after straining his eyes to see into

+the far distance finds what he sought at his very feet. All his life

+he had looked over the heads of the men around him, when he should have

+merely looked in front of him without straining his eyes.

+

+In the past he had never been able to find that great inscrutable

+infinite something. He had only felt that it must exist somewhere and

+had looked for it. In everything near and comprehensible he had seen

+only what was limited, petty, commonplace, and senseless. He had

+equipped himself with a mental telescope and looked into remote space,

+where petty worldliness hiding itself in misty distance had seemed to

+him great and infinite merely because it was not clearly seen. And such

+had European life, politics, Freemasonry, philosophy, and philanthropy

+seemed to him. But even then, at moments of weakness as he had accounted

+them, his mind had penetrated to those distances and he had there seen

+the same pettiness, worldliness, and senselessness. Now, however, he

+had learned to see the great, eternal, and infinite in everything, and

+therefore—to see it and enjoy its contemplation—he naturally threw away

+the telescope through which he had till now gazed over men’s heads, and

+gladly regarded the ever-changing, eternally great, unfathomable, and

+infinite life around him. And the closer he looked the more tranquil and

+happy he became. That dreadful question, “What for?” which had formerly

+destroyed all his mental edifices, no longer existed for him. To that

+question, “What for?” a simple answer was now always ready in his soul:

+“Because there is a God, that God without whose will not one hair falls

+from a man’s head.”

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XIII

+

+In external ways Pierre had hardly changed at all. In appearance he

+was just what he used to be. As before he was absent-minded and seemed

+occupied not with what was before his eyes but with something special

+of his own. The difference between his former and present self was that

+formerly when he did not grasp what lay before him or was said to

+him, he had puckered his forehead painfully as if vainly seeking to

+distinguish something at a distance. At present he still forgot what was

+said to him and still did not see what was before his eyes, but he now

+looked with a scarcely perceptible and seemingly ironic smile at what

+was before him and listened to what was said, though evidently seeing

+and hearing something quite different. Formerly he had appeared to be

+a kindhearted but unhappy man, and so people had been inclined to avoid

+him. Now a smile at the joy of life always played round his lips, and

+sympathy for others, shone in his eyes with a questioning look as to

+whether they were as contented as he was, and people felt pleased by his

+presence.

+

+Previously he had talked a great deal, grew excited when he talked, and

+seldom listened; now he was seldom carried away in conversation and

+knew how to listen so that people readily told him their most intimate

+secrets.

+

+The princess, who had never liked Pierre and had been particularly

+hostile to him since she had felt herself under obligations to him after

+the old count’s death, now after staying a short time in Orël—where she

+had come intending to show Pierre that in spite of his ingratitude she

+considered it her duty to nurse him—felt to her surprise and vexation

+that she had become fond of him. Pierre did not in any way seek her

+approval, he merely studied her with interest. Formerly she had felt

+that he regarded her with indifference and irony, and so had shrunk into

+herself as she did with others and had shown him only the combative side

+of her nature; but now he seemed to be trying to understand the most

+intimate places of her heart, and, mistrustfully at first but afterwards

+gratefully, she let him see the hidden, kindly sides of her character.

+

+The most cunning man could not have crept into her confidence more

+successfully, evoking memories of the best times of her youth and

+showing sympathy with them. Yet Pierre’s cunning consisted simply in

+finding pleasure in drawing out the human qualities of the embittered,

+hard, and (in her own way) proud princess.

+

+“Yes, he is a very, very kind man when he is not under the influence of

+bad people but of people such as myself,” thought she.

+

+His servants too—Terénty and Váska—in their own way noticed the change

+that had taken place in Pierre. They considered that he had become much

+“simpler.” Terénty, when he had helped him undress and wished him good

+night, often lingered with his master’s boots in his hands and clothes

+over his arm, to see whether he would not start a talk. And Pierre,

+noticing that Terénty wanted a chat, generally kept him there.

+

+“Well, tell me... now, how did you get food?” he would ask.

+

+And Terénty would begin talking of the destruction of Moscow, and of

+the old count, and would stand for a long time holding the clothes and

+talking, or sometimes listening to Pierre’s stories, and then would go

+out into the hall with a pleasant sense of intimacy with his master and

+affection for him.

+

+The doctor who attended Pierre and visited him every day, though he

+considered it his duty as a doctor to pose as a man whose every moment

+was of value to suffering humanity, would sit for hours with Pierre

+telling him his favorite anecdotes and his observations on the

+characters of his patients in general, and especially of the ladies.

+

+“It’s a pleasure to talk to a man like that; he is not like our

+provincials,” he would say.

+

+There were several prisoners from the French army in Orël, and the

+doctor brought one of them, a young Italian, to see Pierre.

+

+This officer began visiting Pierre, and the princess used to make fun of

+the tenderness the Italian expressed for him.

+

+The Italian seemed happy only when he could come to see Pierre, talk

+with him, tell him about his past, his life at home, and his love,

+and pour out to him his indignation against the French and especially

+against Napoleon.

+

+“If all Russians are in the least like you, it is sacrilege to fight

+such a nation,” he said to Pierre. “You, who have suffered so from the

+French, do not even feel animosity toward them.”

+

+Pierre had evoked the passionate affection of the Italian merely by

+evoking the best side of his nature and taking a pleasure in so doing.

+

+During the last days of Pierre’s stay in Orël his old Masonic

+acquaintance Count Willarski, who had introduced him to the lodge in

+1807, came to see him. Willarski was married to a Russian heiress who

+had a large estate in Orël province, and he occupied a temporary post in

+the commissariat department in that town.

+

+Hearing that Bezúkhov was in Orël, Willarski, though they had never been

+intimate, came to him with the professions of friendship and intimacy

+that people who meet in a desert generally express for one another.

+Willarski felt dull in Orël and was pleased to meet a man of his own

+circle and, as he supposed, of similar interests.

+

+But to his surprise Willarski soon noticed that Pierre had lagged much

+behind the times, and had sunk, as he expressed it to himself, into

+apathy and egotism.

+

+“You are letting yourself go, my dear fellow,” he said.

+

+But for all that Willarski found it pleasanter now than it had been

+formerly to be with Pierre, and came to see him every day. To Pierre as

+he looked at and listened to Willarski, it seemed strange to think that

+he had been like that himself but a short time before.

+

+Willarski was a married man with a family, busy with his family affairs,

+his wife’s affairs, and his official duties. He regarded all these

+occupations as hindrances to life, and considered that they were all

+contemptible because their aim was the welfare of himself and his

+family. Military, administrative, political, and Masonic interests

+continually absorbed his attention. And Pierre, without trying to

+change the other’s views and without condemning him, but with the quiet,

+joyful, and amused smile now habitual to him, was interested in this

+strange though very familiar phenomenon.

+

+There was a new feature in Pierre’s relations with Willarski, with the

+princess, with the doctor, and with all the people he now met, which

+gained for him the general good will. This was his acknowledgment of

+the impossibility of changing a man’s convictions by words, and his

+recognition of the possibility of everyone thinking, feeling, and seeing

+things each from his own point of view. This legitimate peculiarity of

+each individual which used to excite and irritate Pierre now became a

+basis of the sympathy he felt for, and the interest he took in, other

+people. The difference, and sometimes complete contradiction, between

+men’s opinions and their lives, and between one man and another, pleased

+him and drew from him an amused and gentle smile.

+

+In practical matters Pierre unexpectedly felt within himself a center

+of gravity he had previously lacked. Formerly all pecuniary questions,

+especially requests for money to which, as an extremely wealthy man,

+he was very exposed, produced in him a state of hopeless agitation and

+perplexity. “To give or not to give?” he had asked himself. “I have

+it and he needs it. But someone else needs it still more. Who needs it

+most? And perhaps they are both impostors?” In the old days he had been

+unable to find a way out of all these surmises and had given to all

+who asked as long as he had anything to give. Formerly he had been in a

+similar state of perplexity with regard to every question concerning his

+property, when one person advised one thing and another something else.

+

+Now to his surprise he found that he no longer felt either doubt or

+perplexity about these questions. There was now within him a judge who

+by some rule unknown to him decided what should or should not be done.

+

+He was as indifferent as heretofore to money matters, but now he felt

+certain of what ought and what ought not to be done. The first time he

+had recourse to his new judge was when a French prisoner, a colonel,

+came to him and, after talking a great deal about his exploits,

+concluded by making what amounted to a demand that Pierre should give

+him four thousand francs to send to his wife and children. Pierre

+refused without the least difficulty or effort, and was afterwards

+surprised how simple and easy had been what used to appear so

+insurmountably difficult. At the same time that he refused the colonel’s

+demand he made up his mind that he must have recourse to artifice when

+leaving Orël, to induce the Italian officer to accept some money of

+which he was evidently in need. A further proof to Pierre of his own

+more settled outlook on practical matters was furnished by his decision

+with regard to his wife’s debts and to the rebuilding of his houses in

+and near Moscow.

+

+His head steward came to him at Orël and Pierre reckoned up with him his

+diminished income. The burning of Moscow had cost him, according to the

+head steward’s calculation, about two million rubles.

+

+To console Pierre for these losses the head steward gave him an estimate

+showing that despite these losses his income would not be diminished but

+would even be increased if he refused to pay his wife’s debts which he

+was under no obligation to meet, and did not rebuild his Moscow house

+and the country house on his Moscow estate, which had cost him eighty

+thousand rubles a year and brought in nothing.

+

+“Yes, of course that’s true,” said Pierre with a cheerful smile. “I

+don’t need all that at all. By being ruined I have become much richer.”

+

+But in January Savélich came from Moscow and gave him an account of the

+state of things there, and spoke of the estimate an architect had made

+of the cost of rebuilding the town and country houses, speaking of this

+as of a settled matter. About the same time he received letters from

+Prince Vasíli and other Petersburg acquaintances speaking of his wife’s

+debts. And Pierre decided that the steward’s proposals which had so

+pleased him were wrong and that he must go to Petersburg and settle his

+wife’s affairs and must rebuild in Moscow. Why this was necessary he

+did not know, but he knew for certain that it was necessary. His income

+would be reduced by three fourths, but he felt it must be done.

+

+Willarski was going to Moscow and they agreed to travel together.

+

+During the whole time of his convalescence in Orël Pierre had

+experienced a feeling of joy, freedom, and life; but when during his

+journey he found himself in the open world and saw hundreds of new

+faces, that feeling was intensified. Throughout his journey he felt like

+a schoolboy on holiday. Everyone—the stagecoach driver, the post-house

+overseers, the peasants on the roads and in the villages—had a new

+significance for him. The presence and remarks of Willarski who

+continually deplored the ignorance and poverty of Russia and its

+backwardness compared with Europe only heightened Pierre’s pleasure.

+Where Willarski saw deadness Pierre saw an extraordinary strength and

+vitality—the strength which in that vast space amid the snows maintained

+the life of this original, peculiar, and unique people. He did not

+contradict Willarski and even seemed to agree with him—an apparent

+agreement being the simplest way to avoid discussions that could lead to

+nothing—and he smiled joyfully as he listened to him.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XIV

+

+It would be difficult to explain why and whither ants whose heap

+has been destroyed are hurrying: some from the heap dragging bits of

+rubbish, larvae, and corpses, others back to the heap, or why they

+jostle, overtake one another, and fight, and it would be equally

+difficult to explain what caused the Russians after the departure of the

+French to throng to the place that had formerly been Moscow. But when

+we watch the ants round their ruined heap, the tenacity, energy, and

+immense number of the delving insects prove that despite the destruction

+of the heap, something indestructible, which though intangible is the

+real strength of the colony, still exists; and similarly, though in

+Moscow in the month of October there was no government and no churches,

+shrines, riches, or houses—it was still the Moscow it had been in

+August. All was destroyed, except something intangible yet powerful and

+indestructible.

+

+The motives of those who thronged from all sides to Moscow after it had

+been cleared of the enemy were most diverse and personal, and at first

+for the most part savage and brutal. One motive only they all had in

+common: a desire to get to the place that had been called Moscow, to

+apply their activities there.

+

+Within a week Moscow already had fifteen thousand inhabitants, in a

+fortnight twenty-five thousand, and so on. By the autumn of 1813 the

+number, ever increasing and increasing, exceeded what it had been in

+1812.

+

+The first Russians to enter Moscow were the Cossacks of Wintzingerode’s

+detachment, peasants from the adjacent villages, and residents who had

+fled from Moscow and had been hiding in its vicinity. The Russians who

+entered Moscow, finding it plundered, plundered it in their turn. They

+continued what the French had begun. Trains of peasant carts came to

+Moscow to carry off to the villages what had been abandoned in the

+ruined houses and the streets. The Cossacks carried off what they could

+to their camps, and the householders seized all they could find in other

+houses and moved it to their own, pretending that it was their property.

+

+But the first plunderers were followed by a second and a third

+contingent, and with increasing numbers plundering became more and more

+difficult and assumed more definite forms.

+

+The French found Moscow abandoned but with all the organizations of

+regular life, with diverse branches of commerce and craftsmanship, with

+luxury, and governmental and religious institutions. These forms were

+lifeless but still existed. There were bazaars, shops, warehouses,

+market stalls, granaries—for the most part still stocked with goods—and

+there were factories and workshops, palaces and wealthy houses filled

+with luxuries, hospitals, prisons, government offices, churches, and

+cathedrals. The longer the French remained the more these forms of town

+life perished, until finally all was merged into one confused, lifeless

+scene of plunder.

+

+The more the plundering by the French continued, the more both the

+wealth of Moscow and the strength of its plunderers was destroyed. But

+plundering by the Russians, with which the reoccupation of the city

+began, had an opposite effect: the longer it continued and the greater

+the number of people taking part in it the more rapidly was the wealth

+of the city and its regular life restored.

+

+Besides the plunderers, very various people, some drawn by curiosity,

+some by official duties, some by self-interest—house owners, clergy,

+officials of all kinds, tradesmen, artisans, and peasants—streamed into

+Moscow as blood flows to the heart.

+

+Within a week the peasants who came with empty carts to carry off

+plunder were stopped by the authorities and made to cart the corpses

+out of the town. Other peasants, having heard of their comrades’

+discomfiture, came to town bringing rye, oats, and hay, and beat down

+one another’s prices to below what they had been in former days. Gangs

+of carpenters hoping for high pay arrived in Moscow every day, and on

+all sides logs were being hewn, new houses built, and old, charred ones

+repaired. Tradesmen began trading in booths. Cookshops and taverns were

+opened in partially burned houses. The clergy resumed the services

+in many churches that had not been burned. Donors contributed

+Church property that had been stolen. Government clerks set up their

+baize-covered tables and their pigeonholes of documents in small rooms.

+The higher authorities and the police organized the distribution of

+goods left behind by the French. The owners of houses in which much

+property had been left, brought there from other houses, complained of

+the injustice of taking everything to the Faceted Palace in the Krémlin;

+others insisted that as the French had gathered things from different

+houses into this or that house, it would be unfair to allow its owner to

+keep all that was found there. They abused the police and bribed them,

+made out estimates at ten times their value for government stores that

+had perished in the fire, and demanded relief. And Count Rostopchín

+wrote proclamations.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XV

+

+At the end of January Pierre went to Moscow and stayed in an annex of

+his house which had not been burned. He called on Count Rostopchín and

+on some acquaintances who were back in Moscow, and he intended to leave

+for Petersburg two days later. Everybody was celebrating the victory,

+everything was bubbling with life in the ruined but reviving city.

+Everyone was pleased to see Pierre, everyone wished to meet him, and

+everyone questioned him about what he had seen. Pierre felt particularly

+well disposed toward them all, but was now instinctively on his

+guard for fear of binding himself in any way. To all questions put to

+him—whether important or quite trifling—such as: Where would he live?

+Was he going to rebuild? When was he going to Petersburg and would he

+mind taking a parcel for someone?—he replied: “Yes, perhaps,” or, “I

+think so,” and so on.

+

+He had heard that the Rostóvs were at Kostromá but the thought of

+Natásha seldom occurred to him. If it did it was only as a pleasant

+memory of the distant past. He felt himself not only free from social

+obligations but also from that feeling which, it seemed to him, he had

+aroused in himself.

+

+On the third day after his arrival he heard from the Drubetskóys that

+Princess Mary was in Moscow. The death, sufferings, and last days of

+Prince Andrew had often occupied Pierre’s thoughts and now recurred to

+him with fresh vividness. Having heard at dinner that Princess Mary

+was in Moscow and living in her house—which had not been burned—in

+Vozdvízhenka Street, he drove that same evening to see her.

+

+On his way to the house Pierre kept thinking of Prince Andrew, of their

+friendship, of his various meetings with him, and especially of the last

+one at Borodinó.

+

+“Is it possible that he died in the bitter frame of mind he was then in?

+Is it possible that the meaning of life was not disclosed to him

+before he died?” thought Pierre. He recalled Karatáev and his death and

+involuntarily began to compare these two men, so different, and yet so

+similar in that they had both lived and both died and in the love he

+felt for both of them.

+

+Pierre drove up to the house of the old prince in a most serious mood.

+The house had escaped the fire; it showed signs of damage but its

+general aspect was unchanged. The old footman, who met Pierre with a

+stern face as if wishing to make the visitor feel that the absence

+of the old prince had not disturbed the order of things in the house,

+informed him that the princess had gone to her own apartments, and that

+she received on Sundays.

+

+“Announce me. Perhaps she will see me,” said Pierre.

+

+“Yes, sir,” said the man. “Please step into the portrait gallery.”

+

+A few minutes later the footman returned with Dessalles, who brought

+word from the princess that she would be very glad to see Pierre if he

+would excuse her want of ceremony and come upstairs to her apartment.

+

+In a rather low room lit by one candle sat the princess and with her

+another person dressed in black. Pierre remembered that the princess

+always had lady companions, but who they were and what they were like

+he never knew or remembered. “This must be one of her companions,” he

+thought, glancing at the lady in the black dress.

+

+The princess rose quickly to meet him and held out her hand.

+

+“Yes,” she said, looking at his altered face after he had kissed her

+hand, “so this is how we meet again. He spoke of you even at the very

+last,” she went on, turning her eyes from Pierre to her companion with a

+shyness that surprised him for an instant.

+

+“I was so glad to hear of your safety. It was the first piece of good

+news we had received for a long time.”

+

+Again the princess glanced round at her companion with even more

+uneasiness in her manner and was about to add something, but Pierre

+interrupted her.

+

+“Just imagine—I knew nothing about him!” said he. “I thought he had been

+killed. All I know I heard at second hand from others. I only know that

+he fell in with the Rostóvs.... What a strange coincidence!”

+

+Pierre spoke rapidly and with animation. He glanced once at the

+companion’s face, saw her attentive and kindly gaze fixed on him, and,

+as often happens when one is talking, felt somehow that this companion

+in the black dress was a good, kind, excellent creature who would not

+hinder his conversing freely with Princess Mary.

+

+But when he mentioned the Rostóvs, Princess Mary’s face expressed still

+greater embarrassment. She again glanced rapidly from Pierre’s face to

+that of the lady in the black dress and said:

+

+“Do you really not recognize her?”

+

+Pierre looked again at the companion’s pale, delicate face with its

+black eyes and peculiar mouth, and something near to him, long forgotten

+and more than sweet, looked at him from those attentive eyes.

+

+“But no, it can’t be!” he thought. “This stern, thin, pale face that

+looks so much older! It cannot be she. It merely reminds me of her.”

+But at that moment Princess Mary said, “Natásha!” And with difficulty,

+effort, and stress, like the opening of a door grown rusty on its

+hinges, a smile appeared on the face with the attentive eyes, and from

+that opening door came a breath of fragrance which suffused Pierre with

+a happiness he had long forgotten and of which he had not even been

+thinking—especially at that moment. It suffused him, seized him, and

+enveloped him completely. When she smiled doubt was no longer possible,

+it was Natásha and he loved her.

+

+At that moment Pierre involuntarily betrayed to her, to Princess Mary,

+and above all to himself, a secret of which he himself had been unaware.

+He flushed joyfully yet with painful distress. He tried to hide his

+agitation. But the more he tried to hide it the more clearly—clearer

+than any words could have done—did he betray to himself, to her, and to

+Princess Mary that he loved her.

+

+“No, it’s only the unexpectedness of it,” thought Pierre. But as soon as

+he tried to continue the conversation he had begun with Princess Mary he

+again glanced at Natásha, and a still-deeper flush suffused his face and

+a still-stronger agitation of mingled joy and fear seized his soul. He

+became confused in his speech and stopped in the middle of what he was

+saying.

+

+Pierre had failed to notice Natásha because he did not at all expect to

+see her there, but he had failed to recognize her because the change in

+her since he last saw her was immense. She had grown thin and pale, but

+that was not what made her unrecognizable; she was unrecognizable at the

+moment he entered because on that face whose eyes had always shone with

+a suppressed smile of the joy of life, now when he first entered and

+glanced at her there was not the least shadow of a smile: only her eyes

+were kindly attentive and sadly interrogative.

+

+Pierre’s confusion was not reflected by any confusion on Natásha’s part,

+but only by the pleasure that just perceptibly lit up her whole face.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XVI

+

+“She has come to stay with me,” said Princess Mary. “The count and

+countess will be here in a few days. The countess is in a dreadful

+state; but it was necessary for Natásha herself to see a doctor. They

+insisted on her coming with me.”

+

+“Yes, is there a family free from sorrow now?” said Pierre, addressing

+Natásha. “You know it happened the very day we were rescued. I saw him.

+What a delightful boy he was!”

+

+Natásha looked at him, and by way of answer to his words her eyes

+widened and lit up.

+

+“What can one say or think of as a consolation?” said Pierre. “Nothing!

+Why had such a splendid boy, so full of life, to die?”

+

+“Yes, in these days it would be hard to live without faith...” remarked

+Princess Mary.

+

+“Yes, yes, that is really true,” Pierre hastily interrupted her.

+

+“Why is it true?” Natásha asked, looking attentively into Pierre’s eyes.

+

+“How can you ask why?” said Princess Mary. “The thought alone of what

+awaits...”

+

+Natásha without waiting for Princess Mary to finish again looked

+inquiringly at Pierre.

+

+“And because,” Pierre continued, “only one who believes that there is a

+God ruling us can bear a loss such as hers and... yours.”

+

+Natásha had already opened her mouth to speak but suddenly stopped.

+Pierre hurriedly turned away from her and again addressed Princess Mary,

+asking about his friend’s last days.

+

+Pierre’s confusion had now almost vanished, but at the same time he felt

+that his freedom had also completely gone. He felt that there was now a

+judge of his every word and action whose judgment mattered more to

+him than that of all the rest of the world. As he spoke now he was

+considering what impression his words would make on Natásha. He did

+not purposely say things to please her, but whatever he was saying he

+regarded from her standpoint.

+

+Princess Mary—reluctantly as is usual in such cases—began telling of

+the condition in which she had found Prince Andrew. But Pierre’s face

+quivering with emotion, his questions and his eager restless expression,

+gradually compelled her to go into details which she feared to recall

+for her own sake.

+

+“Yes, yes, and so...?” Pierre kept saying as he leaned toward her with

+his whole body and eagerly listened to her story. “Yes, yes... so he

+grew tranquil and softened? With all his soul he had always sought

+one thing—to be perfectly good—so he could not be afraid of death. The

+faults he had—if he had any—were not of his making. So he did soften?...

+What a happy thing that he saw you again,” he added, suddenly turning to

+Natásha and looking at her with eyes full of tears.

+

+Natásha’s face twitched. She frowned and lowered her eyes for a moment.

+She hesitated for an instant whether to speak or not.

+

+“Yes, that was happiness,” she then said in her quiet voice with its

+deep chest notes. “For me it certainly was happiness.” She paused. “And

+he... he... he said he was wishing for it at the very moment I entered

+the room....”

+

+Natásha’s voice broke. She blushed, pressed her clasped hands on her

+knees, and then controlling herself with an evident effort lifted her

+head and began to speak rapidly.

+

+“We knew nothing of it when we started from Moscow. I did not dare to

+ask about him. Then suddenly Sónya told me he was traveling with us. I

+had no idea and could not imagine what state he was in, all I wanted was

+to see him and be with him,” she said, trembling, and breathing quickly.

+

+And not letting them interrupt her she went on to tell what she had

+never yet mentioned to anyone—all she had lived through during those

+three weeks of their journey and life at Yaroslávl.

+

+Pierre listened to her with lips parted and eyes fixed upon her full of

+tears. As he listened he did not think of Prince Andrew, nor of death,

+nor of what she was telling. He listened to her and felt only pity for

+her, for what she was suffering now while she was speaking.

+

+Princess Mary, frowning in her effort to hold back her tears, sat beside

+Natásha, and heard for the first time the story of those last days of

+her brother’s and Natásha’s love.

+

+Evidently Natásha needed to tell that painful yet joyful tale.

+

+She spoke, mingling most trifling details with the intimate secrets of

+her soul, and it seemed as if she could never finish. Several times she

+repeated the same thing twice.

+

+Dessalles’ voice was heard outside the door asking whether little

+Nicholas might come in to say good night.

+

+“Well, that’s all—everything,” said Natásha.

+

+She got up quickly just as Nicholas entered, almost ran to the door

+which was hidden by curtains, struck her head against it, and rushed

+from the room with a moan either of pain or sorrow.

+

+Pierre gazed at the door through which she had disappeared and did not

+understand why he suddenly felt all alone in the world.

+

+Princess Mary roused him from his abstraction by drawing his attention

+to her nephew who had entered the room.

+

+At that moment of emotional tenderness young Nicholas’ face, which

+resembled his father’s, affected Pierre so much that when he had kissed

+the boy he got up quickly, took out his handkerchief, and went to the

+window. He wished to take leave of Princess Mary, but she would not let

+him go.

+

+“No, Natásha and I sometimes don’t go to sleep till after two, so please

+don’t go. I will order supper. Go downstairs, we will come immediately.”

+

+Before Pierre left the room Princess Mary told him: “This is the first

+time she has talked of him like that.”

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XVII

+

+Pierre was shown into the large, brightly lit dining room; a few minutes

+later he heard footsteps and Princess Mary entered with Natásha. Natásha

+was calm, though a severe and grave expression had again settled on her

+face. They all three of them now experienced that feeling of awkwardness

+which usually follows after a serious and heartfelt talk. It is

+impossible to go back to the same conversation, to talk of trifles is

+awkward, and yet the desire to speak is there and silence seems like

+affectation. They went silently to table. The footmen drew back the

+chairs and pushed them up again. Pierre unfolded his cold table napkin

+and, resolving to break the silence, looked at Natásha and at Princess

+Mary. They had evidently both formed the same resolution; the eyes of

+both shone with satisfaction and a confession that besides sorrow life

+also has joy.

+

+“Do you take vodka, Count?” asked Princess Mary, and those words

+suddenly banished the shadows of the past. “Now tell us about yourself,”

+said she. “One hears such improbable wonders about you.”

+

+“Yes,” replied Pierre with the smile of mild irony now habitual to him.

+“They even tell me wonders I myself never dreamed of! Mary Abrámovna

+invited me to her house and kept telling me what had happened, or ought

+to have happened, to me. Stepán Stepánych also instructed me how I ought

+to tell of my experiences. In general I have noticed that it is very

+easy to be an interesting man (I am an interesting man now); people

+invite me out and tell me all about myself.”

+

+Natásha smiled and was on the point of speaking.

+

+“We have been told,” Princess Mary interrupted her, “that you lost two

+millions in Moscow. Is that true?”

+

+“But I am three times as rich as before,” returned Pierre.

+

+Though the position was now altered by his decision to pay his wife’s

+debts and to rebuild his houses, Pierre still maintained that he had

+become three times as rich as before.

+

+“What I have certainly gained is freedom,” he began seriously, but did

+not continue, noticing that this theme was too egotistic.

+

+“And are you building?”

+

+“Yes. Savélich says I must!”

+

+“Tell me, you did not know of the countess’ death when you decided to

+remain in Moscow?” asked Princess Mary and immediately blushed, noticing

+that her question, following his mention of freedom, ascribed to his

+words a meaning he had perhaps not intended.

+

+“No,” answered Pierre, evidently not considering awkward the meaning

+Princess Mary had given to his words. “I heard of it in Orël and you

+cannot imagine how it shocked me. We were not an exemplary couple,” he

+added quickly, glancing at Natásha and noticing on her face curiosity as

+to how he would speak of his wife, “but her death shocked me terribly.

+When two people quarrel they are always both in fault, and one’s own

+guilt suddenly becomes terribly serious when the other is no longer

+alive. And then such a death... without friends and without consolation!

+I am very, very sorry for her,” he concluded, and was pleased to notice

+a look of glad approval on Natásha’s face.

+

+“Yes, and so you are once more an eligible bachelor,” said Princess

+Mary.

+

+Pierre suddenly flushed crimson and for a long time tried not to look

+at Natásha. When he ventured to glance her way again her face was cold,

+stern, and he fancied even contemptuous.

+

+“And did you really see and speak to Napoleon, as we have been told?”

+said Princess Mary.

+

+Pierre laughed.

+

+“No, not once! Everybody seems to imagine that being taken prisoner

+means being Napoleon’s guest. Not only did I never see him but I heard

+nothing about him—I was in much lower company!”

+

+Supper was over, and Pierre who at first declined to speak about his

+captivity was gradually led on to do so.

+

+“But it’s true that you remained in Moscow to kill Napoleon?” Natásha

+asked with a slight smile. “I guessed it then when we met at the

+Súkharev tower, do you remember?”

+

+Pierre admitted that it was true, and from that was gradually led by

+Princess Mary’s questions and especially by Natásha’s into giving a

+detailed account of his adventures.

+

+At first he spoke with the amused and mild irony now customary with

+him toward everybody and especially toward himself, but when he came

+to describe the horrors and sufferings he had witnessed he was

+unconsciously carried away and began speaking with the suppressed

+emotion of a man re-experiencing in recollection strong impressions he

+has lived through.

+

+Princess Mary with a gentle smile looked now at Pierre and now at

+Natásha. In the whole narrative she saw only Pierre and his goodness.

+Natásha, leaning on her elbow, the expression of her face constantly

+changing with the narrative, watched Pierre with an attention that never

+wandered—evidently herself experiencing all that he described. Not only

+her look, but her exclamations and the brief questions she put, showed

+Pierre that she understood just what he wished to convey. It was clear

+that she understood not only what he said but also what he wished to,

+but could not, express in words. The account Pierre gave of the incident

+with the child and the woman for protecting whom he was arrested was

+this: “It was an awful sight—children abandoned, some in the flames...

+One was snatched out before my eyes... and there were women who had

+their things snatched off and their earrings torn out...” he flushed and

+grew confused. “Then a patrol arrived and all the men—all those who were

+not looting, that is—were arrested, and I among them.”

+

+“I am sure you’re not telling us everything; I am sure you did

+something...” said Natásha and pausing added, “something fine?”

+

+Pierre continued. When he spoke of the execution he wanted to pass

+over the horrible details, but Natásha insisted that he should not omit

+anything.

+

+Pierre began to tell about Karatáev, but paused. By this time he had

+risen from the table and was pacing the room, Natásha following him with

+her eyes. Then he added:

+

+“No, you can’t understand what I learned from that illiterate man—that

+simple fellow.”

+

+“Yes, yes, go on!” said Natásha. “Where is he?”

+

+“They killed him almost before my eyes.”

+

+And Pierre, his voice trembling continually, went on to tell of the last

+days of their retreat, of Karatáev’s illness and his death.

+

+He told of his adventures as he had never yet recalled them. He now, as

+it were, saw a new meaning in all he had gone through. Now that he was

+telling it all to Natásha he experienced that pleasure which a man has

+when women listen to him—not clever women who when listening either try

+to remember what they hear to enrich their minds and when opportunity

+offers to retell it, or who wish to adopt it to some thought of their

+own and promptly contribute their own clever comments prepared in their

+little mental workshop—but the pleasure given by real women gifted with

+a capacity to select and absorb the very best a man shows of himself.

+Natásha without knowing it was all attention: she did not lose a word,

+no single quiver in Pierre’s voice, no look, no twitch of a muscle in

+his face, nor a single gesture. She caught the unfinished word in its

+flight and took it straight into her open heart, divining the secret

+meaning of all Pierre’s mental travail.

+

+Princess Mary understood his story and sympathized with him, but she

+now saw something else that absorbed all her attention. She saw the

+possibility of love and happiness between Natásha and Pierre, and the

+first thought of this filled her heart with gladness.

+

+It was three o’clock in the morning. The footmen came in with sad and

+stern faces to change the candles, but no one noticed them.

+

+Pierre finished his story. Natásha continued to look at him intently

+with bright, attentive, and animated eyes, as if trying to understand

+something more which he had perhaps left untold. Pierre in shamefaced

+and happy confusion glanced occasionally at her, and tried to think what

+to say next to introduce a fresh subject. Princess Mary was silent. It

+occurred to none of them that it was three o’clock and time to go to

+bed.

+

+“People speak of misfortunes and sufferings,” remarked Pierre, “but if

+at this moment I were asked: ‘Would you rather be what you were before

+you were taken prisoner, or go through all this again?’ then for

+heaven’s sake let me again have captivity and horseflesh! We imagine

+that when we are thrown out of our usual ruts all is lost, but it is

+only then that what is new and good begins. While there is life there is

+happiness. There is much, much before us. I say this to you,” he added,

+turning to Natásha.

+

+“Yes, yes,” she said, answering something quite different. “I too should

+wish nothing but to relive it all from the beginning.”

+

+Pierre looked intently at her.

+

+“Yes, and nothing more,” said Natásha.

+

+“It’s not true, not true!” cried Pierre. “I am not to blame for being

+alive and wishing to live—nor you either.”

+

+Suddenly Natásha bent her head, covered her face with her hands, and

+began to cry.

+

+“What is it, Natásha?” said Princess Mary.

+

+“Nothing, nothing.” She smiled at Pierre through her tears. “Good night!

+It is time for bed.”

+

+Pierre rose and took his leave.

+

+

+Princess Mary and Natásha met as usual in the bedroom. They talked of

+what Pierre had told them. Princess Mary did not express her opinion of

+Pierre nor did Natásha speak of him.

+

+“Well, good night, Mary!” said Natásha. “Do you know, I am often afraid

+that by not speaking of him” (she meant Prince Andrew) “for fear of not

+doing justice to our feelings, we forget him.”

+

+Princess Mary sighed deeply and thereby acknowledged the justice of

+Natásha’s remark, but she did not express agreement in words.

+

+“Is it possible to forget?” said she.

+

+“It did me so much good to tell all about it today. It was hard and

+painful, but good, very good!” said Natásha. “I am sure he really loved

+him. That is why I told him... Was it all right?” she added, suddenly

+blushing.

+

+“To tell Pierre? Oh, yes. What a splendid man he is!” said Princess

+Mary.

+

+“Do you know, Mary...” Natásha suddenly said with a mischievous smile

+such as Princess Mary had not seen on her face for a long time, “he has

+somehow grown so clean, smooth, and fresh—as if he had just come out of

+a Russian bath; do you understand? Out of a moral bath. Isn’t it true?”

+

+“Yes,” replied Princess Mary. “He has greatly improved.”

+

+“With a short coat and his hair cropped; just as if, well, just as if he

+had come straight from the bath... Papa used to...”

+

+“I understand why he” (Prince Andrew) “liked no one so much as him,”

+said Princess Mary.

+

+“Yes, and yet he is quite different. They say men are friends when they

+are quite different. That must be true. Really he is quite unlike him—in

+everything.”

+

+“Yes, but he’s wonderful.”

+

+“Well, good night,” said Natásha.

+

+And the same mischievous smile lingered for a long time on her face as

+if it had been forgotten there.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XVIII

+

+It was a long time before Pierre could fall asleep that night. He paced

+up and down his room, now turning his thoughts on a difficult problem

+and frowning, now suddenly shrugging his shoulders and wincing, and now

+smiling happily.

+

+He was thinking of Prince Andrew, of Natásha, and of their love, at one

+moment jealous of her past, then reproaching himself for that feeling.

+It was already six in the morning and he still paced up and down the

+room.

+

+“Well, what’s to be done if it cannot be avoided? What’s to be done?

+Evidently it has to be so,” said he to himself, and hastily undressing

+he got into bed, happy and agitated but free from hesitation or

+indecision.

+

+“Strange and impossible as such happiness seems, I must do everything

+that she and I may be man and wife,” he told himself.

+

+A few days previously Pierre had decided to go to Petersburg on the

+Friday. When he awoke on the Thursday, Savélich came to ask him about

+packing for the journey.

+

+“What, to Petersburg? What is Petersburg? Who is there in Petersburg?”

+he asked involuntarily, though only to himself. “Oh, yes, long ago

+before this happened I did for some reason mean to go to Petersburg,”

+he reflected. “Why? But perhaps I shall go. What a good fellow he is and

+how attentive, and how he remembers everything,” he thought, looking at

+Savélich’s old face, “and what a pleasant smile he has!”

+

+“Well, Savélich, do you still not wish to accept your freedom?” Pierre

+asked him.

+

+“What’s the good of freedom to me, your excellency? We lived under the

+late count—the kingdom of heaven be his!—and we have lived under you

+too, without ever being wronged.”

+

+“And your children?”

+

+“The children will live just the same. With such masters one can live.”

+

+“But what about my heirs?” said Pierre. “Supposing I suddenly marry...

+it might happen,” he added with an involuntary smile.

+

+“If I may take the liberty, your excellency, it would be a good thing.”

+

+“How easy he thinks it,” thought Pierre. “He doesn’t know how terrible

+it is and how dangerous. Too soon or too late... it is terrible!”

+

+“So what are your orders? Are you starting tomorrow?” asked Savélich.

+

+“No, I’ll put it off for a bit. I’ll tell you later. You must forgive

+the trouble I have put you to,” said Pierre, and seeing Savélich smile,

+he thought: “But how strange it is that he should not know that now

+there is no Petersburg for me, and that that must be settled first of

+all! But probably he knows it well enough and is only pretending. Shall

+I have a talk with him and see what he thinks?” Pierre reflected. “No,

+another time.”

+

+At breakfast Pierre told the princess, his cousin, that he had been to

+see Princess Mary the day before and had there met—“Whom do you think?

+Natásha Rostóva!”

+

+The princess seemed to see nothing more extraordinary in that than if he

+had seen Anna Semënovna.

+

+“Do you know her?” asked Pierre.

+

+“I have seen the princess,” she replied. “I heard that they were

+arranging a match for her with young Rostóv. It would be a very good

+thing for the Rostóvs, they are said to be utterly ruined.”

+

+“No; I mean do you know Natásha Rostóva?”

+

+“I heard about that affair of hers at the time. It was a great pity.”

+

+“No, she either doesn’t understand or is pretending,” thought Pierre.

+“Better not say anything to her either.”

+

+The princess too had prepared provisions for Pierre’s journey.

+

+“How kind they all are,” thought Pierre. “What is surprising is that

+they should trouble about these things now when it can no longer be of

+interest to them. And all for me!”

+

+On the same day the Chief of Police came to Pierre, inviting him to send

+a representative to the Faceted Palace to recover things that were to be

+returned to their owners that day.

+

+“And this man too,” thought Pierre, looking into the face of the Chief

+of Police. “What a fine, good-looking officer and how kind. Fancy

+bothering about such trifles now! And they actually say he is not honest

+and takes bribes. What nonsense! Besides, why shouldn’t he take bribes?

+That’s the way he was brought up, and everybody does it. But what a

+kind, pleasant face and how he smiles as he looks at me.”

+

+Pierre went to Princess Mary’s to dinner.

+

+As he drove through the streets past the houses that had been burned

+down, he was surprised by the beauty of those ruins. The picturesqueness

+of the chimney stacks and tumble-down walls of the burned-out quarters

+of the town, stretching out and concealing one another, reminded him of

+the Rhine and the Colosseum. The cabmen he met and their passengers,

+the carpenters cutting the timber for new houses with axes, the women

+hawkers, and the shopkeepers, all looked at him with cheerful beaming

+eyes that seemed to say: “Ah, there he is! Let’s see what will come of

+it!”

+

+At the entrance to Princess Mary’s house Pierre felt doubtful whether

+he had really been there the night before and really seen Natásha and

+talked to her. “Perhaps I imagined it; perhaps I shall go in and find

+no one there.” But he had hardly entered the room before he felt her

+presence with his whole being by the loss of his sense of freedom. She

+was in the same black dress with soft folds and her hair was done the

+same way as the day before, yet she was quite different. Had she been

+like this when he entered the day before he could not for a moment have

+failed to recognize her.

+

+She was as he had known her almost as a child and later on as Prince

+Andrew’s fiancée. A bright questioning light shone in her eyes, and on

+her face was a friendly and strangely roguish expression.

+

+Pierre dined with them and would have spent the whole evening there, but

+Princess Mary was going to vespers and Pierre left the house with her.

+

+Next day he came early, dined, and stayed the whole evening. Though

+Princess Mary and Natásha were evidently glad to see their visitor and

+though all Pierre’s interest was now centered in that house, by the

+evening they had talked over everything and the conversation passed from

+one trivial topic to another and repeatedly broke off. He stayed so long

+that Princess Mary and Natásha exchanged glances, evidently wondering

+when he would go. Pierre noticed this but could not go. He felt uneasy

+and embarrassed, but sat on because he simply could not get up and take

+his leave.

+

+Princess Mary, foreseeing no end to this, rose first, and complaining of

+a headache began to say good night.

+

+“So you are going to Petersburg tomorrow?” she asked.

+

+“No, I am not going,” Pierre replied hastily, in a surprised tone and as

+though offended. “Yes... no... to Petersburg? Tomorrow—but I won’t say

+good-by yet. I will call round in case you have any commissions for me,”

+said he, standing before Princess Mary and turning red, but not taking

+his departure.

+

+Natásha gave him her hand and went out. Princess Mary on the other hand

+instead of going away sank into an armchair, and looked sternly and

+intently at him with her deep, radiant eyes. The weariness she

+had plainly shown before had now quite passed off. With a deep and

+long-drawn sigh she seemed to be prepared for a lengthy talk.

+

+When Natásha left the room Pierre’s confusion and awkwardness

+immediately vanished and were replaced by eager excitement. He quickly

+moved an armchair toward Princess Mary.

+

+“Yes, I wanted to tell you,” said he, answering her look as if she had

+spoken. “Princess, help me! What am I to do? Can I hope? Princess, my

+dear friend, listen! I know it all. I know I am not worthy of her, I

+know it’s impossible to speak of it now. But I want to be a brother to

+her. No, not that, I don’t, I can’t...”

+

+He paused and rubbed his face and eyes with his hands.

+

+“Well,” he went on with an evident effort at self-control and coherence.

+“I don’t know when I began to love her, but I have loved her and her

+alone all my life, and I love her so that I cannot imagine life without

+her. I cannot propose to her at present, but the thought that

+perhaps she might someday be my wife and that I may be missing that

+possibility... that possibility... is terrible. Tell me, can I hope?

+Tell me what I am to do, dear princess!” he added after a pause, and

+touched her hand as she did not reply.

+

+“I am thinking of what you have told me,” answered Princess Mary.

+“This is what I will say. You are right that to speak to her of love at

+present...”

+

+Princess Mary stopped. She was going to say that to speak of love was

+impossible, but she stopped because she had seen by the sudden change

+in Natásha two days before that she would not only not be hurt if Pierre

+spoke of his love, but that it was the very thing she wished for.

+

+“To speak to her now wouldn’t do,” said the princess all the same.

+

+“But what am I to do?”

+

+“Leave it to me,” said Princess Mary. “I know...”

+

+Pierre was looking into Princess Mary’s eyes.

+

+“Well?... Well?...” he said.

+

+“I know that she loves... will love you,” Princess Mary corrected

+herself.

+

+Before her words were out, Pierre had sprung up and with a frightened

+expression seized Princess Mary’s hand.

+

+“What makes you think so? You think I may hope? You think...?”

+

+“Yes, I think so,” said Princess Mary with a smile. “Write to her

+parents, and leave it to me. I will tell her when I can. I wish it to

+happen and my heart tells me it will.”

+

+“No, it cannot be! How happy I am! But it can’t be.... How happy I am!

+No, it can’t be!” Pierre kept saying as he kissed Princess Mary’s hands.

+

+“Go to Petersburg, that will be best. And I will write to you,” she

+said.

+

+“To Petersburg? Go there? Very well, I’ll go. But I may come again

+tomorrow?”

+

+Next day Pierre came to say good-by. Natásha was less animated than

+she had been the day before; but that day as he looked at her Pierre

+sometimes felt as if he was vanishing and that neither he nor she

+existed any longer, that nothing existed but happiness. “Is it possible?

+No, it can’t be,” he told himself at every look, gesture, and word that

+filled his soul with joy.

+

+When on saying good-by he took her thin, slender hand, he could not help

+holding it a little longer in his own.

+

+“Is it possible that this hand, that face, those eyes, all this treasure

+of feminine charm so strange to me now, is it possible that it will one

+day be mine forever, as familiar to me as I am to myself?... No, that’s

+impossible!...”

+

+“Good-by, Count,” she said aloud. “I shall look forward very much to

+your return,” she added in a whisper.

+

+And these simple words, her look, and the expression on her face which

+accompanied them, formed for two months the subject of inexhaustible

+memories, interpretations, and happy meditations for Pierre. “‘I shall

+look forward very much to your return....’ Yes, yes, how did she say it?

+Yes, ‘I shall look forward very much to your return.’ Oh, how happy I

+am! What is happening to me? How happy I am!” said Pierre to himself.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XIX

+

+There was nothing in Pierre’s soul now at all like what had troubled it

+during his courtship of Hélène.

+

+He did not repeat to himself with a sickening feeling of shame the words

+he had spoken, or say: “Oh, why did I not say that?” and, “Whatever made

+me say ‘Je vous aime’?” On the contrary, he now repeated in imagination

+every word that he or Natásha had spoken and pictured every detail of

+her face and smile, and did not wish to diminish or add anything, but

+only to repeat it again and again. There was now not a shadow of doubt

+in his mind as to whether what he had undertaken was right or wrong.

+Only one terrible doubt sometimes crossed his mind: “Wasn’t it all

+a dream? Isn’t Princess Mary mistaken? Am I not too conceited and

+self-confident? I believe all this—and suddenly Princess Mary will tell

+her, and she will be sure to smile and say: ‘How strange! He must be

+deluding himself. Doesn’t he know that he is a man, just a man, while

+I...? I am something altogether different and higher.’”

+

+That was the only doubt often troubling Pierre. He did not now make any

+plans. The happiness before him appeared so inconceivable that if only

+he could attain it, it would be the end of all things. Everything ended

+with that.

+

+A joyful, unexpected frenzy, of which he had thought himself incapable,

+possessed him. The whole meaning of life—not for him alone but for the

+whole world—seemed to him centered in his love and the possibility of

+being loved by her. At times everybody seemed to him to be occupied with

+one thing only—his future happiness. Sometimes it seemed to him that

+other people were all as pleased as he was himself and merely tried to

+hide that pleasure by pretending to be busy with other interests. In

+every word and gesture he saw allusions to his happiness. He often

+surprised those he met by his significantly happy looks and smiles which

+seemed to express a secret understanding between him and them. And when

+he realized that people might not be aware of his happiness, he pitied

+them with his whole heart and felt a desire somehow to explain to them

+that all that occupied them was a mere frivolous trifle unworthy of

+attention.

+

+When it was suggested to him that he should enter the civil service,

+or when the war or any general political affairs were discussed on the

+assumption that everybody’s welfare depended on this or that issue

+of events, he would listen with a mild and pitying smile and surprise

+people by his strange comments. But at this time he saw everybody—both

+those who, as he imagined, understood the real meaning of life (that

+is, what he was feeling) and those unfortunates who evidently did not

+understand it—in the bright light of the emotion that shone within

+himself, and at once without any effort saw in everyone he met

+everything that was good and worthy of being loved.

+

+When dealing with the affairs and papers of his dead wife, her memory

+aroused in him no feeling but pity that she had not known the bliss he

+now knew. Prince Vasíli, who having obtained a new post and some

+fresh decorations was particularly proud at this time, seemed to him a

+pathetic, kindly old man much to be pitied.

+

+Often in afterlife Pierre recalled this period of blissful insanity. All

+the views he formed of men and circumstances at this time remained true

+for him always. He not only did not renounce them subsequently, but when

+he was in doubt or inwardly at variance, he referred to the views he had

+held at this time of his madness and they always proved correct.

+

+“I may have appeared strange and queer then,” he thought, “but I was

+not so mad as I seemed. On the contrary I was then wiser and had

+more insight than at any other time, and understood all that is worth

+understanding in life, because... because I was happy.”

+

+Pierre’s insanity consisted in not waiting, as he used to do, to

+discover personal attributes which he termed “good qualities” in people

+before loving them; his heart was now overflowing with love, and by

+loving people without cause he discovered indubitable causes for loving

+them.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XX

+

+After Pierre’s departure that first evening, when Natásha had said to

+Princess Mary with a gaily mocking smile: “He looks just, yes, just as

+if he had come out of a Russian bath—in a short coat and with his hair

+cropped,” something hidden and unknown to herself, but irrepressible,

+awoke in Natásha’s soul.

+

+Everything: her face, walk, look, and voice, was suddenly altered.

+To her own surprise a power of life and hope of happiness rose to the

+surface and demanded satisfaction. From that evening she seemed to have

+forgotten all that had happened to her. She no longer complained of her

+position, did not say a word about the past, and no longer feared to

+make happy plans for the future. She spoke little of Pierre, but when

+Princess Mary mentioned him a long-extinguished light once more kindled

+in her eyes and her lips curved with a strange smile.

+

+The change that took place in Natásha at first surprised Princess Mary;

+but when she understood its meaning it grieved her. “Can she have loved

+my brother so little as to be able to forget him so soon?” she thought

+when she reflected on the change. But when she was with Natásha she was

+not vexed with her and did not reproach her. The reawakened power

+of life that had seized Natásha was so evidently irrepressible and

+unexpected by her that in her presence Princess Mary felt that she had

+no right to reproach her even in her heart.

+

+Natásha gave herself up so fully and frankly to this new feeling that

+she did not try to hide the fact that she was no longer sad, but bright

+and cheerful.

+

+When Princess Mary returned to her room after her nocturnal talk with

+Pierre, Natásha met her on the threshold.

+

+“He has spoken? Yes? He has spoken?” she repeated.

+

+And a joyful yet pathetic expression which seemed to beg forgiveness for

+her joy settled on Natásha’s face.

+

+“I wanted to listen at the door, but I knew you would tell me.”

+

+Understandable and touching as the look with which Natásha gazed at

+her seemed to Princess Mary, and sorry as she was to see her agitation,

+these words pained her for a moment. She remembered her brother and his

+love.

+

+“But what’s to be done? She can’t help it,” thought the princess.

+

+And with a sad and rather stern look she told Natásha all that Pierre

+had said. On hearing that he was going to Petersburg Natásha was

+astounded.

+

+“To Petersburg!” she repeated as if unable to understand.

+

+But noticing the grieved expression on Princess Mary’s face she guessed

+the reason of that sadness and suddenly began to cry.

+

+“Mary,” said she, “tell me what I should do! I am afraid of being bad.

+Whatever you tell me, I will do. Tell me....”

+

+“You love him?”

+

+“Yes,” whispered Natásha.

+

+“Then why are you crying? I am happy for your sake,” said Princess Mary,

+who because of those tears quite forgave Natásha’s joy.

+

+“It won’t be just yet—someday. Think what fun it will be when I am his

+wife and you marry Nicholas!”

+

+“Natásha, I have asked you not to speak of that. Let us talk about you.”

+

+They were silent awhile.

+

+“But why go to Petersburg?” Natásha suddenly asked, and hastily replied

+to her own question. “But no, no, he must... Yes, Mary, He must....”

+

+

+

+

+

+FIRST EPILOGUE: 1813 - 20

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER I

+

+Seven years had passed. The storm-tossed sea of European history had

+subsided within its shores and seemed to have become calm. But the

+mysterious forces that move humanity (mysterious because the laws of

+their motion are unknown to us) continued to operate.

+

+Though the surface of the sea of history seemed motionless, the movement

+of humanity went on as unceasingly as the flow of time. Various groups

+of people formed and dissolved, the coming formation and dissolution of

+kingdoms and displacement of peoples was in course of preparation.

+

+The sea of history was not driven spasmodically from shore to shore as

+previously. It was seething in its depths. Historic figures were not

+borne by the waves from one shore to another as before. They now seemed

+to rotate on one spot. The historical figures at the head of armies,

+who formerly reflected the movement of the masses by ordering wars,

+campaigns, and battles, now reflected the restless movement by political

+and diplomatic combinations, laws, and treaties.

+

+The historians call this activity of the historical figures “the

+reaction.”

+

+In dealing with this period they sternly condemn the historical

+personages who, in their opinion, caused what they describe as the

+reaction. All the well-known people of that period, from Alexander and

+Napoleon to Madame de Staël, Photius, Schelling, Fichte, Chateaubriand,

+and the rest, pass before their stern judgment seat and are acquitted or

+condemned according to whether they conduced to progress or to reaction.

+

+According to their accounts a reaction took place at that time in Russia

+also, and the chief culprit was Alexander I, the same man who according

+to them was the chief cause of the liberal movement at the commencement

+of his reign, being the savior of Russia.

+

+There is no one in Russian literature now, from schoolboy essayist to

+learned historian, who does not throw his little stone at Alexander for

+things he did wrong at this period of his reign.

+

+“He ought to have acted in this way and in that way. In this case he did

+well and in that case badly. He behaved admirably at the beginning of

+his reign and during 1812, but acted badly by giving a constitution

+to Poland, forming the Holy Alliance, entrusting power to Arakchéev,

+favoring Golítsyn and mysticism, and afterwards Shishkóv and Photius.

+He also acted badly by concerning himself with the active army and

+disbanding the Semënov regiment.”

+

+It would take a dozen pages to enumerate all the reproaches the

+historians address to him, based on their knowledge of what is good for

+humanity.

+

+What do these reproaches mean?

+

+Do not the very actions for which the historians praise Alexander I

+(the liberal attempts at the beginning of his reign, his struggle with

+Napoleon, the firmness he displayed in 1812 and the campaign of 1813)

+flow from the same sources—the circumstances of his birth, education,

+and life—that made his personality what it was and from which the

+actions for which they blame him (the Holy Alliance, the restoration of

+Poland, and the reaction of 1820 and later) also flowed?

+

+In what does the substance of those reproaches lie?

+

+It lies in the fact that an historic character like Alexander I,

+standing on the highest possible pinnacle of human power with the

+blinding light of history focused upon him; a character exposed to those

+strongest of all influences: the intrigues, flattery, and self-deception

+inseparable from power; a character who at every moment of his life

+felt a responsibility for all that was happening in Europe; and not

+a fictitious but a live character who like every man had his personal

+habits, passions, and impulses toward goodness, beauty, and truth—that

+this character—though not lacking in virtue (the historians do not

+accuse him of that)—had not the same conception of the welfare of

+humanity fifty years ago as a present-day professor who from his

+youth upwards has been occupied with learning: that is, with books and

+lectures and with taking notes from them.

+

+But even if we assume that fifty years ago Alexander I was mistaken in

+his view of what was good for the people, we must inevitably assume that

+the historian who judges Alexander will also after the lapse of some

+time turn out to be mistaken in his view of what is good for humanity.

+This assumption is all the more natural and inevitable because, watching

+the movement of history, we see that every year and with each new

+writer, opinion as to what is good for mankind changes; so that what

+once seemed good, ten years later seems bad, and vice versa. And what is

+more, we find at one and the same time quite contradictory views as to

+what is bad and what is good in history: some people regard giving a

+constitution to Poland and forming the Holy Alliance as praiseworthy in

+Alexander, while others regard it as blameworthy.

+

+The activity of Alexander or of Napoleon cannot be called useful or

+harmful, for it is impossible to say for what it was useful or harmful.

+If that activity displeases somebody, this is only because it does

+not agree with his limited understanding of what is good. Whether the

+preservation of my father’s house in Moscow, or the glory of the Russian

+arms, or the prosperity of the Petersburg and other universities, or the

+freedom of Poland or the greatness of Russia, or the balance of power in

+Europe, or a certain kind of European culture called “progress” appear

+to me to be good or bad, I must admit that besides these things the

+action of every historic character has other more general purposes

+inaccessible to me.

+

+But let us assume that what is called science can harmonize all

+contradictions and possesses an unchanging standard of good and bad by

+which to try historic characters and events; let us say that Alexander

+could have done everything differently; let us say that with guidance

+from those who blame him and who profess to know the ultimate aim of the

+movement of humanity, he might have arranged matters according to

+the program his present accusers would have given him—of nationality,

+freedom, equality, and progress (these, I think, cover the ground). Let

+us assume that this program was possible and had then been formulated,

+and that Alexander had acted on it. What would then have become of the

+activity of all those who opposed the tendency that then prevailed in

+the government—an activity that in the opinion of the historians was

+good and beneficent? Their activity would not have existed: there would

+have been no life, there would have been nothing.

+

+If we admit that human life can be ruled by reason, the possibility of

+life is destroyed.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER II

+

+If we assume as the historians do that great men lead humanity to the

+attainment of certain ends—the greatness of Russia or of France,

+the balance of power in Europe, the diffusion of the ideas of the

+Revolution, general progress, or anything else—then it is impossible

+to explain the facts of history without introducing the conceptions of

+chance and genius.

+

+If the aim of the European wars at the beginning of the nineteenth

+century had been the aggrandizement of Russia, that aim might have been

+accomplished without all the preceding wars and without the invasion. If

+the aim was the aggrandizement of France, that might have been attained

+without the Revolution and without the Empire. If the aim was the

+dissemination of ideas, the printing press could have accomplished that

+much better than warfare. If the aim was the progress of civilization,

+it is easy to see that there are other ways of diffusing civilization

+more expedient than by the destruction of wealth and of human lives.

+

+Why did it happen in this and not in some other way?

+

+Because it happened so! “Chance created the situation; genius utilized

+it,” says history.

+

+But what is chance? What is genius?

+

+The words chance and genius do not denote any really existing thing and

+therefore cannot be defined. Those words only denote a certain stage of

+understanding of phenomena. I do not know why a certain event occurs; I

+think that I cannot know it; so I do not try to know it and I talk about

+chance. I see a force producing effects beyond the scope of ordinary

+human agencies; I do not understand why this occurs and I talk of

+genius.

+

+To a herd of rams, the ram the herdsman drives each evening into a

+special enclosure to feed and that becomes twice as fat as the others

+must seem to be a genius. And it must appear an astonishing conjunction

+of genius with a whole series of extraordinary chances that this ram,

+who instead of getting into the general fold every evening goes into a

+special enclosure where there are oats—that this very ram, swelling with

+fat, is killed for meat.

+

+But the rams need only cease to suppose that all that happens to them

+happens solely for the attainment of their sheepish aims; they need only

+admit that what happens to them may also have purposes beyond their ken,

+and they will at once perceive a unity and coherence in what happened

+to the ram that was fattened. Even if they do not know for what purpose

+they are fattened, they will at least know that all that happened to the

+ram did not happen accidentally, and will no longer need the conceptions

+of chance or genius.

+

+Only by renouncing our claim to discern a purpose immediately

+intelligible to us, and admitting the ultimate purpose to be beyond our

+ken, may we discern the sequence of experiences in the lives of

+historic characters and perceive the cause of the effect they produce

+(incommensurable with ordinary human capabilities), and then the words

+chance and genius become superfluous.

+

+We need only confess that we do not know the purpose of the European

+convulsions and that we know only the facts—that is, the murders, first

+in France, then in Italy, in Africa, in Prussia, in Austria, in Spain,

+and in Russia—and that the movements from the west to the east and from

+the east to the west form the essence and purpose of these events, and

+not only shall we have no need to see exceptional ability and genius in

+Napoleon and Alexander, but we shall be unable to consider them to

+be anything but like other men, and we shall not be obliged to have

+recourse to chance for an explanation of those small events which made

+these people what they were, but it will be clear that all those small

+events were inevitable.

+

+By discarding a claim to knowledge of the ultimate purpose, we shall

+clearly perceive that just as one cannot imagine a blossom or seed for

+any single plant better suited to it than those it produces, so it is

+impossible to imagine any two people more completely adapted down to the

+smallest detail for the purpose they had to fulfill, than Napoleon and

+Alexander with all their antecedents.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER III

+

+The fundamental and essential significance of the European events of the

+beginning of the nineteenth century lies in the movement of the mass of

+the European peoples from west to east and afterwards from east to west.

+The commencement of that movement was the movement from west to east.

+For the peoples of the west to be able to make their warlike movement

+to Moscow it was necessary: (1) that they should form themselves into

+a military group of a size able to endure a collision with the warlike

+military group of the east, (2) that they should abandon all established

+traditions and customs, and (3) that during their military movement they

+should have at their head a man who could justify to himself and to them

+the deceptions, robberies, and murders which would have to be committed

+during that movement.

+

+And beginning with the French Revolution the old inadequately large

+group was destroyed, as well as the old habits and traditions, and step

+by step a group was formed of larger dimensions with new customs and

+traditions, and a man was produced who would stand at the head of the

+coming movement and bear the responsibility for all that had to be done.

+

+A man without convictions, without habits, without traditions, without

+a name, and not even a Frenchman, emerges—by what seem the strangest

+chances—from among all the seething French parties, and without joining

+anyone of them is borne forward to a prominent position.

+

+The ignorance of his colleagues, the weakness and insignificance of

+his opponents, the frankness of his falsehoods, and the dazzling and

+self-confident limitations of this man raise him to the head of the

+army. The brilliant qualities of the soldiers of the army sent to Italy,

+his opponents’ reluctance to fight, and his own childish audacity and

+self-confidence secure him military fame. Innumerable so-called chances

+accompany him everywhere. The disfavor into which he falls with the

+rulers of France turns to his advantage. His attempts to avoid his

+predestined path are unsuccessful: he is not received into the Russian

+service, and the appointment he seeks in Turkey comes to nothing. During

+the war in Italy he is several times on the verge of destruction and

+each time is saved in an unexpected manner. Owing to various diplomatic

+considerations the Russian armies—just those which might have destroyed

+his prestige—do not appear upon the scene till he is no longer there.

+

+On his return from Italy he finds the government in Paris in a process

+of dissolution in which all those who are in it are inevitably wiped

+out and destroyed. And by chance an escape from this dangerous position

+presents itself in the form of an aimless and senseless expedition

+to Africa. Again so-called chance accompanies him. Impregnable Malta

+surrenders without a shot; his most reckless schemes are crowned with

+success. The enemy’s fleet, which subsequently did not let a single boat

+pass, allows his entire army to elude it. In Africa a whole series of

+outrages are committed against the almost unarmed inhabitants. And the

+men who commit these crimes, especially their leader, assure themselves

+that this is admirable, this is glory—it resembles Caesar and Alexander

+the Great and is therefore good.

+

+This ideal of glory and grandeur—which consists not merely in

+considering nothing wrong that one does but in priding oneself on every

+crime one commits, ascribing to it an incomprehensible supernatural

+significance—that ideal, destined to guide this man and his associates,

+had scope for its development in Africa. Whatever he does succeeds. The

+plague does not touch him. The cruelty of murdering prisoners is not

+imputed to him as a fault. His childishly rash, uncalled-for, and

+ignoble departure from Africa, leaving his comrades in distress, is

+set down to his credit, and again the enemy’s fleet twice lets him slip

+past. When, intoxicated by the crimes he has committed so successfully,

+he reaches Paris, the dissolution of the republican government, which a

+year earlier might have ruined him, has reached its extreme limit, and

+his presence there now as a newcomer free from party entanglements can

+only serve to exalt him—and though he himself has no plan, he is quite

+ready for his new rôle.

+

+He had no plan, he was afraid of everything, but the parties snatched at

+him and demanded his participation.

+

+He alone—with his ideal of glory and grandeur developed in Italy and

+Egypt, his insane self-adulation, his boldness in crime and frankness in

+lying—he alone could justify what had to be done.

+

+He is needed for the place that awaits him, and so almost apart from

+his will and despite his indecision, his lack of a plan, and all his

+mistakes, he is drawn into a conspiracy that aims at seizing power and

+the conspiracy is crowned with success.

+

+He is pushed into a meeting of the legislature. In alarm he wishes to

+flee, considering himself lost. He pretends to fall into a swoon and

+says senseless things that should have ruined him. But the once proud

+and shrewd rulers of France, feeling that their part is played out, are

+even more bewildered than he, and do not say the words they should have

+said to destroy him and retain their power.

+

+Chance, millions of chances, give him power, and all men as if by

+agreement co-operate to confirm that power. Chance forms the characters

+of the rulers of France, who submit to him; chance forms the character

+of Paul I of Russia who recognizes his government; chance contrives

+a plot against him which not only fails to harm him but confirms his

+power. Chance puts the Duc d’Enghien in his hands and unexpectedly

+causes him to kill him—thereby convincing the mob more forcibly than

+in any other way that he had the right, since he had the might.

+Chance contrives that though he directs all his efforts to prepare an

+expedition against England (which would inevitably have ruined him) he

+never carries out that intention, but unexpectedly falls upon Mack and

+the Austrians, who surrender without a battle. Chance and genius give

+him the victory at Austerlitz; and by chance all men, not only the

+French but all Europe—except England which does not take part in the

+events about to happen—despite their former horror and detestation of

+his crimes, now recognize his authority, the title he has given

+himself, and his ideal of grandeur and glory, which seems excellent and

+reasonable to them all.

+

+As if measuring themselves and preparing for the coming movement, the

+western forces push toward the east several times in 1805, 1806, 1807,

+and 1809, gaining strength and growing. In 1811 the group of people that

+had formed in France unites into one group with the peoples of Central

+Europe. The strength of the justification of the man who stands at the

+head of the movement grows with the increased size of the group. During

+the ten-year preparatory period this man had formed relations with all

+the crowned heads of Europe. The discredited rulers of the world can

+oppose no reasonable ideal to the insensate Napoleonic ideal of

+glory and grandeur. One after another they hasten to display their

+insignificance before him. The King of Prussia sends his wife to seek

+the great man’s mercy; the Emperor of Austria considers it a favor that

+this man receives a daughter of the Caesars into his bed; the Pope, the

+guardian of all that the nations hold sacred, utilizes religion for the

+aggrandizement of the great man. It is not Napoleon who prepares himself

+for the accomplishment of his role, so much as all those round him who

+prepare him to take on himself the whole responsibility for what is

+happening and has to happen. There is no step, no crime or petty fraud

+he commits, which in the mouths of those around him is not at once

+represented as a great deed. The most suitable fête the Germans can

+devise for him is a celebration of Jena and Auerstädt. Not only is he

+great, but so are his ancestors, his brothers, his stepsons, and his

+brothers-in-law. Everything is done to deprive him of the remains of his

+reason and to prepare him for his terrible part. And when he is ready so

+too are the forces.

+

+The invasion pushes eastward and reaches its final goal—Moscow. That

+city is taken; the Russian army suffers heavier losses than the opposing

+armies had suffered in the former war from Austerlitz to Wagram. But

+suddenly instead of those chances and that genius which hitherto had

+so consistently led him by an uninterrupted series of successes to the

+predestined goal, an innumerable sequence of inverse chances occur—from

+the cold in his head at Borodinó to the sparks which set Moscow on

+fire, and the frosts—and instead of genius, stupidity and immeasurable

+baseness become evident.

+

+The invaders flee, turn back, flee again, and all the chances are now

+not for Napoleon but always against him.

+

+A countermovement is then accomplished from east to west with a

+remarkable resemblance to the preceding movement from west to east.

+Attempted drives from east to west—similar to the contrary movements of

+1805, 1807, and 1809—precede the great westward movement; there is the

+same coalescence into a group of enormous dimensions; the same adhesion

+of the people of Central Europe to the movement; the same hesitation

+midway, and the same increasing rapidity as the goal is approached.

+

+Paris, the ultimate goal, is reached. The Napoleonic government and army

+are destroyed. Napoleon himself is no longer of any account; all his

+actions are evidently pitiful and mean, but again an inexplicable chance

+occurs. The allies detest Napoleon whom they regard as the cause of

+their sufferings. Deprived of power and authority, his crimes and his

+craft exposed, he should have appeared to them what he appeared ten

+years previously and one year later—an outlawed brigand. But by some

+strange chance no one perceives this. His part is not yet ended. The man

+who ten years before and a year later was considered an outlawed brigand

+is sent to an island two days’ sail from France, which for some reason

+is presented to him as his dominion, and guards are given to him and

+millions of money are paid him.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER IV

+

+The flood of nations begins to subside into its normal channels. The

+waves of the great movement abate, and on the calm surface eddies are

+formed in which float the diplomatists, who imagine that they have

+caused the floods to abate.

+

+But the smooth sea again suddenly becomes disturbed. The diplomatists

+think that their disagreements are the cause of this fresh pressure

+of natural forces; they anticipate war between their sovereigns; the

+position seems to them insoluble. But the wave they feel to be rising

+does not come from the quarter they expect. It rises again from the same

+point as before—Paris. The last backwash of the movement from the west

+occurs: a backwash which serves to solve the apparently insuperable

+diplomatic difficulties and ends the military movement of that period of

+history.

+

+The man who had devastated France returns to France alone, without any

+conspiracy and without soldiers. Any guard might arrest him, but by

+strange chance no one does so and all rapturously greet the man they

+cursed the day before and will curse again a month later.

+

+This man is still needed to justify the final collective act.

+

+That act is performed.

+

+The last rôle is played. The actor is bidden to disrobe and wash off his

+powder and paint: he will not be wanted any more.

+

+And some years pass during which he plays a pitiful comedy to himself

+in solitude on his island, justifying his actions by intrigues and lies

+when the justification is no longer needed, and displaying to the whole

+world what it was that people had mistaken for strength as long as an

+unseen hand directed his actions.

+

+The manager having brought the drama to a close and stripped the actor

+shows him to us.

+

+“See what you believed in! This is he! Do you now see that it was not he

+but I who moved you?”

+

+But dazed by the force of the movement, it was long before people

+understood this.

+

+Still greater coherence and inevitability is seen in the life of

+Alexander I, the man who stood at the head of the countermovement from

+east to west.

+

+What was needed for him who, overshadowing others, stood at the head of

+that movement from east to west?

+

+What was needed was a sense of justice and a sympathy with European

+affairs, but a remote sympathy not dulled by petty interests; a moral

+superiority over those sovereigns of the day who co-operated with him;

+a mild and attractive personality; and a personal grievance against

+Napoleon. And all this was found in Alexander I; all this had been

+prepared by innumerable so-called chances in his life: his education,

+his early liberalism, the advisers who surrounded him, and by

+Austerlitz, and Tilsit, and Erfurt.

+

+During the national war he was inactive because he was not needed. But

+as soon as the necessity for a general European war presented itself he

+appeared in his place at the given moment and, uniting the nations of

+Europe, led them to the goal.

+

+The goal is reached. After the final war of 1815 Alexander possesses all

+possible power. How does he use it?

+

+Alexander I—the pacifier of Europe, the man who from his early years

+had striven only for his people’s welfare, the originator of the liberal

+innovations in his fatherland—now that he seemed to possess the utmost

+power and therefore to have the possibility of bringing about the

+welfare of his peoples—at the time when Napoleon in exile was drawing

+up childish and mendacious plans of how he would have made mankind happy

+had he retained power—Alexander I, having fulfilled his mission and

+feeling the hand of God upon him, suddenly recognizes the insignificance

+of that supposed power, turns away from it, and gives it into the hands

+of contemptible men whom he despises, saying only:

+

+“Not unto us, not unto us, but unto Thy Name!... I too am a man like the

+rest of you. Let me live like a man and think of my soul and of God.”

+

+As the sun and each atom of ether is a sphere complete in itself, and

+yet at the same time only a part of a whole too immense for man to

+comprehend, so each individual has within himself his own aims and yet

+has them to serve a general purpose incomprehensible to man.

+

+A bee settling on a flower has stung a child. And the child is afraid

+of bees and declares that bees exist to sting people. A poet admires the

+bee sucking from the chalice of a flower and says it exists to suck the

+fragrance of flowers. A beekeeper, seeing the bee collect pollen from

+flowers and carry it to the hive, says that it exists to gather honey.

+Another beekeeper who has studied the life of the hive more closely

+says that the bee gathers pollen dust to feed the young bees and rear

+a queen, and that it exists to perpetuate its race. A botanist notices

+that the bee flying with the pollen of a male flower to a pistil

+fertilizes the latter, and sees in this the purpose of the bee’s

+existence. Another, observing the migration of plants, notices that the

+bee helps in this work, and may say that in this lies the purpose of the

+bee. But the ultimate purpose of the bee is not exhausted by the first,

+the second, or any of the processes the human mind can discern. The

+higher the human intellect rises in the discovery of these purposes,

+the more obvious it becomes, that the ultimate purpose is beyond our

+comprehension.

+

+All that is accessible to man is the relation of the life of the bee to

+other manifestations of life. And so it is with the purpose of historic

+characters and nations.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER V

+

+Natásha’s wedding to Bezúkhov, which took place in 1813, was the last

+happy event in the family of the old Rostóvs. Count Ilyá Rostóv died

+that same year and, as always happens, after the father’s death the

+family group broke up.

+

+The events of the previous year: the burning of Moscow and the flight

+from it, the death of Prince Andrew, Natásha’s despair, Pétya’s death,

+and the old countess’ grief fell blow after blow on the old count’s

+head. He seemed to be unable to understand the meaning of all these

+events, and bowed his old head in a spiritual sense as if expecting and

+inviting further blows which would finish him. He seemed now frightened

+and distraught and now unnaturally animated and enterprising.

+

+The arrangements for Natásha’s marriage occupied him for a while. He

+ordered dinners and suppers and obviously tried to appear cheerful, but

+his cheerfulness was not infectious as it used to be: on the contrary it

+evoked the compassion of those who knew and liked him.

+

+When Pierre and his wife had left, he grew very quiet and began to

+complain of depression. A few days later he fell ill and took to his

+bed. He realized from the first that he would not get up again, despite

+the doctor’s encouragement. The countess passed a fortnight in an

+armchair by his pillow without undressing. Every time she gave him

+his medicine he sobbed and silently kissed her hand. On his last day,

+sobbing, he asked her and his absent son to forgive him for having

+dissipated their property—that being the chief fault of which he was

+conscious. After receiving communion and unction he quietly died; and

+next day a throng of acquaintances who came to pay their last respects

+to the deceased filled the house rented by the Rostóvs. All these

+acquaintances, who had so often dined and danced at his house and had so

+often laughed at him, now said, with a common feeling of self-reproach

+and emotion, as if justifying themselves: “Well, whatever he may have

+been he was a most worthy man. You don’t meet such men nowadays.... And

+which of us has not weaknesses of his own?”

+

+It was just when the count’s affairs had become so involved that it was

+impossible to say what would happen if he lived another year that he

+unexpectedly died.

+

+Nicholas was with the Russian army in Paris when the news of his

+father’s death reached him. He at once resigned his commission, and

+without waiting for it to be accepted took leave of absence and went to

+Moscow. The state of the count’s affairs became quite obvious a month

+after his death, surprising everyone by the immense total of small

+debts the existence of which no one had suspected. The debts amounted to

+double the value of the property.

+

+Friends and relations advised Nicholas to decline the inheritance. But

+he regarded such a refusal as a slur on his father’s memory, which he

+held sacred, and therefore would not hear of refusing and accepted the

+inheritance together with the obligation to pay the debts.

+

+The creditors who had so long been silent, restrained by a vague

+but powerful influence exerted on them while he lived by the count’s

+careless good nature, all proceeded to enforce their claims at once. As

+always happens in such cases rivalry sprang up as to which should get

+paid first, and those who like Mítenka held promissory notes given them

+as presents now became the most exacting of the creditors. Nicholas was

+allowed no respite and no peace, and those who had seemed to pity

+the old man—the cause of their losses (if they were losses)—now

+remorselessly pursued the young heir who had voluntarily undertaken the

+debts and was obviously not guilty of contracting them.

+

+Not one of the plans Nicholas tried succeeded; the estate was sold by

+auction for half its value, and half the debts still remained

+unpaid. Nicholas accepted thirty thousand rubles offered him by his

+brother-in-law Bezúkhov to pay off debts he regarded as genuinely due

+for value received. And to avoid being imprisoned for the remainder, as

+the creditors threatened, he re-entered the government service.

+

+He could not rejoin the army where he would have been made colonel at

+the next vacancy, for his mother now clung to him as her one hold on

+life; and so despite his reluctance to remain in Moscow among people who

+had known him before, and despite his abhorrence of the civil service,

+he accepted a post in Moscow in that service, doffed the uniform of

+which he was so fond, and moved with his mother and Sónya to a small

+house on the Sívtsev Vrazhók.

+

+Natásha and Pierre were living in Petersburg at the time and had no

+clear idea of Nicholas’ circumstances. Having borrowed money from his

+brother-in-law, Nicholas tried to hide his wretched condition from him.

+His position was the more difficult because with his salary of twelve

+hundred rubles he had not only to keep himself, his mother, and Sónya,

+but had to shield his mother from knowledge of their poverty. The

+countess could not conceive of life without the luxurious conditions she

+had been used to from childhood and, unable to realize how hard it was

+for her son, kept demanding now a carriage (which they did not keep) to

+send for a friend, now some expensive article of food for herself, or

+wine for her son, or money to buy a present as a surprise for Natásha or

+Sónya, or for Nicholas himself.

+

+Sónya kept house, attended on her aunt, read to her, put up with her

+whims and secret ill-will, and helped Nicholas to conceal their poverty

+from the old countess. Nicholas felt himself irredeemably indebted

+to Sónya for all she was doing for his mother and greatly admired her

+patience and devotion, but tried to keep aloof from her.

+

+He seemed in his heart to reproach her for being too perfect, and

+because there was nothing to reproach her with. She had all that people

+are valued for, but little that could have made him love her. He felt

+that the more he valued her the less he loved her. He had taken her at

+her word when she wrote giving him his freedom and now behaved as if all

+that had passed between them had been long forgotten and could never in

+any case be renewed.

+

+Nicholas’ position became worse and worse. The idea of putting something

+aside out of his salary proved a dream. Not only did he not save

+anything, but to comply with his mother’s demands he even incurred some

+small debts. He could see no way out of this situation. The idea of

+marrying some rich woman, which was suggested to him by his female

+relations, was repugnant to him. The other way out—his mother’s

+death—never entered his head. He wished for nothing and hoped

+for nothing, and deep in his heart experienced a gloomy and stern

+satisfaction in an uncomplaining endurance of his position. He tried

+to avoid his old acquaintances with their commiseration and offensive

+offers of assistance; he avoided all distraction and recreation, and

+even at home did nothing but play cards with his mother, pace silently

+up and down the room, and smoke one pipe after another. He seemed

+carefully to cherish within himself the gloomy mood which alone enabled

+him to endure his position.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER VI

+

+At the beginning of winter Princess Mary came to Moscow. From reports

+current in town she learned how the Rostóvs were situated, and how “the

+son has sacrificed himself for his mother,” as people were saying.

+

+“I never expected anything else of him,” said Princess Mary to herself,

+feeling a joyous sense of her love for him. Remembering her friendly

+relations with all the Rostóvs which had made her almost a member of the

+family, she thought it her duty to go to see them. But remembering her

+relations with Nicholas in Vorónezh she was shy about doing so. Making

+a great effort she did however go to call on them a few weeks after her

+arrival in Moscow.

+

+Nicholas was the first to meet her, as the countess’ room could only be

+reached through his. But instead of being greeted with pleasure as she

+had expected, at his first glance at her his face assumed a cold, stiff,

+proud expression she had not seen on it before. He inquired about her

+health, led the way to his mother, and having sat there for five minutes

+left the room.

+

+When the princess came out of the countess’ room Nicholas met her again,

+and with marked solemnity and stiffness accompanied her to the anteroom.

+To her remarks about his mother’s health he made no reply. “What’s that

+to you? Leave me in peace,” his looks seemed to say.

+

+“Why does she come prowling here? What does she want? I can’t bear these

+ladies and all these civilities!” said he aloud in Sónya’s presence,

+evidently unable to repress his vexation, after the princess’ carriage

+had disappeared.

+

+“Oh, Nicholas, how can you talk like that?” cried Sónya, hardly able to

+conceal her delight. “She is so kind and Mamma is so fond of her!”

+

+Nicholas did not reply and tried to avoid speaking of the princess any

+more. But after her visit the old countess spoke of her several times a

+day.

+

+She sang her praises, insisted that her son must call on her, expressed

+a wish to see her often, but yet always became ill-humored when she

+began to talk about her.

+

+Nicholas tried to keep silence when his mother spoke of the princess,

+but his silence irritated her.

+

+“She is a very admirable and excellent young woman,” said she, “and you

+must go and call on her. You would at least be seeing somebody, and I

+think it must be dull for you only seeing us.”

+

+“But I don’t in the least want to, Mamma.”

+

+“You used to want to, and now you don’t. Really I don’t understand you,

+my dear. One day you are dull, and the next you refuse to see anyone.”

+

+“But I never said I was dull.”

+

+“Why, you said yourself you don’t want even to see her. She is a very

+admirable young woman and you always liked her, but now suddenly you

+have got some notion or other in your head. You hide everything from

+me.”

+

+“Not at all, Mamma.”

+

+“If I were asking you to do something disagreeable now—but I only ask

+you to return a call. One would think mere politeness required it....

+Well, I have asked you, and now I won’t interfere any more since you

+have secrets from your mother.”

+

+“Well, then, I’ll go if you wish it.”

+

+“It doesn’t matter to me. I only wish it for your sake.”

+

+Nicholas sighed, bit his mustache, and laid out the cards for a

+patience, trying to divert his mother’s attention to another topic.

+

+The same conversation was repeated next day and the day after, and the

+day after that.

+

+After her visit to the Rostóvs and her unexpectedly chilly reception by

+Nicholas, Princess Mary confessed to herself that she had been right in

+not wishing to be the first to call.

+

+“I expected nothing else,” she told herself, calling her pride to her

+aid. “I have nothing to do with him and I only wanted to see the

+old lady, who was always kind to me and to whom I am under many

+obligations.”

+

+But she could not pacify herself with these reflections; a feeling akin

+to remorse troubled her when she thought of her visit. Though she had

+firmly resolved not to call on the Rostóvs again and to forget the whole

+matter, she felt herself all the time in an awkward position. And when

+she asked herself what distressed her, she had to admit that it was her

+relation to Rostóv. His cold, polite manner did not express his feeling

+for her (she knew that) but it concealed something, and until she could

+discover what that something was, she felt that she could not be at

+ease.

+

+One day in midwinter when sitting in the schoolroom attending to her

+nephew’s lessons, she was informed that Rostóv had called. With a firm

+resolution not to betray herself and not show her agitation, she sent

+for Mademoiselle Bourienne and went with her to the drawing room.

+

+Her first glance at Nicholas’ face told her that he had only come to

+fulfill the demands of politeness, and she firmly resolved to maintain

+the tone in which he addressed her.

+

+They spoke of the countess’ health, of their mutual friends, of the

+latest war news, and when the ten minutes required by propriety had

+elapsed after which a visitor may rise, Nicholas got up to say good-by.

+

+With Mademoiselle Bourienne’s help the princess had maintained the

+conversation very well, but at the very last moment, just when he rose,

+she was so tired of talking of what did not interest her, and her

+mind was so full of the question why she alone was granted so little

+happiness in life, that in a fit of absent-mindedness she sat still, her

+luminous eyes gazing fixedly before her, not noticing that he had risen.

+

+Nicholas glanced at her and, wishing to appear not to notice her

+abstraction, made some remark to Mademoiselle Bourienne and then

+again looked at the princess. She still sat motionless with a look of

+suffering on her gentle face. He suddenly felt sorry for her and was

+vaguely conscious that he might be the cause of the sadness her face

+expressed. He wished to help her and say something pleasant, but could

+think of nothing to say.

+

+“Good-by, Princess!” said he.

+

+She started, flushed, and sighed deeply.

+

+“Oh, I beg your pardon,” she said as if waking up. “Are you going

+already, Count? Well then, good-by! Oh, but the cushion for the

+countess!”

+

+“Wait a moment, I’ll fetch it,” said Mademoiselle Bourienne, and she

+left the room.

+

+They both sat silent, with an occasional glance at one another.

+

+“Yes, Princess,” said Nicholas at last with a sad smile, “it doesn’t

+seem long ago since we first met at Boguchárovo, but how much water

+has flowed since then! In what distress we all seemed to be then, yet

+I would give much to bring back that time... but there’s no bringing it

+back.”

+

+Princess Mary gazed intently into his eyes with her own luminous ones

+as he said this. She seemed to be trying to fathom the hidden meaning of

+his words which would explain his feeling for her.

+

+“Yes, yes,” said she, “but you have no reason to regret the past, Count.

+As I understand your present life, I think you will always recall it

+with satisfaction, because the self-sacrifice that fills it now...”

+

+“I cannot accept your praise,” he interrupted her hurriedly. “On the

+contrary I continually reproach myself.... But this is not at all an

+interesting or cheerful subject.”

+

+His face again resumed its former stiff and cold expression. But the

+princess had caught a glimpse of the man she had known and loved, and it

+was to him that she now spoke.

+

+“I thought you would allow me to tell you this,” she said. “I had come

+so near to you... and to all your family that I thought you would not

+consider my sympathy misplaced, but I was mistaken,” and suddenly her

+voice trembled. “I don’t know why,” she continued, recovering herself,

+“but you used to be different, and...”

+

+“There are a thousand reasons why,” laying special emphasis on the why.

+“Thank you, Princess,” he added softly. “Sometimes it is hard.”

+

+“So that’s why! That’s why!” a voice whispered in Princess Mary’s soul.

+“No, it was not only that gay, kind, and frank look, not only that

+handsome exterior, that I loved in him. I divined his noble, resolute,

+self-sacrificing spirit too,” she said to herself. “Yes, he is poor now

+and I am rich.... Yes, that’s the only reason.... Yes, were it not for

+that...” And remembering his former tenderness, and looking now at his

+kind, sorrowful face, she suddenly understood the cause of his coldness.

+

+“But why, Count, why?” she almost cried, unconsciously moving closer to

+him. “Why? Tell me. You must tell me!”

+

+He was silent.

+

+“I don’t understand your why, Count,” she continued, “but it’s hard for

+me... I confess it. For some reason you wish to deprive me of our former

+friendship. And that hurts me.” There were tears in her eyes and in her

+voice. “I have had so little happiness in life that every loss is hard

+for me to bear.... Excuse me, good-by!” and suddenly she began to cry

+and was hurrying from the room.

+

+“Princess, for God’s sake!” he exclaimed, trying to stop her.

+“Princess!”

+

+She turned round. For a few seconds they gazed silently into one

+another’s eyes—and what had seemed impossible and remote suddenly became

+possible, inevitable, and very near.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER VII

+

+In the winter of 1813 Nicholas married Princess Mary and moved to Bald

+Hills with his wife, his mother, and Sónya.

+

+Within four years he had paid off all his remaining debts without

+selling any of his wife’s property, and having received a small

+inheritance on the death of a cousin he paid his debt to Pierre as well.

+

+In another three years, by 1820, he had so managed his affairs that he

+was able to buy a small estate adjoining Bald Hills and was negotiating

+to buy back Otrádnoe—that being his pet dream.

+

+Having started farming from necessity, he soon grew so devoted to it

+that it became his favorite and almost his sole occupation. Nicholas was

+a plain farmer: he did not like innovations, especially the English ones

+then coming into vogue. He laughed at theoretical treatises on estate

+management, disliked factories, the raising of expensive products,

+and the buying of expensive seed corn, and did not make a hobby of any

+particular part of the work on his estate. He always had before his

+mind’s eye the estate as a whole and not any particular part of it. The

+chief thing in his eyes was not the nitrogen in the soil, nor the oxygen

+in the air, nor manures, nor special plows, but that most important

+agent by which nitrogen, oxygen, manure, and plow were made

+effective—the peasant laborer. When Nicholas first began farming

+and began to understand its different branches, it was the serf who

+especially attracted his attention. The peasant seemed to him not merely

+a tool, but also a judge of farming and an end in himself. At first

+he watched the serfs, trying to understand their aims and what they

+considered good and bad, and only pretended to direct them and give

+orders while in reality learning from them their methods, their manner

+of speech, and their judgment of what was good and bad. Only when he

+had understood the peasants’ tastes and aspirations, had learned to talk

+their language, to grasp the hidden meaning of their words, and felt

+akin to them did he begin boldly to manage his serfs, that is, to

+perform toward them the duties demanded of him. And Nicholas’ management

+produced very brilliant results.

+

+Guided by some gift of insight, on taking up the management of the

+estates he at once unerringly appointed as bailiff, village elder, and

+delegate, the very men the serfs would themselves have chosen had they

+had the right to choose, and these posts never changed hands. Before

+analyzing the properties of manure, before entering into the debit and

+credit (as he ironically called it), he found out how many cattle the

+peasants had and increased the number by all possible means. He kept the

+peasant families together in the largest groups possible, not allowing

+the family groups to divide into separate households. He was hard alike

+on the lazy, the depraved, and the weak, and tried to get them expelled

+from the commune.

+

+He was as careful of the sowing and reaping of the peasants’ hay

+and corn as of his own, and few landowners had their crops sown

+and harvested so early and so well, or got so good a return, as did

+Nicholas.

+

+He disliked having anything to do with the domestic serfs—the “drones”

+as he called them—and everyone said he spoiled them by his laxity. When

+a decision had to be taken regarding a domestic serf, especially if one

+had to be punished, he always felt undecided and consulted everybody in

+the house; but when it was possible to have a domestic serf conscripted

+instead of a land worker he did so without the least hesitation. He

+never felt any hesitation in dealing with the peasants. He knew that his

+every decision would be approved by them all with very few exceptions.

+

+He did not allow himself either to be hard on or punish a man, or to

+make things easy for or reward anyone, merely because he felt inclined

+to do so. He could not have said by what standard he judged what he

+should or should not do, but the standard was quite firm and definite in

+his own mind.

+

+Often, speaking with vexation of some failure or irregularity, he would

+say: “What can one do with our Russian peasants?” and imagined that he

+could not bear them.

+

+Yet he loved “our Russian peasants” and their way of life with his whole

+soul, and for that very reason had understood and assimilated the one

+way and manner of farming which produced good results.

+

+Countess Mary was jealous of this passion of her husband’s and regretted

+that she could not share it; but she could not understand the joys and

+vexations he derived from that world, to her so remote and alien. She

+could not understand why he was so particularly animated and happy

+when, after getting up at daybreak and spending the whole morning in the

+fields or on the threshing floor, he returned from the sowing or mowing

+or reaping to have tea with her. She did not understand why he spoke

+with such admiration and delight of the farming of the thrifty and

+well-to-do peasant Matthew Ermíshin, who with his family had carted

+corn all night; or of the fact that his (Nicholas’) sheaves were already

+stacked before anyone else had his harvest in. She did not understand

+why he stepped out from the window to the veranda and smiled under his

+mustache and winked so joyfully, when warm steady rain began to fall

+on the dry and thirsty shoots of the young oats, or why when the wind

+carried away a threatening cloud during the hay harvest he would return

+from the barn, flushed, sunburned, and perspiring, with a smell of

+wormwood and gentian in his hair and, gleefully rubbing his hands, would

+say: “Well, one more day and my grain and the peasants’ will all be

+under cover.”

+

+Still less did she understand why he, kindhearted and always ready to

+anticipate her wishes, should become almost desperate when she brought

+him a petition from some peasant men or women who had appealed to her

+to be excused some work; why he, that kind Nicholas, should obstinately

+refuse her, angrily asking her not to interfere in what was not her

+business. She felt he had a world apart, which he loved passionately and

+which had laws she had not fathomed.

+

+Sometimes when, trying to understand him, she spoke of the good work he

+was doing for his serfs, he would be vexed and reply: “Not in the least;

+it never entered my head and I wouldn’t do that for their good! That’s

+all poetry and old wives’ talk—all that doing good to one’s neighbor!

+What I want is that our children should not have to go begging. I must

+put our affairs in order while I am alive, that’s all. And to do that,

+order and strictness are essential.... That’s all about it!” said he,

+clenching his vigorous fist. “And fairness, of course,” he added, “for

+if the peasant is naked and hungry and has only one miserable horse, he

+can do no good either for himself or for me.”

+

+And all Nicholas did was fruitful—probably just because he refused to

+allow himself to think that he was doing good to others for virtue’s

+sake. His means increased rapidly; serfs from neighboring estates came

+to beg him to buy them, and long after his death the memory of his

+administration was devoutly preserved among the serfs. “He was a

+master... the peasants’ affairs first and then his own. Of course he was

+not to be trifled with either—in a word, he was a real master!”

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER VIII

+

+One matter connected with his management sometimes worried Nicholas, and

+that was his quick temper together with his old hussar habit of making

+free use of his fists. At first he saw nothing reprehensible in

+this, but in the second year of his marriage his view of that form of

+punishment suddenly changed.

+

+Once in summer he had sent for the village elder from Boguchárovo, a

+man who had succeeded to the post when Dron died and who was accused of

+dishonesty and various irregularities. Nicholas went out into the porch

+to question him, and immediately after the elder had given a few replies

+the sound of cries and blows were heard. On returning to lunch Nicholas

+went up to his wife, who sat with her head bent low over her embroidery

+frame, and as usual began to tell her what he had been doing that

+morning. Among other things he spoke of the Boguchárovo elder. Countess

+Mary turned red and then pale, but continued to sit with head bowed and

+lips compressed and gave her husband no reply.

+

+“Such an insolent scoundrel!” he cried, growing hot again at the mere

+recollection of him. “If he had told me he was drunk and did not see...

+But what is the matter with you, Mary?” he suddenly asked.

+

+Countess Mary raised her head and tried to speak, but hastily looked

+down again and her lips puckered.

+

+“Why, whatever is the matter, my dearest?”

+

+The looks of the plain Countess Mary always improved when she was in

+tears. She never cried from pain or vexation, but always from sorrow or

+pity, and when she wept her radiant eyes acquired an irresistible charm.

+

+The moment Nicholas took her hand she could no longer restrain herself

+and began to cry.

+

+“Nicholas, I saw it... he was to blame, but why do you... Nicholas!” and

+she covered her face with her hands.

+

+Nicholas said nothing. He flushed crimson, left her side, and paced up

+and down the room. He understood what she was weeping about, but could

+not in his heart at once agree with her that what he had regarded

+from childhood as quite an everyday event was wrong. “Is it just

+sentimentality, old wives’ tales, or is she right?” he asked himself.

+Before he had solved that point he glanced again at her face filled with

+love and pain, and he suddenly realized that she was right and that he

+had long been sinning against himself.

+

+“Mary,” he said softly, going up to her, “it will never happen again;

+I give you my word. Never,” he repeated in a trembling voice like a boy

+asking for forgiveness.

+

+The tears flowed faster still from the countess’ eyes. She took his hand

+and kissed it.

+

+“Nicholas, when did you break your cameo?” she asked to change the

+subject, looking at his finger on which he wore a ring with a cameo of

+Laocoön’s head.

+

+“Today—it was the same affair. Oh, Mary, don’t remind me of it!” and

+again he flushed. “I give you my word of honor it shan’t occur again,

+and let this always be a reminder to me,” and he pointed to the broken

+ring.

+

+After that, when in discussions with his village elders or stewards the

+blood rushed to his face and his fists began to clench, Nicholas would

+turn the broken ring on his finger and would drop his eyes before the

+man who was making him angry. But he did forget himself once or twice

+within a twelvemonth, and then he would go and confess to his wife, and

+would again promise that this should really be the very last time.

+

+“Mary, you must despise me!” he would say. “I deserve it.”

+

+“You should go, go away at once, if you don’t feel strong enough to

+control yourself,” she would reply sadly, trying to comfort her husband.

+

+Among the gentry of the province Nicholas was respected but not liked.

+He did not concern himself with the interests of his own class, and

+consequently some thought him proud and others thought him stupid. The

+whole summer, from spring sowing to harvest, he was busy with the work

+on his farm. In autumn he gave himself up to hunting with the same

+business-like seriousness—leaving home for a month, or even two, with

+his hunt. In winter he visited his other villages or spent his time

+reading. The books he read were chiefly historical, and on these he

+spent a certain sum every year. He was collecting, as he said, a serious

+library, and he made it a rule to read through all the books he bought.

+He would sit in his study with a grave air, reading—a task he first

+imposed upon himself as a duty, but which afterwards became a habit

+affording him a special kind of pleasure and a consciousness of

+being occupied with serious matters. In winter, except for business

+excursions, he spent most of his time at home making himself one with

+his family and entering into all the details of his children’s relations

+with their mother. The harmony between him and his wife grew closer and

+closer and he daily discovered fresh spiritual treasures in her.

+

+From the time of his marriage Sónya had lived in his house. Before

+that, Nicholas had told his wife all that had passed between himself and

+Sónya, blaming himself and commending her. He had asked Princess Mary to

+be gentle and kind to his cousin. She thoroughly realized the wrong he

+had done Sónya, felt herself to blame toward her, and imagined that her

+wealth had influenced Nicholas’ choice. She could not find fault with

+Sónya in any way and tried to be fond of her, but often felt ill-will

+toward her which she could not overcome.

+

+Once she had a talk with her friend Natásha about Sónya and about her

+own injustice toward her.

+

+“You know,” said Natásha, “you have read the Gospels a great deal—there

+is a passage in them that just fits Sónya.”

+

+“What?” asked Countess Mary, surprised.

+

+“‘To him that hath shall be given, and from him that hath not shall be

+taken away.’ You remember? She is one that hath not; why, I don’t know.

+Perhaps she lacks egotism, I don’t know, but from her is taken away, and

+everything has been taken away. Sometimes I am dreadfully sorry for her.

+Formerly I very much wanted Nicholas to marry her, but I always had

+a sort of presentiment that it would not come off. She is a sterile

+flower, you know—like some strawberry blossoms. Sometimes I am sorry for

+her, and sometimes I think she doesn’t feel it as you or I would.”

+

+Though Countess Mary told Natásha that those words in the Gospel must be

+understood differently, yet looking at Sónya she agreed with Natásha’s

+explanation. It really seemed that Sónya did not feel her position

+trying, and had grown quite reconciled to her lot as a sterile flower.

+She seemed to be fond not so much of individuals as of the family as a

+whole. Like a cat, she had attached herself not to the people but to the

+home. She waited on the old countess, petted and spoiled the children,

+was always ready to render the small services for which she had a gift,

+and all this was unconsciously accepted from her with insufficient

+gratitude.

+

+The country seat at Bald Hills had been rebuilt, though not on the same

+scale as under the old prince.

+

+The buildings, begun under straitened circumstances, were more than

+simple. The immense house on the old stone foundations was of wood,

+plastered only inside. It had bare deal floors and was furnished with

+very simple hard sofas, armchairs, tables, and chairs made by their own

+serf carpenters out of their own birchwood. The house was spacious

+and had rooms for the house serfs and apartments for visitors. Whole

+families of the Rostóvs’ and Bolkónskis’ relations sometimes came to

+Bald Hills with sixteen horses and dozens of servants and stayed for

+months. Besides that, four times a year, on the name days and birthdays

+of the hosts, as many as a hundred visitors would gather there for a day

+or two. The rest of the year life pursued its unbroken routine with its

+ordinary occupations, and its breakfasts, lunches, dinners, and suppers,

+provided out of the produce of the estate.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER IX

+

+It was the eve of St. Nicholas, the fifth of December, 1820. Natásha had

+been staying at her brother’s with her husband and children since early

+autumn. Pierre had gone to Petersburg on business of his own for three

+weeks as he said, but had remained there nearly seven weeks and was

+expected back every minute.

+

+Besides the Bezúkhov family, Nicholas’ old friend the retired General

+Vasíli Dmítrich Denísov was staying with the Rostóvs this fifth of

+December.

+

+On the sixth, which was his name day when the house would be full of

+visitors, Nicholas knew he would have to exchange his Tartar tunic for

+a tail coat, and put on narrow boots with pointed toes, and drive to

+the new church he had built, and then receive visitors who would come to

+congratulate him, offer them refreshments, and talk about the elections

+of the nobility; but he considered himself entitled to spend the eve

+of that day in his usual way. He examined the bailiff’s accounts of

+the village in Ryazán which belonged to his wife’s nephew, wrote two

+business letters, and walked over to the granaries, cattle yards and

+stables before dinner. Having taken precautions against the general

+drunkenness to be expected on the morrow because it was a great saint’s

+day, he returned to dinner, and without having time for a private talk

+with his wife sat down at the long table laid for twenty persons, at

+which the whole household had assembled. At that table were his mother,

+his mother’s old lady companion Belóva, his wife, their three children

+with their governess and tutor, his wife’s nephew with his tutor, Sónya,

+Denísov, Natásha, her three children, their governess, and old Michael

+Ivánovich, the late prince’s architect, who was living on in retirement

+at Bald Hills.

+

+Countess Mary sat at the other end of the table. When her husband took

+his place she concluded, from the rapid manner in which after taking

+up his table napkin he pushed back the tumbler and wineglass standing

+before him, that he was out of humor, as was sometimes the case when

+he came in to dinner straight from the farm—especially before the soup.

+Countess Mary well knew that mood of his, and when she herself was in

+a good frame of mind quietly waited till he had had his soup and then

+began to talk to him and make him admit that there was no cause for his

+ill-humor. But today she quite forgot that and was hurt that he should

+be angry with her without any reason, and she felt unhappy. She asked

+him where he had been. He replied. She again inquired whether

+everything was going well on the farm. Her unnatural tone made him wince

+unpleasantly and he replied hastily.

+

+“Then I’m not mistaken,” thought Countess Mary. “Why is he cross with

+me?” She concluded from his tone that he was vexed with her and wished

+to end the conversation. She knew her remarks sounded unnatural, but

+could not refrain from asking some more questions.

+

+Thanks to Denísov the conversation at table soon became general and

+lively, and she did not talk to her husband. When they left the table

+and went as usual to thank the old countess, Countess Mary held out her

+hand and kissed her husband, and asked him why he was angry with her.

+

+“You always have such strange fancies! I didn’t even think of being

+angry,” he replied.

+

+But the word always seemed to her to imply: “Yes, I am angry but I won’t

+tell you why.”

+

+Nicholas and his wife lived together so happily that even Sónya and the

+old countess, who felt jealous and would have liked them to disagree,

+could find nothing to reproach them with; but even they had their

+moments of antagonism. Occasionally, and it was always just after they

+had been happiest together, they suddenly had a feeling of estrangement

+and hostility, which occurred most frequently during Countess Mary’s

+pregnancies, and this was such a time.

+

+“Well, messieurs et mesdames,” said Nicholas loudly and with apparent

+cheerfulness (it seemed to Countess Mary that he did it on purpose to

+vex her), “I have been on my feet since six this morning. Tomorrow I

+shall have to suffer, so today I’ll go and rest.”

+

+And without a word to his wife he went to the little sitting room and

+lay down on the sofa.

+

+“That’s always the way,” thought Countess Mary. “He talks to everyone

+except me. I see... I see that I am repulsive to him, especially when I

+am in this condition.” She looked down at her expanded figure and in the

+glass at her pale, sallow, emaciated face in which her eyes now looked

+larger than ever.

+

+And everything annoyed her—Denísov’s shouting and laughter, Natásha’s

+talk, and especially a quick glance Sónya gave her.

+

+Sónya was always the first excuse Countess Mary found for feeling

+irritated.

+

+Having sat awhile with her visitors without understanding anything of

+what they were saying, she softly left the room and went to the nursery.

+

+The children were playing at “going to Moscow” in a carriage made of

+chairs and invited her to go with them. She sat down and played with

+them a little, but the thought of her husband and his unreasonable

+crossness worried her. She got up and, walking on tiptoe with

+difficulty, went to the small sitting room.

+

+“Perhaps he is not asleep; I’ll have an explanation with him,” she

+said to herself. Little Andrew, her eldest boy, imitating his mother,

+followed her on tiptoe. She did not notice him.

+

+“Mary, dear, I think he is asleep—he was so tired,” said Sónya, meeting

+her in the large sitting room (it seemed to Countess Mary that she

+crossed her path everywhere). “Andrew may wake him.”

+

+Countess Mary looked round, saw little Andrew following her, felt that

+Sónya was right, and for that very reason flushed and with evident

+difficulty refrained from saying something harsh. She made no reply, but

+to avoid obeying Sónya beckoned to Andrew to follow her quietly and went

+to the door. Sónya went away by another door. From the room in which

+Nicholas was sleeping came the sound of his even breathing, every

+slightest tone of which was familiar to his wife. As she listened to it

+she saw before her his smooth handsome forehead, his mustache, and his

+whole face, as she had so often seen it in the stillness of the night

+when he slept. Nicholas suddenly moved and cleared his throat. And at

+that moment little Andrew shouted from outside the door: “Papa! Mamma’s

+standing here!” Countess Mary turned pale with fright and made signs

+to the boy. He grew silent, and quiet ensued for a moment, terrible to

+Countess Mary. She knew how Nicholas disliked being waked. Then through

+the door she heard Nicholas clearing his throat again and stirring, and

+his voice said crossly:

+

+“I can’t get a moment’s peace.... Mary, is that you? Why did you bring

+him here?”

+

+“I only came in to look and did not notice... forgive me....”

+

+Nicholas coughed and said no more. Countess Mary moved away from the

+door and took the boy back to the nursery. Five minutes later little

+black-eyed three-year-old Natásha, her father’s pet, having learned from

+her brother that Papa was asleep and Mamma was in the sitting room, ran

+to her father unobserved by her mother. The dark-eyed little girl boldly

+opened the creaking door, went up to the sofa with energetic steps of

+her sturdy little legs, and having examined the position of her father,

+who was asleep with his back to her, rose on tiptoe and kissed the hand

+which lay under his head. Nicholas turned with a tender smile on his

+face.

+

+“Natásha, Natásha!” came Countess Mary’s frightened whisper from the

+door. “Papa wants to sleep.”

+

+“No, Mamma, he doesn’t want to sleep,” said little Natásha with

+conviction. “He’s laughing.”

+

+Nicholas lowered his legs, rose, and took his daughter in his arms.

+

+“Come in, Mary,” he said to his wife.

+

+She went in and sat down by her husband.

+

+“I did not notice him following me,” she said timidly. “I just looked

+in.”

+

+Holding his little girl with one arm, Nicholas glanced at his wife and,

+seeing her guilty expression, put his other arm around her and kissed

+her hair.

+

+“May I kiss Mamma?” he asked Natásha.

+

+Natásha smiled bashfully.

+

+“Again!” she commanded, pointing with a peremptory gesture to the spot

+where Nicholas had placed the kiss.

+

+“I don’t know why you think I am cross,” said Nicholas, replying to the

+question he knew was in his wife’s mind.

+

+“You have no idea how unhappy, how lonely, I feel when you are like

+that. It always seems to me...”

+

+“Mary, don’t talk nonsense. You ought to be ashamed of yourself!” he

+said gaily.

+

+“It seems to be that you can’t love me, that I am so plain... always...

+and now... in this cond...”

+

+“Oh, how absurd you are! It is not beauty that endears, it’s love that

+makes us see beauty. It is only Malvínas and women of that kind who are

+loved for their beauty. But do I love my wife? I don’t love her, but...

+I don’t know how to put it. Without you, or when something comes between

+us like this, I seem lost and can’t do anything. Now do I love my

+finger? I don’t love it, but just try to cut it off!”

+

+“I’m not like that myself, but I understand. So you’re not angry with

+me?”

+

+“Awfully angry!” he said, smiling and getting up. And smoothing his hair

+he began to pace the room.

+

+“Do you know, Mary, what I’ve been thinking?” he began, immediately

+thinking aloud in his wife’s presence now that they had made it up.

+

+He did not ask if she was ready to listen to him. He did not care. A

+thought had occurred to him and so it belonged to her also. And he told

+her of his intention to persuade Pierre to stay with them till spring.

+

+Countess Mary listened till he had finished, made some remark, and in

+her turn began thinking aloud. Her thoughts were about the children.

+

+“You can see the woman in her already,” she said in French, pointing to

+little Natásha. “You reproach us women with being illogical. Here is our

+logic. I say: ‘Papa wants to sleep!’ but she says, ‘No, he’s laughing.’

+And she was right,” said Countess Mary with a happy smile.

+

+“Yes, yes.” And Nicholas, taking his little daughter in his strong hand,

+lifted her high, placed her on his shoulder, held her by the legs, and

+paced the room with her. There was an expression of carefree happiness

+on the faces of both father and daughter.

+

+“But you know you may be unfair. You are too fond of this one,” his wife

+whispered in French.

+

+“Yes, but what am I to do?... I try not to show...”

+

+At that moment they heard the sound of the door pulley and footsteps in

+the hall and anteroom, as if someone had arrived.

+

+“Somebody has come.”

+

+“I am sure it is Pierre. I will go and see,” said Countess Mary and left

+the room.

+

+In her absence Nicholas allowed himself to give his little daughter a

+gallop round the room. Out of breath, he took the laughing child quickly

+from his shoulder and pressed her to his heart. His capers reminded

+him of dancing, and looking at the child’s round happy little face he

+thought of what she would be like when he was an old man, taking her

+into society and dancing the mazurka with her as his old father had

+danced Daniel Cooper with his daughter.

+

+“It is he, it is he, Nicholas!” said Countess Mary, re-entering the room

+a few minutes later. “Now our Natásha has come to life. You should have

+seen her ecstasy, and how he caught it for having stayed away so long.

+Well, come along now, quick, quick! It’s time you two were parted,” she

+added, looking smilingly at the little girl who clung to her father.

+

+Nicholas went out holding the child by the hand.

+

+Countess Mary remained in the sitting room.

+

+“I should never, never have believed that one could be so happy,” she

+whispered to herself. A smile lit up her face but at the same time she

+sighed, and her deep eyes expressed a quiet sadness as though she

+felt, through her happiness, that there is another sort of happiness

+unattainable in this life and of which she involuntarily thought at that

+instant.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER X

+

+Natásha had married in the early spring of 1813, and in 1820 already had

+three daughters besides a son for whom she had longed and whom she was

+now nursing. She had grown stouter and broader, so that it was difficult

+to recognize in this robust, motherly woman the slim, lively Natásha of

+former days. Her features were more defined and had a calm, soft,

+and serene expression. In her face there was none of the ever-glowing

+animation that had formerly burned there and constituted its charm.

+Now her face and body were often all that one saw, and her soul was

+not visible at all. All that struck the eye was a strong, handsome, and

+fertile woman. The old fire very rarely kindled in her face now. That

+happened only when, as was the case that day, her husband returned home,

+or a sick child was convalescent, or when she and Countess Mary spoke of

+Prince Andrew (she never mentioned him to her husband, who she imagined

+was jealous of Prince Andrew’s memory), or on the rare occasions when

+something happened to induce her to sing, a practice she had quite

+abandoned since her marriage. At the rare moments when the old fire

+did kindle in her handsome, fully developed body she was even more

+attractive than in former days.

+

+Since their marriage Natásha and her husband had lived in Moscow, in

+Petersburg, on their estate near Moscow, or with her mother, that is to

+say, in Nicholas’ house. The young Countess Bezúkhova was not often seen

+in society, and those who met her there were not pleased with her

+and found her neither attractive nor amiable. Not that Natásha liked

+solitude—she did not know whether she liked it or not, she even thought

+that she did not—but with her pregnancies, her confinements, the nursing

+of her children, and sharing every moment of her husband’s life, she had

+demands on her time which could be satisfied only by renouncing society.

+All who had known Natásha before her marriage wondered at the change

+in her as at something extraordinary. Only the old countess with her

+maternal instinct had realized that all Natásha’s outbursts had been due

+to her need of children and a husband—as she herself had once exclaimed

+at Otrádnoe not so much in fun as in earnest—and her mother was now

+surprised at the surprise expressed by those who had never understood

+Natásha, and she kept saying that she had always known that Natásha

+would make an exemplary wife and mother.

+

+“Only she lets her love of her husband and children overflow all

+bounds,” said the countess, “so that it even becomes absurd.”

+

+Natásha did not follow the golden rule advocated by clever folk,

+especially by the French, which says that a girl should not let herself

+go when she marries, should not neglect her accomplishments, should be

+even more careful of her appearance than when she was unmarried, and

+should fascinate her husband as much as she did before he became her

+husband. Natásha on the contrary had at once abandoned all her witchery,

+of which her singing had been an unusually powerful part. She gave it up

+just because it was so powerfully seductive. She took no pains with

+her manners or with delicacy of speech, or with her toilet, or to show

+herself to her husband in her most becoming attitudes, or to avoid

+inconveniencing him by being too exacting. She acted in contradiction

+to all those rules. She felt that the allurements instinct had formerly

+taught her to use would now be merely ridiculous in the eyes of

+her husband, to whom she had from the first moment given herself up

+entirely—that is, with her whole soul, leaving no corner of it hidden

+from him. She felt that her unity with her husband was not maintained

+by the poetic feelings that had attracted him to her, but by something

+else—indefinite but firm as the bond between her own body and soul.

+

+To fluff out her curls, put on fashionable dresses, and sing romantic

+songs to fascinate her husband would have seemed as strange as to adorn

+herself to attract herself. To adorn herself for others might perhaps

+have been agreeable—she did not know—but she had no time at all for it.

+The chief reason for devoting no time either to singing, to dress, or

+to choosing her words was that she really had no time to spare for these

+things.

+

+We know that man has the faculty of becoming completely absorbed in

+a subject however trivial it may be, and that there is no subject so

+trivial that it will not grow to infinite proportions if one’s entire

+attention is devoted to it.

+

+The subject which wholly engrossed Natásha’s attention was her family:

+that is, her husband whom she had to keep so that he should belong

+entirely to her and to the home, and the children whom she had to bear,

+bring into the world, nurse, and bring up.

+

+And the deeper she penetrated, not with her mind only but with her whole

+soul, her whole being, into the subject that absorbed her, the larger

+did that subject grow and the weaker and more inadequate did her powers

+appear, so that she concentrated them wholly on that one thing and yet

+was unable to accomplish all that she considered necessary.

+

+There were then as now conversations and discussions about women’s

+rights, the relations of husband and wife and their freedom and rights,

+though these themes were not yet termed questions as they are now; but

+these topics were not merely uninteresting to Natásha, she positively

+did not understand them.

+

+These questions, then as now, existed only for those who see nothing in

+marriage but the pleasure married people get from one another, that is,

+only the beginnings of marriage and not its whole significance, which

+lies in the family.

+

+Discussions and questions of that kind, which are like the question of

+how to get the greatest gratification from one’s dinner, did not then

+and do not now exist for those for whom the purpose of a dinner is the

+nourishment it affords; and the purpose of marriage is the family.

+

+If the purpose of dinner is to nourish the body, a man who eats two

+dinners at once may perhaps get more enjoyment but will not attain his

+purpose, for his stomach will not digest the two dinners.

+

+If the purpose of marriage is the family, the person who wishes to have

+many wives or husbands may perhaps obtain much pleasure, but in that

+case will not have a family.

+

+If the purpose of food is nourishment and the purpose of marriage is the

+family, the whole question resolves itself into not eating more than one

+can digest, and not having more wives or husbands than are needed for

+the family—that is, one wife or one husband. Natásha needed a husband. A

+husband was given her and he gave her a family. And she not only saw no

+need of any other or better husband, but as all the powers of her soul

+were intent on serving that husband and family, she could not imagine

+and saw no interest in imagining how it would be if things were

+different.

+

+Natásha did not care for society in general, but prized the more the

+society of her relatives—Countess Mary, and her brother, her mother, and

+Sónya. She valued the company of those to whom she could come striding

+disheveled from the nursery in her dressing gown, and with joyful face

+show a yellow instead of a green stain on baby’s napkin, and from whom

+she could hear reassuring words to the effect that baby was much better.

+

+To such an extent had Natásha let herself go that the way she dressed

+and did her hair, her ill-chosen words, and her jealousy—she was jealous

+of Sónya, of the governess, and of every woman, pretty or plain—were

+habitual subjects of jest to those about her. The general opinion was

+that Pierre was under his wife’s thumb, which was really true. From the

+very first days of their married life Natásha had announced her demands.

+Pierre was greatly surprised by his wife’s view, to him a perfectly

+novel one, that every moment of his life belonged to her and to the

+family. His wife’s demands astonished him, but they also flattered him,

+and he submitted to them.

+

+Pierre’s subjection consisted in the fact that he not only dared not

+flirt with, but dared not even speak smilingly to, any other woman; did

+not dare dine at the Club as a pastime, did not dare spend money on a

+whim, and did not dare absent himself for any length of time, except on

+business—in which his wife included his intellectual pursuits, which

+she did not in the least understand but to which she attributed great

+importance. To make up for this, at home Pierre had the right to

+regulate his life and that of the whole family exactly as he chose. At

+home Natásha placed herself in the position of a slave to her husband,

+and the whole household went on tiptoe when he was occupied—that is, was

+reading or writing in his study. Pierre had but to show a partiality for

+anything to get just what he liked done always. He had only to express a

+wish and Natásha would jump up and run to fulfill it.

+

+The entire household was governed according to Pierre’s supposed orders,

+that is, by his wishes which Natásha tried to guess. Their way of

+life and place of residence, their acquaintances and ties, Natásha’s

+occupations, the children’s upbringing, were all selected not merely

+with regard to Pierre’s expressed wishes, but to what Natásha from the

+thoughts he expressed in conversation supposed his wishes to be. And she

+deduced the essentials of his wishes quite correctly, and having once

+arrived at them clung to them tenaciously. When Pierre himself wanted to

+change his mind she would fight him with his own weapons.

+

+Thus in a time of trouble ever memorable to him after the birth of their

+first child who was delicate, when they had to change the wet nurse

+three times and Natásha fell ill from despair, Pierre one day told her

+of Rousseau’s view, with which he quite agreed, that to have a wet

+nurse is unnatural and harmful. When her next baby was born, despite

+the opposition of her mother, the doctors, and even of her husband

+himself—who were all vigorously opposed to her nursing her baby herself,

+a thing then unheard of and considered injurious—she insisted on having

+her own way, and after that nursed all her babies herself.

+

+It very often happened that in a moment of irritation husband and wife

+would have a dispute, but long afterwards Pierre to his surprise and

+delight would find in his wife’s ideas and actions the very thought

+against which she had argued, but divested of everything superfluous

+that in the excitement of the dispute he had added when expressing his

+opinion.

+

+After seven years of marriage Pierre had the joyous and firm

+consciousness that he was not a bad man, and he felt this because he saw

+himself reflected in his wife. He felt the good and bad within himself

+inextricably mingled and overlapping. But only what was really good in

+him was reflected in his wife, all that was not quite good was rejected.

+And this was not the result of logical reasoning but was a direct and

+mysterious reflection.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XI

+

+Two months previously when Pierre was already staying with the Rostóvs

+he had received a letter from Prince Theodore, asking him to come

+to Petersburg to confer on some important questions that were being

+discussed there by a society of which Pierre was one of the principal

+founders.

+

+On reading that letter (she always read her husband’s letters) Natásha

+herself suggested that he should go to Petersburg, though she would feel

+his absence very acutely. She attributed immense importance to all

+her husband’s intellectual and abstract interests though she did not

+understand them, and she always dreaded being a hindrance to him in such

+matters. To Pierre’s timid look of inquiry after reading the letter she

+replied by asking him to go, but to fix a definite date for his return.

+He was given four weeks’ leave of absence.

+

+Ever since that leave of absence had expired, more than a fortnight

+before, Natásha had been in a constant state of alarm, depression, and

+irritability.

+

+Denísov, now a general on the retired list and much dissatisfied with

+the present state of affairs, had arrived during that fortnight. He

+looked at Natásha with sorrow and surprise as at a bad likeness of a

+person once dear. A dull, dejected look, random replies, and talk about

+the nursery was all he saw and heard from his former enchantress.

+

+Natásha was sad and irritable all that time, especially when her mother,

+her brother, Sónya, or Countess Mary in their efforts to console her

+tried to excuse Pierre and suggested reasons for his delay in returning.

+

+“It’s all nonsense, all rubbish—those discussions which lead to nothing

+and all those idiotic societies!” Natásha declared of the very affairs

+in the immense importance of which she firmly believed.

+

+And she would go to the nursery to nurse Pétya, her only boy. No one

+else could tell her anything so comforting or so reasonable as this

+little three-month-old creature when he lay at her breast and she was

+conscious of the movement of his lips and the snuffling of his little

+nose. That creature said: “You are angry, you are jealous, you would

+like to pay him out, you are afraid—but here am I! And I am he...” and

+that was unanswerable. It was more than true.

+

+During that fortnight of anxiety Natásha resorted to the baby for

+comfort so often, and fussed over him so much, that she overfed him and

+he fell ill. She was terrified by his illness, and yet that was just

+what she needed. While attending to him she bore the anxiety about her

+husband more easily.

+

+She was nursing her boy when the sound of Pierre’s sleigh was heard

+at the front door, and the old nurse—knowing how to please her

+mistress—entered the room inaudibly but hurriedly and with a beaming

+face.

+

+“Has he come?” Natásha asked quickly in a whisper, afraid to move lest

+she should rouse the dozing baby.

+

+“He’s come, ma’am,” whispered the nurse.

+

+The blood rushed to Natásha’s face and her feet involuntarily moved, but

+she could not jump up and run out. The baby again opened his eyes and

+looked at her. “You’re here?” he seemed to be saying, and again lazily

+smacked his lips.

+

+Cautiously withdrawing her breast, Natásha rocked him a little, handed

+him to the nurse, and went with rapid steps toward the door. But at the

+door she stopped as if her conscience reproached her for having in

+her joy left the child too soon, and she glanced round. The nurse with

+raised elbows was lifting the infant over the rail of his cot.

+

+“Go, ma’am! Don’t worry, go!” she whispered, smiling, with the kind of

+familiarity that grows up between a nurse and her mistress.

+

+Natásha ran with light footsteps to the anteroom.

+

+Denísov, who had come out of the study into the dancing room with his

+pipe, now for the first time recognized the old Natásha. A flood of

+brilliant, joyful light poured from her transfigured face.

+

+“He’s come!” she exclaimed as she ran past, and Denísov felt that he too

+was delighted that Pierre, whom he did not much care for, had returned.

+

+On reaching the vestibule Natásha saw a tall figure in a fur coat

+unwinding his scarf. “It’s he! It’s really he! He has come!” she said

+to herself, and rushing at him embraced him, pressed his head to her

+breast, and then pushed him back and gazed at his ruddy, happy face,

+covered with hoarfrost. “Yes, it is he, happy and contented....”

+

+Then all at once she remembered the tortures of suspense she had

+experienced for the last fortnight, and the joy that had lit up her

+face vanished; she frowned and overwhelmed Pierre with a torrent of

+reproaches and angry words.

+

+“Yes, it’s all very well for you. You are pleased, you’ve had a good

+time.... But what about me? You might at least have shown consideration

+for the children. I am nursing and my milk was spoiled.... Pétya was at

+death’s door. But you were enjoying yourself. Yes, enjoying...”

+

+Pierre knew he was not to blame, for he could not have come sooner; he

+knew this outburst was unseemly and would blow over in a minute or two;

+above all he knew that he himself was bright and happy. He wanted

+to smile but dared not even think of doing so. He made a piteous,

+frightened face and bent down.

+

+“I could not, on my honor. But how is Pétya?”

+

+“All right now. Come along! I wonder you’re not ashamed! If only you

+could see what I was like without you, how I suffered!”

+

+“You are well?”

+

+“Come, come!” she said, not letting go of his arm. And they went to

+their rooms.

+

+When Nicholas and his wife came to look for Pierre he was in the nursery

+holding his baby son, who was again awake, on his huge right palm and

+dandling him. A blissful bright smile was fixed on the baby’s broad face

+with its toothless open mouth. The storm was long since over and there

+was bright, joyous sunshine on Natásha’s face as she gazed tenderly at

+her husband and child.

+

+“And have you talked everything well over with Prince Theodore?” she

+asked.

+

+“Yes, capitally.”

+

+“You see, he holds it up.” (She meant the baby’s head.) “But how he did

+frighten me... You’ve seen the princess? Is it true she’s in love with

+that...”

+

+“Yes, just fancy...”

+

+At that moment Nicholas and Countess Mary came in. Pierre with the baby

+on his hand stooped, kissed them, and replied to their inquiries. But

+in spite of much that was interesting and had to be discussed, the baby

+with the little cap on its unsteady head evidently absorbed all his

+attention.

+

+“How sweet!” said Countess Mary, looking at and playing with the baby.

+“Now, Nicholas,” she added, turning to her husband, “I can’t understand

+how it is you don’t see the charm of these delicious marvels.”

+

+“I don’t and can’t,” replied Nicholas, looking coldly at the baby. “A

+lump of flesh. Come along, Pierre!”

+

+“And yet he’s such an affectionate father,” said Countess Mary,

+vindicating her husband, “but only after they are a year old or so...”

+

+“Now, Pierre nurses them splendidly,” said Natásha. “He says his hand is

+just made for a baby’s seat. Just look!”

+

+“Only not for this...” Pierre suddenly exclaimed with a laugh, and

+shifting the baby he gave him to the nurse.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XII

+

+As in every large household, there were at Bald Hills several perfectly

+distinct worlds which merged into one harmonious whole, though each

+retained its own peculiarities and made concessions to the others. Every

+event, joyful or sad, that took place in that house was important to all

+these worlds, but each had its own special reasons to rejoice or grieve

+over that occurrence independently of the others.

+

+For instance, Pierre’s return was a joyful and important event and they

+all felt it to be so.

+

+The servants—the most reliable judges of their masters because they

+judge not by their conversation or expressions of feeling but by their

+acts and way of life—were glad of Pierre’s return because they knew that

+when he was there Count Nicholas would cease going every day to attend

+to the estate, and would be in better spirits and temper, and also

+because they would all receive handsome presents for the holidays.

+

+The children and their governesses were glad of Pierre’s return because

+no one else drew them into the social life of the household as he did.

+He alone could play on the clavichord that écossaise (his only piece)

+to which, as he said, all possible dances could be danced, and they felt

+sure he had brought presents for them all.

+

+Young Nicholas, now a slim lad of fifteen, delicate and intelligent,

+with curly light-brown hair and beautiful eyes, was delighted because

+Uncle Pierre as he called him was the object of his rapturous and

+passionate affection. No one had instilled into him this love for Pierre

+whom he saw only occasionally. Countess Mary who had brought him up

+had done her utmost to make him love her husband as she loved him, and

+little Nicholas did love his uncle, but loved him with just a shade of

+contempt. Pierre, however, he adored. He did not want to be an hussar or

+a Knight of St. George like his uncle Nicholas; he wanted to be learned,

+wise, and kind like Pierre. In Pierre’s presence his face always shone

+with pleasure and he flushed and was breathless when Pierre spoke to

+him. He did not miss a single word he uttered, and would afterwards,

+with Dessalles or by himself, recall and reconsider the meaning of

+everything Pierre had said. Pierre’s past life and his unhappiness prior

+to 1812 (of which young Nicholas had formed a vague poetic picture from

+some words he had overheard), his adventures in Moscow, his captivity,

+Platón Karatáev (of whom he had heard from Pierre), his love for Natásha

+(of whom the lad was also particularly fond), and especially Pierre’s

+friendship with the father whom Nicholas could not remember—all this

+made Pierre in his eyes a hero and a saint.

+

+From broken remarks about Natásha and his father, from the emotion with

+which Pierre spoke of that dead father, and from the careful, reverent

+tenderness with which Natásha spoke of him, the boy, who was only just

+beginning to guess what love is, derived the notion that his father had

+loved Natásha and when dying had left her to his friend. But the father

+whom the boy did not remember appeared to him a divinity who could not

+be pictured, and of whom he never thought without a swelling heart and

+tears of sadness and rapture. So the boy also was happy that Pierre had

+arrived.

+

+The guests welcomed Pierre because he always helped to enliven and unite

+any company he was in.

+

+The grown-up members of the family, not to mention his wife, were

+pleased to have back a friend whose presence made life run more smoothly

+and peacefully.

+

+The old ladies were pleased with the presents he brought them, and

+especially that Natásha would now be herself again.

+

+Pierre felt the different outlooks of these various worlds and made

+haste to satisfy all their expectations.

+

+Though the most absent-minded and forgetful of men, Pierre, with the aid

+of a list his wife drew up, had now bought everything, not forgetting

+his mother—and brother-in-law’s commissions, nor the dress material for

+a present to Belóva, nor toys for his wife’s nephews. In the early days

+of his marriage it had seemed strange to him that his wife should expect

+him not to forget to procure all the things he undertook to buy, and he

+had been taken aback by her serious annoyance when on his first trip he

+forgot everything. But in time he grew used to this demand. Knowing that

+Natásha asked nothing for herself, and gave him commissions for others

+only when he himself had offered to undertake them, he now found an

+unexpected and childlike pleasure in this purchase of presents for

+everyone in the house, and never forgot anything. If he now incurred

+Natásha’s censure it was only for buying too many and too expensive

+things. To her other defects (as most people thought them, but which

+to Pierre were qualities) of untidiness and neglect of herself, she now

+added stinginess.

+

+From the time that Pierre began life as a family man on a footing

+entailing heavy expenditure, he had noticed to his surprise that he

+spent only half as much as before, and that his affairs—which had been

+in disorder of late, chiefly because of his first wife’s debts—had begun

+to improve.

+

+Life was cheaper because it was circumscribed: that most expensive

+luxury, the kind of life that can be changed at any moment, was no

+longer his nor did he wish for it. He felt that his way of life had now

+been settled once for all till death and that to change it was not in

+his power, and so that way of life proved economical.

+

+With a merry, smiling face Pierre was sorting his purchases.

+

+“What do you think of this?” said he, unrolling a piece of stuff like a

+shopman.

+

+Natásha, who was sitting opposite to him with her eldest daughter on her

+lap, turned her sparkling eyes swiftly from her husband to the things he

+showed her.

+

+“That’s for Belóva? Excellent!” She felt the quality of the material.

+“It was a ruble an arshin, I suppose?”

+

+Pierre told her the price.

+

+“Too dear!” Natásha remarked. “How pleased the children will be and

+Mamma too! Only you need not have bought me this,” she added, unable to

+suppress a smile as she gazed admiringly at a gold comb set with pearls,

+of a kind then just coming into fashion.

+

+“Adèle tempted me: she kept on telling me to buy it,” returned Pierre.

+

+“When am I to wear it?” and Natásha stuck it in her coil of hair. “When

+I take little Másha into society? Perhaps they will be fashionable again

+by then. Well, let’s go now.”

+

+And collecting the presents they went first to the nursery and then to

+the old countess’ rooms.

+

+The countess was sitting with her companion Belóva, playing

+grand-patience as usual, when Pierre and Natásha came into the drawing

+room with parcels under their arms.

+

+The countess was now over sixty, was quite gray, and wore a cap with a

+frill that surrounded her face. Her face had shriveled, her upper lip

+had sunk in, and her eyes were dim.

+

+After the deaths of her son and husband in such rapid succession, she

+felt herself a being accidentally forgotten in this world and left

+without aim or object for her existence. She ate, drank, slept, or kept

+awake, but did not live. Life gave her no new impressions. She wanted

+nothing from life but tranquillity, and that tranquillity only death

+could give her. But until death came she had to go on living, that is,

+to use her vital forces. A peculiarity one sees in very young children

+and very old people was particularly evident in her. Her life had

+no external aims—only a need to exercise her various functions and

+inclinations was apparent. She had to eat, sleep, think, speak, weep,

+work, give vent to her anger, and so on, merely because she had a

+stomach, a brain, muscles, nerves, and a liver. She did these things not

+under any external impulse as people in the full vigor of life do,

+when behind the purpose for which they strive that of exercising their

+functions remains unnoticed. She talked only because she physically

+needed to exercise her tongue and lungs. She cried as a child does,

+because her nose had to be cleared, and so on. What for people in their

+full vigor is an aim was for her evidently merely a pretext.

+

+Thus in the morning—especially if she had eaten anything rich the day

+before—she felt a need of being angry and would choose as the handiest

+pretext Belóva’s deafness.

+

+She would begin to say something to her in a low tone from the other end

+of the room.

+

+“It seems a little warmer today, my dear,” she would murmur.

+

+And when Belóva replied: “Oh yes, they’ve come,” she would mutter

+angrily: “O Lord! How stupid and deaf she is!”

+

+Another pretext would be her snuff, which would seem too dry or too damp

+or not rubbed fine enough. After these fits of irritability her face

+would grow yellow, and her maids knew by infallible symptoms when Belóva

+would again be deaf, the snuff damp, and the countess’ face yellow. Just

+as she needed to work off her spleen so she had sometimes to exercise

+her still-existing faculty of thinking—and the pretext for that was a

+game of patience. When she needed to cry, the deceased count would be

+the pretext. When she wanted to be agitated, Nicholas and his health

+would be the pretext, and when she felt a need to speak spitefully, the

+pretext would be Countess Mary. When her vocal organs needed exercise,

+which was usually toward seven o’clock when she had had an after-dinner

+rest in a darkened room, the pretext would be the retelling of the same

+stories over and over again to the same audience.

+

+The old lady’s condition was understood by the whole household though no

+one ever spoke of it, and they all made every possible effort to satisfy

+her needs. Only by a rare glance exchanged with a sad smile

+between Nicholas, Pierre, Natásha, and Countess Mary was the common

+understanding of her condition expressed.

+

+But those glances expressed something more: they said that she had

+played her part in life, that what they now saw was not her whole self,

+that we must all become like her, and that they were glad to yield to

+her, to restrain themselves for this once precious being formerly as

+full of life as themselves, but now so much to be pitied. “Memento

+mori,” said these glances.

+

+Only the really heartless, the stupid ones of that household, and the

+little children failed to understand this and avoided her.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XIII

+

+When Pierre and his wife entered the drawing room the countess was in

+one of her customary states in which she needed the mental exertion of

+playing patience, and so—though by force of habit she greeted him with

+the words she always used when Pierre or her son returned after an

+absence: “High time, my dear, high time! We were all weary of waiting

+for you. Well, thank God!” and received her presents with another

+customary remark: “It’s not the gift that’s precious, my dear, but that

+you give it to me, an old woman...”—yet it was evident that she was

+not pleased by Pierre’s arrival at that moment when it diverted her

+attention from the unfinished game.

+

+She finished her game of patience and only then examined the presents.

+They consisted of a box for cards, of splendid workmanship, a

+bright-blue Sèvres tea cup with shepherdesses depicted on it and with

+a lid, and a gold snuffbox with the count’s portrait on the lid which

+Pierre had had done by a miniaturist in Petersburg. The countess had

+long wished for such a box, but as she did not want to cry just then she

+glanced indifferently at the portrait and gave her attention chiefly to

+the box for cards.

+

+“Thank you, my dear, you have cheered me up,” said she as she always

+did. “But best of all you have brought yourself back—for I never saw

+anything like it, you ought to give your wife a scolding! What are we

+to do with her? She is like a mad woman when you are away. Doesn’t see

+anything, doesn’t remember anything,” she went on, repeating her usual

+phrases. “Look, Anna Timoféevna,” she added to her companion, “see what

+a box for cards my son has brought us!”

+

+Belóva admired the presents and was delighted with her dress material.

+

+Though Pierre, Natásha, Nicholas, Countess Mary, and Denísov had much to

+talk about that they could not discuss before the old countess—not

+that anything was hidden from her, but because she had dropped so

+far behindhand in many things that had they begun to converse in her

+presence they would have had to answer inopportune questions and to

+repeat what they had already told her many times: that so-and-so was

+dead and so-and-so was married, which she would again be unable to

+remember—yet they sat at tea round the samovar in the drawing room from

+habit, and Pierre answered the countess’ questions as to whether Prince

+Vasíli had aged and whether Countess Mary Alexéevna had sent greetings

+and still thought of them, and other matters that interested no one and

+to which she herself was indifferent.

+

+Conversation of this kind, interesting to no one yet unavoidable,

+continued all through teatime. All the grown-up members of the family

+were assembled near the round tea table at which Sónya presided beside

+the samovar. The children with their tutors and governesses had had

+tea and their voices were audible from the next room. At tea all sat

+in their accustomed places: Nicholas beside the stove at a small table

+where his tea was handed to him; Mílka, the old gray borzoi bitch

+(daughter of the first Mílka), with a quite gray face and large black

+eyes that seemed more prominent than ever, lay on the armchair beside

+him; Denísov, whose curly hair, mustache, and whiskers had turned half

+gray, sat beside countess Mary with his general’s tunic unbuttoned;

+Pierre sat between his wife and the old countess. He spoke of what he

+knew might interest the old lady and that she could understand. He

+told her of external social events and of the people who had formed

+the circle of her contemporaries and had once been a real, living, and

+distinct group, but who were now for the most part scattered about the

+world and like herself were garnering the last ears of the harvests they

+had sown in earlier years. But to the old countess those contemporaries

+of hers seemed to be the only serious and real society. Natásha saw by

+Pierre’s animation that his visit had been interesting and that he had

+much to tell them but dare not say it before the old countess. Denísov,

+not being a member of the family, did not understand Pierre’s caution

+and being, as a malcontent, much interested in what was occurring in

+Petersburg, kept urging Pierre to tell them about what had happened in

+the Semënovsk regiment, then about Arakchéev, and then about the Bible

+Society. Once or twice Pierre was carried away and began to speak of

+these things, but Nicholas and Natásha always brought him back to the

+health of Prince Iván and Countess Mary Alexéevna.

+

+“Well, and all this idiocy—Gossner and Tatáwinova?” Denísov asked. “Is

+that weally still going on?”

+

+“Going on?” Pierre exclaimed. “Why more than ever! The Bible Society is

+the whole government now!”

+

+“What is that, mon cher ami?” asked the countess, who had finished her

+tea and evidently needed a pretext for being angry after her meal. “What

+are you saying about the government? I don’t understand.”

+

+“Well, you know, Maman,” Nicholas interposed, knowing how to translate

+things into his mother’s language, “Prince Alexander Golítsyn has

+founded a society and in consequence has great influence, they say.”

+

+“Arakchéev and Golítsyn,” incautiously remarked Pierre, “are now the

+whole government! And what a government! They see treason everywhere and

+are afraid of everything.”

+

+“Well, and how is Prince Alexander to blame? He is a most estimable

+man. I used to meet him at Mary Antónovna’s,” said the countess in an

+offended tone; and still more offended that they all remained silent,

+she went on: “Nowadays everyone finds fault. A Gospel Society! Well, and

+what harm is there in that?” and she rose (everybody else got up too)

+and with a severe expression sailed back to her table in the sitting

+room.

+

+The melancholy silence that followed was broken by the sounds of the

+children’s voices and laughter from the next room. Evidently some jolly

+excitement was going on there.

+

+“Finished, finished!” little Natásha’s gleeful yell rose above them all.

+

+Pierre exchanged glances with Countess Mary and Nicholas (Natásha he

+never lost sight of) and smiled happily.

+

+“That’s delightful music!” said he.

+

+“It means that Anna Makárovna has finished her stocking,” said Countess

+Mary.

+

+“Oh, I’ll go and see,” said Pierre, jumping up. “You know,” he added,

+stopping at the door, “why I’m especially fond of that music? It is

+always the first thing that tells me all is well. When I was driving

+here today, the nearer I got to the house the more anxious I grew. As I

+entered the anteroom I heard Andrúsha’s peals of laughter and that meant

+that all was well.”

+

+“I know! I know that feeling,” said Nicholas. “But I mustn’t go

+there—those stockings are to be a surprise for me.”

+

+Pierre went to the children, and the shouting and laughter grew still

+louder.

+

+“Come, Anna Makárovna,” Pierre’s voice was heard saying, “come here into

+the middle of the room and at the word of command, ‘One, two,’ and

+when I say ‘three’... You stand here, and you in my arms—well now! One,

+two!...” said Pierre, and a silence followed: “three!” and a rapturously

+breathless cry of children’s voices filled the room. “Two, two!” they

+shouted.

+

+This meant two stockings, which by a secret process known only to

+herself Anna Makárovna used to knit at the same time on the same

+needles, and which, when they were ready, she always triumphantly drew,

+one out of the other, in the children’s presence.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XIV

+

+Soon after this the children came in to say good night. They kissed

+everyone, the tutors and governesses made their bows, and they went out.

+Only young Nicholas and his tutor remained. Dessalles whispered to the

+boy to come downstairs.

+

+“No, Monsieur Dessalles, I will ask my aunt to let me stay,” replied

+Nicholas Bolkónski also in a whisper.

+

+“Ma tante, please let me stay,” said he, going up to his aunt.

+

+His face expressed entreaty, agitation, and ecstasy. Countess Mary

+glanced at him and turned to Pierre.

+

+“When you are here he can’t tear himself away,” she said.

+

+“I will bring him to you directly, Monsieur Dessalles. Good night!”

+said Pierre, giving his hand to the Swiss tutor, and he turned to young

+Nicholas with a smile. “You and I haven’t seen anything of one another

+yet.... How like he is growing, Mary!” he added, addressing Countess

+Mary.

+

+“Like my father?” asked the boy, flushing crimson and looking up at

+Pierre with bright, ecstatic eyes.

+

+Pierre nodded, and went on with what he had been saying when the

+children had interrupted. Countess Mary sat down doing woolwork; Natásha

+did not take her eyes off her husband. Nicholas and Denísov rose, asked

+for their pipes, smoked, went to fetch more tea from Sónya—who sat weary

+but resolute at the samovar—and questioned Pierre. The curly-headed,

+delicate boy sat with shining eyes unnoticed in a corner, starting

+every now and then and muttering something to himself, and evidently

+experiencing a new and powerful emotion as he turned his curly head,

+with his thin neck exposed by his turn-down collar, toward the place

+where Pierre sat.

+

+The conversation turned on the contemporary gossip about those in power,

+in which most people see the chief interest of home politics. Denísov,

+dissatisfied with the government on account of his own disappointments

+in the service, heard with pleasure of the things done in Petersburg

+which seemed to him stupid, and made forcible and sharp comments on what

+Pierre told them.

+

+“One used to have to be a German—now one must dance with Tatáwinova

+and Madame Kwüdener, and wead Ecka’tshausen and the bwethwen. Oh, they

+should let that fine fellow Bonaparte loose—he’d knock all this nonsense

+out of them! Fancy giving the command of the Semënov wegiment to a

+fellow like that Schwa’tz!” he cried.

+

+Nicholas, though free from Denísov’s readiness to find fault with

+everything, also thought that discussion of the government was a very

+serious and weighty matter, and the fact that A had been appointed

+Minister of This and B Governor General of That, and that the Emperor

+had said so-and-so and this minister so-and-so, seemed to him very

+important. And so he thought it necessary to take an interest in these

+things and to question Pierre. The questions put by these two kept the

+conversation from changing its ordinary character of gossip about the

+higher government circles.

+

+But Natásha, knowing all her husband’s ways and ideas, saw that he had

+long been wishing but had been unable to divert the conversation to

+another channel and express his own deeply felt idea for the sake of

+which he had gone to Petersburg to consult with his new friend Prince

+Theodore, and she helped him by asking how his affairs with Prince

+Theodore had gone.

+

+“What was it about?” asked Nicholas.

+

+“Always the same thing,” said Pierre, looking round at his listeners.

+“Everybody sees that things are going so badly that they cannot be

+allowed to go on so and that it is the duty of all decent men to

+counteract it as far as they can.”

+

+“What can decent men do?” Nicholas inquired, frowning slightly. “What

+can be done?”

+

+“Why, this...”

+

+“Come into my study,” said Nicholas.

+

+Natásha, who had long expected to be fetched to nurse her baby, now

+heard the nurse calling her and went to the nursery. Countess Mary

+followed her. The men went into the study and little Nicholas Bolkónski

+followed them unnoticed by his uncle and sat down at the writing table

+in a shady corner by the window.

+

+“Well, what would you do?” asked Denísov.

+

+“Always some fantastic schemes,” said Nicholas.

+

+“Why this,” began Pierre, not sitting down but pacing the room,

+sometimes stopping short, gesticulating, and lisping: “the position

+in Petersburg is this: the Emperor does not look into anything. He

+has abandoned himself altogether to this mysticism” (Pierre could not

+tolerate mysticism in anyone now). “He seeks only for peace, and only

+these people sans foi ni loi * can give it him—people who recklessly

+hack at and strangle everything—Magnítski, Arakchéev, and tutti

+quanti.... You will agree that if you did not look after your estates

+yourself but only wanted a quiet life, the harsher your steward was the

+more readily your object might be attained,” he said to Nicholas.

+

+    * Without faith or law.

+

+“Well, what does that lead up to?” said Nicholas.

+

+“Well, everything is going to ruin! Robbery in the law courts, in the

+army nothing but flogging, drilling, and Military Settlements; the

+people are tortured, enlightenment is suppressed. All that is young and

+honest is crushed! Everyone sees that this cannot go on. Everything is

+strained to such a degree that it will certainly break,” said Pierre (as

+those who examine the actions of any government have always said since

+governments began). “I told them just one thing in Petersburg.”

+

+“Told whom?”

+

+“Well, you know whom,” said Pierre, with a meaning glance from under

+his brows. “Prince Theodore and all those. To encourage culture and

+philanthropy is all very well of course. The aim is excellent but in the

+present circumstances something else is needed.”

+

+At that moment Nicholas noticed the presence of his nephew. His face

+darkened and he went up to the boy.

+

+“Why are you here?”

+

+“Why? Let him be,” said Pierre, taking Nicholas by the arm and

+continuing. “That is not enough, I told them. Something else is needed.

+When you stand expecting the overstrained string to snap at any moment,

+when everyone is expecting the inevitable catastrophe, as many as

+possible must join hands as closely as they can to withstand the general

+calamity. Everything that is young and strong is being enticed away and

+depraved. One is lured by women, another by honors, a third by ambition

+or money, and they go over to that camp. No independent men, such as you

+or I, are left. What I say is widen the scope of our society, let the

+mot d’ordre be not virtue alone but independence and action as well!”

+

+Nicholas, who had left his nephew, irritably pushed up an armchair, sat

+down in it, and listened to Pierre, coughing discontentedly and frowning

+more and more.

+

+“But action with what aim?” he cried. “And what position will you adopt

+toward the government?”

+

+“Why, the position of assistants. The society need not be secret if the

+government allows it. Not merely is it not hostile to government, but

+it is a society of true conservatives—a society of gentlemen in the full

+meaning of that word. It is only to prevent some Pugachëv or other from

+killing my children and yours, and Arakchéev from sending me off to some

+Military Settlement. We join hands only for the public welfare and the

+general safety.”

+

+“Yes, but it’s a secret society and therefore a hostile and harmful one

+which can only cause harm.”

+

+“Why? Did the Tugendbund which saved Europe” (they did not then venture

+to suggest that Russia had saved Europe) “do any harm? The Tugendbund

+is an alliance of virtue: it is love, mutual help... it is what Christ

+preached on the Cross.”

+

+Natásha, who had come in during the conversation, looked joyfully at

+her husband. It was not what he was saying that pleased her—that did not

+even interest her, for it seemed to her that was all extremely simple

+and that she had known it a long time (it seemed so to her because she

+knew that it sprang from Pierre’s whole soul), but it was his animated

+and enthusiastic appearance that made her glad.

+

+The boy with the thin neck stretching out from the turn-down collar—whom

+everyone had forgotten—gazed at Pierre with even greater and more

+rapturous joy. Every word of Pierre’s burned into his heart, and with a

+nervous movement of his fingers he unconsciously broke the sealing wax

+and quill pens his hands came upon on his uncle’s table.

+

+“It is not at all what you suppose; but that is what the German

+Tugendbund was, and what I am proposing.”

+

+“No, my fwiend! The Tugendbund is all vewy well for the sausage eaters,

+but I don’t understand it and can’t even pwonounce it,” interposed

+Denísov in a loud and resolute voice. “I agwee that evewything here is

+wotten and howwible, but the Tugendbund I don’t understand. If we’re

+not satisfied, let us have a bunt of our own. That’s all wight. Je suis

+vot’e homme!” *

+

+    * “I’m your man.”

+

+

+Pierre smiled, Natásha began to laugh, but Nicholas knitted his brows

+still more and began proving to Pierre that there was no prospect of

+any great change and that all the danger he spoke of existed only in his

+imagination. Pierre maintained the contrary, and as his mental faculties

+were greater and more resourceful, Nicholas felt himself cornered. This

+made him still angrier, for he was fully convinced, not by reasoning

+but by something within him stronger than reason, of the justice of his

+opinion.

+

+“I will tell you this,” he said, rising and trying with nervously

+twitching fingers to prop up his pipe in a corner, but finally

+abandoning the attempt. “I can’t prove it to you. You say that

+everything here is rotten and that an overthrow is coming: I don’t

+see it. But you also say that our oath of allegiance is a conditional

+matter, and to that I reply: ‘You are my best friend, as you know,

+but if you formed a secret society and began working against the

+government—be it what it may—I know it is my duty to obey the

+government. And if Arakchéev ordered me to lead a squadron against you

+and cut you down, I should not hesitate an instant, but should do it.’

+And you may argue about that as you like!”

+

+An awkward silence followed these words. Natásha was the first to speak,

+defending her husband and attacking her brother. Her defense was weak

+and inapt but she attained her object. The conversation was resumed, and

+no longer in the unpleasantly hostile tone of Nicholas’ last remark.

+

+When they all got up to go in to supper, little Nicholas Bolkónski went

+up to Pierre, pale and with shining, radiant eyes.

+

+“Uncle Pierre, you... no... If Papa were alive... would he agree with

+you?” he asked.

+

+And Pierre suddenly realized what a special, independent, complex, and

+powerful process of thought and feeling must have been going on in

+this boy during that conversation, and remembering all he had said he

+regretted that the lad should have heard him. He had, however, to give

+him an answer.

+

+“Yes, I think so,” he said reluctantly, and left the study.

+

+The lad looked down and seemed now for the first time to notice what he

+had done to the things on the table. He flushed and went up to Nicholas.

+

+“Uncle, forgive me, I did that... unintentionally,” he said, pointing to

+the broken sealing wax and pens.

+

+Nicholas started angrily.

+

+“All right, all right,” he said, throwing the bits under the table.

+

+And evidently suppressing his vexation with difficulty, he turned away

+from the boy.

+

+“You ought not to have been here at all,” he said.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XV

+

+The conversation at supper was not about politics or societies, but

+turned on the subject Nicholas liked best—recollections of 1812. Denísov

+started these and Pierre was particularly agreeable and amusing about

+them. The family separated on the most friendly terms.

+

+After supper Nicholas, having undressed in his study and given

+instructions to the steward who had been waiting for him, went to the

+bedroom in his dressing gown, where he found his wife still at her

+table, writing.

+

+“What are you writing, Mary?” Nicholas asked.

+

+Countess Mary blushed. She was afraid that what she was writing would

+not be understood or approved by her husband.

+

+She had wanted to conceal what she was writing from him, but at the same

+time was glad he had surprised her at it and that she would now have to

+tell him.

+

+“A diary, Nicholas,” she replied, handing him a blue exercise book

+filled with her firm, bold writing.

+

+“A diary?” Nicholas repeated with a shade of irony, and he took up the

+book.

+

+It was in French.

+

+

+December 4. Today when Andrúsha (her eldest boy) woke up he did not

+wish to dress and Mademoiselle Louise sent for me. He was naughty and

+obstinate. I tried threats, but he only grew angrier. Then I took the

+matter in hand: I left him alone and began with nurse’s help to get the

+other children up, telling him that I did not love him. For a long time

+he was silent, as if astonished, then he jumped out of bed, ran to me in

+his shirt, and sobbed so that I could not calm him for a long time.

+It was plain that what troubled him most was that he had grieved me.

+Afterwards in the evening when I gave him his ticket, he again began

+crying piteously and kissing me. One can do anything with him by

+tenderness.

+

+

+“What is a ‘ticket’?” Nicholas inquired.

+

+“I have begun giving the elder ones marks every evening, showing how

+they have behaved.”

+

+Nicholas looked into the radiant eyes that were gazing at him, and

+continued to turn over the pages and read. In the diary was set down

+everything in the children’s lives that seemed noteworthy to their

+mother as showing their characters or suggesting general reflections

+on educational methods. They were for the most part quite insignificant

+trifles, but did not seem so to the mother or to the father either, now

+that he read this diary about his children for the first time.

+

+Under the date “5” was entered:

+

+

+Mítya was naughty at table. Papa said he was to have no pudding. He had

+none, but looked so unhappily and greedily at the others while they were

+eating! I think that punishment by depriving children of sweets only

+develops their greediness. Must tell Nicholas this.

+

+Nicholas put down the book and looked at his wife. The radiant eyes

+gazed at him questioningly: would he approve or disapprove of her

+diary? There could be no doubt not only of his approval but also of his

+admiration for his wife.

+

+Perhaps it need not be done so pedantically, thought Nicholas, or even

+done at all, but this untiring, continual spiritual effort of which the

+sole aim was the children’s moral welfare delighted him. Had Nicholas

+been able to analyze his feelings he would have found that his steady,

+tender, and proud love of his wife rested on his feeling of wonder at

+her spirituality and at the lofty moral world, almost beyond his reach,

+in which she had her being.

+

+He was proud of her intelligence and goodness, recognized his own

+insignificance beside her in the spiritual world, and rejoiced all the

+more that she with such a soul not only belonged to him but was part of

+himself.

+

+“I quite, quite approve, my dearest!” said he with a significant look,

+and after a short pause he added: “And I behaved badly today. You

+weren’t in the study. We began disputing—Pierre and I—and I lost my

+temper. But he is impossible: such a child! I don’t know what would

+become of him if Natásha didn’t keep him in hand.... Have you any idea

+why he went to Petersburg? They have formed...”

+

+“Yes, I know,” said Countess Mary. “Natásha told me.”

+

+“Well, then, you know,” Nicholas went on, growing hot at the mere

+recollection of their discussion, “he wanted to convince me that it is

+every honest man’s duty to go against the government, and that the oath

+of allegiance and duty... I am sorry you weren’t there. They all fell on

+me—Denísov and Natásha... Natásha is absurd. How she rules over him! And

+yet there need only be a discussion and she has no words of her own

+but only repeats his sayings...” added Nicholas, yielding to that

+irresistible inclination which tempts us to judge those nearest and

+dearest to us. He forgot that what he was saying about Natásha could

+have been applied word for word to himself in relation to his wife.

+

+“Yes, I have noticed that,” said Countess Mary.

+

+“When I told him that duty and the oath were above everything, he

+started proving goodness knows what! A pity you were not there—what

+would you have said?”

+

+“As I see it you were quite right, and I told Natásha so. Pierre says

+everybody is suffering, tortured, and being corrupted, and that it

+is our duty to help our neighbor. Of course he is right there,” said

+Countess Mary, “but he forgets that we have other duties nearer to us,

+duties indicated to us by God Himself, and that though we might expose

+ourselves to risks we must not risk our children.”

+

+“Yes, that’s it! That’s just what I said to him,” put in Nicholas, who

+fancied he really had said it. “But they insisted on their own view:

+love of one’s neighbor and Christianity—and all this in the presence of

+young Nicholas, who had gone into my study and broke all my things.”

+

+“Ah, Nicholas, do you know I am often troubled about little Nicholas,”

+said Countess Mary. “He is such an exceptional boy. I am afraid I

+neglect him in favor of my own: we all have children and relations while

+he has no one. He is constantly alone with his thoughts.”

+

+“Well, I don’t think you need reproach yourself on his account. All that

+the fondest mother could do for her son you have done and are doing for

+him, and of course I am glad of it. He is a fine lad, a fine lad! This

+evening he listened to Pierre in a sort of trance, and fancy—as we were

+going in to supper I looked and he had broken everything on my table to

+bits, and he told me of it himself at once! I never knew him to tell an

+untruth. A fine lad, a fine lad!” repeated Nicholas, who at heart was

+not fond of Nicholas Bolkónski but was always anxious to recognize that

+he was a fine lad.

+

+“Still, I am not the same as his own mother,” said Countess Mary. “I

+feel I am not the same and it troubles me. A wonderful boy, but I am

+dreadfully afraid for him. It would be good for him to have companions.”

+

+“Well it won’t be for long. Next summer I’ll take him to Petersburg,”

+said Nicholas. “Yes, Pierre always was a dreamer and always will be,”

+he continued, returning to the talk in the study which had evidently

+disturbed him. “Well, what business is it of mine what goes on

+there—whether Arakchéev is bad, and all that? What business was it of

+mine when I married and was so deep in debt that I was threatened with

+prison, and had a mother who could not see or understand it? And

+then there are you and the children and our affairs. Is it for my own

+pleasure that I am at the farm or in the office from morning to night?

+No, but I know I must work to comfort my mother, to repay you, and not

+to leave the children such beggars as I was.”

+

+Countess Mary wanted to tell him that man does not live by bread alone

+and that he attached too much importance to these matters. But she knew

+she must not say this and that it would be useless to do so. She only

+took his hand and kissed it. He took this as a sign of approval and

+a confirmation of his thoughts, and after a few minutes’ reflection

+continued to think aloud.

+

+“You know, Mary, today Elias Mitrofánych” (this was his overseer) “came

+back from the Tambóv estate and told me they are already offering eighty

+thousand rubles for the forest.”

+

+And with an eager face Nicholas began to speak of the possibility of

+repurchasing Otrádnoe before long, and added: “Another ten years of life

+and I shall leave the children... in an excellent position.”

+

+Countess Mary listened to her husband and understood all that he told

+her. She knew that when he thought aloud in this way he would sometimes

+ask her what he had been saying, and be vexed if he noticed that she

+had been thinking about something else. But she had to force herself to

+attend, for what he was saying did not interest her at all. She looked

+at him and did not think, but felt, about something different. She felt

+a submissive tender love for this man who would never understand all

+that she understood, and this seemed to make her love for him still

+stronger and added a touch of passionate tenderness. Besides this

+feeling which absorbed her altogether and hindered her from following

+the details of her husband’s plans, thoughts that had no connection with

+what he was saying flitted through her mind. She thought of her nephew.

+Her husband’s account of the boy’s agitation while Pierre was speaking

+struck her forcibly, and various traits of his gentle, sensitive

+character recurred to her mind; and while thinking of her nephew she

+thought also of her own children. She did not compare them with him, but

+compared her feeling for them with her feeling for him, and felt

+with regret that there was something lacking in her feeling for young

+Nicholas.

+

+Sometimes it seemed to her that this difference arose from the

+difference in their ages, but she felt herself to blame toward him and

+promised in her heart to do better and to accomplish the impossible—in

+this life to love her husband, her children, little Nicholas, and all

+her neighbors, as Christ loved mankind. Countess Mary’s soul always

+strove toward the infinite, the eternal, and the absolute, and could

+therefore never be at peace. A stern expression of the lofty, secret

+suffering of a soul burdened by the body appeared on her face. Nicholas

+gazed at her. “O God! What will become of us if she dies, as I always

+fear when her face is like that?” thought he, and placing himself before

+the icon he began to say his evening prayers.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XVI

+

+Natásha and Pierre, left alone, also began to talk as only a husband

+and wife can talk, that is, with extraordinary clearness and rapidity,

+understanding and expressing each other’s thoughts in ways contrary to

+all rules of logic, without premises, deductions, or conclusions, and in

+a quite peculiar way. Natásha was so used to this kind of talk with her

+husband that for her it was the surest sign of something being wrong

+between them if Pierre followed a line of logical reasoning. When he

+began proving anything, or talking argumentatively and calmly and she,

+led on by his example, began to do the same, she knew that they were on

+the verge of a quarrel.

+

+From the moment they were alone and Natásha came up to him with

+wide-open happy eyes, and quickly seizing his head pressed it to her

+bosom, saying: “Now you are all mine, mine! You won’t escape!”—from that

+moment this conversation began, contrary to all the laws of logic and

+contrary to them because quite different subjects were talked about at

+one and the same time. This simultaneous discussion of many topics did

+not prevent a clear understanding but on the contrary was the surest

+sign that they fully understood one another.

+

+Just as in a dream when all is uncertain, unreasoning, and

+contradictory, except the feeling that guides the dream, so in this

+intercourse contrary to all laws of reason, the words themselves were

+not consecutive and clear but only the feeling that prompted them.

+

+Natásha spoke to Pierre about her brother’s life and doings, of how she

+had suffered and lacked life during his own absence, and of how she

+was fonder than ever of Mary, and how Mary was in every way better than

+herself. In saying this Natásha was sincere in acknowledging Mary’s

+superiority, but at the same time by saying it she made a demand on

+Pierre that he should, all the same, prefer her to Mary and to all

+other women, and that now, especially after having seen many women in

+Petersburg, he should tell her so afresh.

+

+Pierre, answering Natásha’s words, told her how intolerable it had been

+for him to meet ladies at dinners and balls in Petersburg.

+

+“I have quite lost the knack of talking to ladies,” he said. “It was

+simply dull. Besides, I was very busy.”

+

+Natásha looked intently at him and went on:

+

+“Mary is so splendid,” she said. “How she understands children! It is as

+if she saw straight into their souls. Yesterday, for instance, Mítya was

+naughty...”

+

+“How like his father he is,” Pierre interjected.

+

+Natásha knew why he mentioned Mítya’s likeness to Nicholas: the

+recollection of his dispute with his brother-in-law was unpleasant and

+he wanted to know what Natásha thought of it.

+

+“Nicholas has the weakness of never agreeing with anything not generally

+accepted. But I understand that you value what opens up a fresh line,”

+said she, repeating words Pierre had once uttered.

+

+“No, the chief point is that to Nicholas ideas and discussions are

+an amusement—almost a pastime,” said Pierre. “For instance, he is

+collecting a library and has made it a rule not to buy a new book

+till he has read what he had already bought—Sismondi and Rousseau and

+Montesquieu,” he added with a smile. “You know how much I...” he began

+to soften down what he had said; but Natásha interrupted him to show

+that this was unnecessary.

+

+“So you say ideas are an amusement to him....”

+

+“Yes, and for me nothing else is serious. All the time in Petersburg I

+saw everyone as in a dream. When I am taken up by a thought, all else is

+mere amusement.”

+

+“Ah, I’m so sorry I wasn’t there when you met the children,” said

+Natásha. “Which was most delighted? Lisa, I’m sure.”

+

+“Yes,” Pierre replied, and went on with what was in his mind. “Nicholas

+says we ought not to think. But I can’t help it. Besides, when I was in

+Petersburg I felt (I can say this to you) that the whole affair would go

+to pieces without me—everyone was pulling his own way. But I succeeded

+in uniting them all; and then my idea is so clear and simple. You see,

+I don’t say that we ought to oppose this and that. We may be mistaken.

+What I say is: ‘Join hands, you who love the right, and let there be but

+one banner—that of active virtue.’ Prince Sergéy is a fine fellow and

+clever.”

+

+Natásha would have had no doubt as to the greatness of Pierre’s idea,

+but one thing disconcerted her. “Can a man so important and necessary to

+society be also my husband? How did this happen?” She wished to express

+this doubt to him. “Now who could decide whether he is really cleverer

+than all the others?” she asked herself, and passed in review all those

+whom Pierre most respected. Judging by what he had said there was no one

+he had respected so highly as Platón Karatáev.

+

+“Do you know what I am thinking about?” she asked. “About Platón

+Karatáev. Would he have approved of you now, do you think?”

+

+Pierre was not at all surprised at this question. He understood his

+wife’s line of thought.

+

+“Platón Karatáev?” he repeated, and pondered, evidently sincerely

+trying to imagine Karatáev’s opinion on the subject. “He would not have

+understood... yet perhaps he would.”

+

+“I love you awfully!” Natásha suddenly said. “Awfully, awfully!”

+

+“No, he would not have approved,” said Pierre, after reflection. “What

+he would have approved of is our family life. He was always so anxious

+to find seemliness, happiness, and peace in everything, and I should

+have been proud to let him see us. There now—you talk of my absence,

+but you wouldn’t believe what a special feeling I have for you after a

+separation....”

+

+“Yes, I should think...” Natásha began.

+

+“No, it’s not that. I never leave off loving you. And one couldn’t love

+more, but this is something special.... Yes, of course—” he did not

+finish because their eyes meeting said the rest.

+

+“What nonsense it is,” Natásha suddenly exclaimed, “about honeymoons,

+and that the greatest happiness is at first! On the contrary, now is

+the best of all. If only you did not go away! Do you remember how

+we quarreled? And it was always my fault. Always mine. And what we

+quarreled about—I don’t even remember!”

+

+“Always about the same thing,” said Pierre with a smile. “Jealo...”

+

+“Don’t say it! I can’t bear it!” Natásha cried, and her eyes glittered

+coldly and vindictively. “Did you see her?” she added, after a pause.

+

+“No, and if I had I shouldn’t have recognized her.”

+

+They were silent for a while.

+

+“Oh, do you know? While you were talking in the study I was looking at

+you,” Natásha began, evidently anxious to disperse the cloud that had

+come over them. “You are as like him as two peas—like the boy.” (She

+meant her little son.) “Oh, it’s time to go to him.... The milk’s

+come.... But I’m sorry to leave you.”

+

+They were silent for a few seconds. Then suddenly turning to one

+another at the same time they both began to speak. Pierre began with

+self-satisfaction and enthusiasm, Natásha with a quiet, happy smile.

+Having interrupted one another they both stopped to let the other

+continue.

+

+“No. What did you say? Go on, go on.”

+

+“No, you go on, I was talking nonsense,” said Natásha.

+

+Pierre finished what he had begun. It was the sequel to his complacent

+reflections on his success in Petersburg. At that moment it seemed to

+him that he was chosen to give a new direction to the whole of Russian

+society and to the whole world.

+

+“I only wished to say that ideas that have great results are always

+simple ones. My whole idea is that if vicious people are united and

+constitute a power, then honest folk must do the same. Now that’s simple

+enough.”

+

+“Yes.”

+

+“And what were you going to say?”

+

+“I? Only nonsense.”

+

+“But all the same?”

+

+“Oh nothing, only a trifle,” said Natásha, smiling still more brightly.

+“I only wanted to tell you about Pétya: today nurse was coming to take

+him from me, and he laughed, shut his eyes, and clung to me. I’m sure

+he thought he was hiding. Awfully sweet! There, now he’s crying. Well,

+good-by!” and she left the room.

+

+

+Meanwhile downstairs in young Nicholas Bolkónski’s bedroom a little lamp

+was burning as usual. (The boy was afraid of the dark and they could

+not cure him of it.) Dessalles slept propped up on four pillows and his

+Roman nose emitted sounds of rhythmic snoring. Little Nicholas, who had

+just waked up in a cold perspiration, sat up in bed and gazed before him

+with wide-open eyes. He had awaked from a terrible dream. He had dreamed

+that he and Uncle Pierre, wearing helmets such as were depicted in

+his Plutarch, were leading a huge army. The army was made up of white

+slanting lines that filled the air like the cobwebs that float about in

+autumn and which Dessalles called les fils de la Vièrge. In front was

+Glory, which was similar to those threads but rather thicker. He and

+Pierre were borne along lightly and joyously, nearer and nearer to their

+goal. Suddenly the threads that moved them began to slacken and become

+entangled and it grew difficult to move. And Uncle Nicholas stood before

+them in a stern and threatening attitude.

+

+“Have you done this?” he said, pointing to some broken sealing wax and

+pens. “I loved you, but I have orders from Arakchéev and will kill

+the first of you who moves forward.” Little Nicholas turned to look

+at Pierre but Pierre was no longer there. In his place was his

+father—Prince Andrew—and his father had neither shape nor form, but he

+existed, and when little Nicholas perceived him he grew faint with love:

+he felt himself powerless, limp, and formless. His father caressed and

+pitied him. But Uncle Nicholas came nearer and nearer to them. Terror

+seized young Nicholas and he awoke.

+

+“My father!” he thought. (Though there were two good portraits of Prince

+Andrew in the house, Nicholas never imagined him in human form.) “My

+father has been with me and caressed me. He approved of me and of Uncle

+Pierre. Whatever he may tell me, I will do it. Mucius Scaevola burned

+his hand. Why should not the same sort of thing happen to me? I know

+they want me to learn. And I will learn. But someday I shall have

+finished learning, and then I will do something. I only pray God that

+something may happen to me such as happened to Plutarch’s men, and I

+will act as they did. I will do better. Everyone shall know me, love me,

+and be delighted with me!” And suddenly his bosom heaved with sobs and

+he began to cry.

+

+“Are you ill?” he heard Dessalles’ voice asking.

+

+“No,” answered Nicholas, and lay back on his pillow.

+

+“He is good and kind and I am fond of him!” he thought of Dessalles.

+“But Uncle Pierre! Oh, what a wonderful man he is! And my father? Oh,

+Father, Father! Yes, I will do something with which even he would be

+satisfied....”

+

+

+

+

+

+SECOND EPILOGUE

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER I

+

+History is the life of nations and of humanity. To seize and put into

+words, to describe directly the life of humanity or even of a single

+nation, appears impossible.

+

+The ancient historians all employed one and the same method to describe

+and seize the apparently elusive—the life of a people. They described

+the activity of individuals who ruled the people, and regarded the

+activity of those men as representing the activity of the whole nation.

+

+The question: how did individuals make nations act as they wished and by

+what was the will of these individuals themselves guided? the ancients

+met by recognizing a divinity which subjected the nations to the will of

+a chosen man, and guided the will of that chosen man so as to accomplish

+ends that were predestined.

+

+For the ancients these questions were solved by a belief in the direct

+participation of the Deity in human affairs.

+

+Modern history, in theory, rejects both these principles.

+

+It would seem that having rejected the belief of the ancients in man’s

+subjection to the Deity and in a predetermined aim toward which nations

+are led, modern history should study not the manifestations of power but

+the causes that produce it. But modern history has not done this. Having

+in theory rejected the view held by the ancients, it still follows them

+in practice.

+

+Instead of men endowed with divine authority and directly guided by

+the will of God, modern history has given us either heroes endowed with

+extraordinary, superhuman capacities, or simply men of very various

+kinds, from monarchs to journalists, who lead the masses. Instead of the

+former divinely appointed aims of the Jewish, Greek, or Roman nations,

+which ancient historians regarded as representing the progress of

+humanity, modern history has postulated its own aims—the welfare of the

+French, German, or English people, or, in its highest abstraction, the

+welfare and civilization of humanity in general, by which is usually

+meant that of the peoples occupying a small northwesterly portion of a

+large continent.

+

+Modern history has rejected the beliefs of the ancients without

+replacing them by a new conception, and the logic of the situation has

+obliged the historians, after they had apparently rejected the divine

+authority of the kings and the “fate” of the ancients, to reach the same

+conclusion by another road, that is, to recognize (1) nations guided

+by individual men, and (2) the existence of a known aim to which these

+nations and humanity at large are tending.

+

+At the basis of the works of all the modern historians from Gibbon to

+Buckle, despite their seeming disagreements and the apparent novelty of

+their outlooks, lie those two old, unavoidable assumptions.

+

+In the first place the historian describes the activity of individuals

+who in his opinion have directed humanity (one historian considers

+only monarchs, generals, and ministers as being such men, while another

+includes also orators, learned men, reformers, philosophers, and poets).

+Secondly, it is assumed that the goal toward which humanity is being led

+is known to the historians: to one of them this goal is the greatness of

+the Roman, Spanish, or French realm; to another it is liberty, equality,

+and a certain kind of civilization of a small corner of the world called

+Europe.

+

+In 1789 a ferment arises in Paris; it grows, spreads, and is expressed

+by a movement of peoples from west to east. Several times it moves

+eastward and collides with a countermovement from the east westward.

+In 1812 it reaches its extreme limit, Moscow, and then, with remarkable

+symmetry, a countermovement occurs from east to west, attracting to

+it, as the first movement had done, the nations of middle Europe. The

+counter movement reaches the starting point of the first movement in the

+west—Paris—and subsides.

+

+During that twenty-year period an immense number of fields were left

+untilled, houses were burned, trade changed its direction, millions

+of men migrated, were impoverished, or were enriched, and millions

+of Christian men professing the law of love of their fellows slew one

+another.

+

+What does all this mean? Why did it happen? What made those people burn

+houses and slay their fellow men? What were the causes of these events?

+What force made men act so? These are the instinctive, plain, and

+most legitimate questions humanity asks itself when it encounters the

+monuments and tradition of that period.

+

+For a reply to these questions the common sense of mankind turns to the

+science of history, whose aim is to enable nations and humanity to know

+themselves.

+

+If history had retained the conception of the ancients it would have

+said that God, to reward or punish his people, gave Napoleon power and

+directed his will to the fulfillment of the divine ends, and that reply

+would have been clear and complete. One might believe or disbelieve

+in the divine significance of Napoleon, but for anyone believing in

+it there would have been nothing unintelligible in the history of that

+period, nor would there have been any contradictions.

+

+But modern history cannot give that reply. Science does not admit the

+conception of the ancients as to the direct participation of the Deity

+in human affairs, and therefore history ought to give other answers.

+

+Modern history replying to these questions says: you want to know what

+this movement means, what caused it, and what force produced these

+events? Then listen:

+

+“Louis XIV was a very proud and self-confident man; he had such and such

+mistresses and such and such ministers and he ruled France badly. His

+descendants were weak men and they too ruled France badly. And they had

+such and such favorites and such and such mistresses. Moreover, certain

+men wrote some books at that time. At the end of the eighteenth century

+there were a couple of dozen men in Paris who began to talk about all

+men being free and equal. This caused people all over France to begin

+to slash at and drown one another. They killed the king and many other

+people. At that time there was in France a man of genius—Napoleon. He

+conquered everybody everywhere—that is, he killed many people because

+he was a great genius. And for some reason he went to kill Africans, and

+killed them so well and was so cunning and wise that when he returned to

+France he ordered everybody to obey him, and they all obeyed him. Having

+become an Emperor he again went out to kill people in Italy, Austria,

+and Prussia. And there too he killed a great many. In Russia there

+was an Emperor, Alexander, who decided to restore order in Europe and

+therefore fought against Napoleon. In 1807 he suddenly made friends

+with him, but in 1811 they again quarreled and again began killing many

+people. Napoleon led six hundred thousand men into Russia and captured

+Moscow; then he suddenly ran away from Moscow, and the Emperor

+Alexander, helped by the advice of Stein and others, united Europe to

+arm against the disturber of its peace. All Napoleon’s allies suddenly

+became his enemies and their forces advanced against the fresh forces he

+raised. The Allies defeated Napoleon, entered Paris, forced Napoleon to

+abdicate, and sent him to the island of Elba, not depriving him of the

+title of Emperor and showing him every respect, though five years before

+and one year later they all regarded him as an outlaw and a brigand.

+Then Louis XVIII, who till then had been the laughingstock both of the

+French and the Allies, began to reign. And Napoleon, shedding tears

+before his Old Guards, renounced the throne and went into exile. Then

+the skillful statesmen and diplomatists (especially Talleyrand, who

+managed to sit down in a particular chair before anyone else and

+thereby extended the frontiers of France) talked in Vienna and by

+these conversations made the nations happy or unhappy. Suddenly the

+diplomatists and monarchs nearly quarreled and were on the point of

+again ordering their armies to kill one another, but just then Napoleon

+arrived in France with a battalion, and the French, who had been hating

+him, immediately all submitted to him. But the Allied monarchs were

+angry at this and went to fight the French once more. And they defeated

+the genius Napoleon and, suddenly recognizing him as a brigand, sent him

+to the island of St. Helena. And the exile, separated from the beloved

+France so dear to his heart, died a lingering death on that rock and

+bequeathed his great deeds to posterity. But in Europe a reaction

+occurred and the sovereigns once again all began to oppress their

+subjects.”

+

+It would be a mistake to think that this is ironic—a caricature of the

+historical accounts. On the contrary it is a very mild expression of

+the contradictory replies, not meeting the questions, which all the

+historians give, from the compilers of memoirs and the histories

+of separate states to the writers of general histories and the new

+histories of the culture of that period.

+

+The strangeness and absurdity of these replies arise from the fact that

+modern history, like a deaf man, answers questions no one has asked.

+

+If the purpose of history be to give a description of the movement of

+humanity and of the peoples, the first question—in the absence of a

+reply to which all the rest will be incomprehensible—is: what is the

+power that moves peoples? To this, modern history laboriously replies

+either that Napoleon was a great genius, or that Louis XIV was very

+proud, or that certain writers wrote certain books.

+

+All that may be so and mankind is ready to agree with it, but it is not

+what was asked. All that would be interesting if we recognized a divine

+power based on itself and always consistently directing its nations

+through Napoleons, Louis-es, and writers; but we do not acknowledge such

+a power, and therefore before speaking about Napoleons, Louis-es, and

+authors, we ought to be shown the connection existing between these men

+and the movement of the nations.

+

+If instead of a divine power some other force has appeared, it should

+be explained in what this new force consists, for the whole interest of

+history lies precisely in that force.

+

+History seems to assume that this force is self-evident and known to

+everyone. But in spite of every desire to regard it as known, anyone

+reading many historical works cannot help doubting whether this new

+force, so variously understood by the historians themselves, is really

+quite well known to everybody.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER II

+

+What force moves the nations?

+

+Biographical historians and historians of separate nations understand

+this force as a power inherent in heroes and rulers. In their narration

+events occur solely by the will of a Napoleon, and Alexander, or in

+general of the persons they describe. The answers given by this kind

+of historian to the question of what force causes events to happen are

+satisfactory only as long as there is but one historian to each event.

+As soon as historians of different nationalities and tendencies begin

+to describe the same event, the replies they give immediately lose all

+meaning, for this force is understood by them all not only differently

+but often in quite contradictory ways. One historian says that an

+event was produced by Napoleon’s power, another that it was produced by

+Alexander’s, a third that it was due to the power of some other person.

+Besides this, historians of that kind contradict each other even

+in their statement as to the force on which the authority of some

+particular person was based. Thiers, a Bonapartist, says that Napoleon’s

+power was based on his virtue and genius. Lanfrey, a Republican, says it

+was based on his trickery and deception of the people. So the historians

+of this class, by mutually destroying one another’s positions, destroy

+the understanding of the force which produces events, and furnish no

+reply to history’s essential question.

+

+Writers of universal history who deal with all the nations seem to

+recognize how erroneous is the specialist historians’ view of the force

+which produces events. They do not recognize it as a power inherent in

+heroes and rulers, but as the resultant of a multiplicity of variously

+directed forces. In describing a war or the subjugation of a people, a

+general historian looks for the cause of the event not in the power

+of one man, but in the interaction of many persons connected with the

+event.

+

+According to this view the power of historical personages, represented

+as the product of many forces, can no longer, it would seem, be regarded

+as a force that itself produces events. Yet in most cases universal

+historians still employ the conception of power as a force that itself

+produces events, and treat it as their cause. In their exposition, an

+historic character is first the product of his time, and his power only

+the resultant of various forces, and then his power is itself a force

+producing events. Gervinus, Schlosser, and others, for instance, at one

+time prove Napoleon to be a product of the Revolution, of the ideas of

+1789 and so forth, and at another plainly say that the campaign of 1812

+and other things they do not like were simply the product of Napoleon’s

+misdirected will, and that the very ideas of 1789 were arrested in their

+development by Napoleon’s caprice. The ideas of the Revolution and the

+general temper of the age produced Napoleon’s power. But Napoleon’s

+power suppressed the ideas of the Revolution and the general temper of

+the age.

+

+This curious contradiction is not accidental. Not only does it occur at

+every step, but the universal historians’ accounts are all made up of

+a chain of such contradictions. This contradiction occurs because after

+entering the field of analysis the universal historians stop halfway.

+

+To find component forces equal to the composite or resultant force, the

+sum of the components must equal the resultant. This condition is never

+observed by the universal historians, and so to explain the resultant

+forces they are obliged to admit, in addition to the insufficient

+components, another unexplained force affecting the resultant action.

+

+Specialist historians describing the campaign of 1813 or the restoration

+of the Bourbons plainly assert that these events were produced by the

+will of Alexander. But the universal historian Gervinus, refuting this

+opinion of the specialist historian, tries to prove that the campaign of

+1813 and the restoration of the Bourbons were due to other things beside

+Alexander’s will—such as the activity of Stein, Metternich, Madame de

+Staël, Talleyrand, Fichte, Chateaubriand, and others. The historian

+evidently decomposes Alexander’s power into the components: Talleyrand,

+Chateaubriand, and the rest—but the sum of the components, that is,

+the interactions of Chateaubriand, Talleyrand, Madame de Staël, and the

+others, evidently does not equal the resultant, namely the phenomenon

+of millions of Frenchmen submitting to the Bourbons. That Chateaubriand,

+Madame de Staël, and others spoke certain words to one another only

+affected their mutual relations but does not account for the submission

+of millions. And therefore to explain how from these relations of theirs

+the submission of millions of people resulted—that is, how component

+forces equal to one A gave a resultant equal to a thousand times A—the

+historian is again obliged to fall back on power—the force he had

+denied—and to recognize it as the resultant of the forces, that is, he

+has to admit an unexplained force acting on the resultant. And that is

+just what the universal historians do, and consequently they not only

+contradict the specialist historians but contradict themselves.

+

+Peasants having no clear idea of the cause of rain, say, according to

+whether they want rain or fine weather: “The wind has blown the clouds

+away,” or, “The wind has brought up the clouds.” And in the same way the

+universal historians sometimes, when it pleases them and fits in with

+their theory, say that power is the result of events, and sometimes,

+when they want to prove something else, say that power produces events.

+

+A third class of historians—the so-called historians of

+culture—following the path laid down by the universal historians who

+sometimes accept writers and ladies as forces producing events—again

+take that force to be something quite different. They see it in what is

+called culture—in mental activity.

+

+The historians of culture are quite consistent in regard to their

+progenitors, the writers of universal histories, for if historical

+events may be explained by the fact that certain persons treated one

+another in such and such ways, why not explain them by the fact that

+such and such people wrote such and such books? Of the immense number of

+indications accompanying every vital phenomenon, these historians select

+the indication of intellectual activity and say that this indication is

+the cause. But despite their endeavors to prove that the cause of events

+lies in intellectual activity, only by a great stretch can one admit

+that there is any connection between intellectual activity and the

+movement of peoples, and in no case can one admit that intellectual

+activity controls people’s actions, for that view is not confirmed by

+such facts as the very cruel murders of the French Revolution resulting

+from the doctrine of the equality of man, or the very cruel wars and

+executions resulting from the preaching of love.

+

+But even admitting as correct all the cunningly devised arguments with

+which these histories are filled—admitting that nations are governed by

+some undefined force called an idea—history’s essential question still

+remains unanswered, and to the former power of monarchs and to the

+influence of advisers and other people introduced by the universal

+historians, another, newer force—the idea—is added, the connection of

+which with the masses needs explanation. It is possible to understand

+that Napoleon had power and so events occurred; with some effort one may

+even conceive that Napoleon together with other influences was the cause

+of an event; but how a book, Le Contrat Social, had the effect of making

+Frenchmen begin to drown one another cannot be understood without an

+explanation of the causal nexus of this new force with the event.

+

+Undoubtedly some relation exists between all who live contemporaneously,

+and so it is possible to find some connection between the intellectual

+activity of men and their historical movements, just as such a

+connection may be found between the movements of humanity and commerce,

+handicraft, gardening, or anything else you please. But why intellectual

+activity is considered by the historians of culture to be the cause or

+expression of the whole historical movement is hard to understand.

+Only the following considerations can have led the historians to such

+a conclusion: (1) that history is written by learned men, and so it is

+natural and agreeable for them to think that the activity of their class

+supplies the basis of the movement of all humanity, just as a similar

+belief is natural and agreeable to traders, agriculturists, and soldiers

+(if they do not express it, that is merely because traders and soldiers

+do not write history), and (2) that spiritual activity, enlightenment,

+civilization, culture, ideas, are all indistinct, indefinite conceptions

+under whose banner it is very easy to use words having a still less

+definite meaning, and which can therefore be readily introduced into any

+theory.

+

+But not to speak of the intrinsic quality of histories of this kind

+(which may possibly even be of use to someone for something) the

+histories of culture, to which all general histories tend more and more

+to approximate, are significant from the fact that after seriously

+and minutely examining various religious, philosophic, and political

+doctrines as causes of events, as soon as they have to describe an

+actual historic event such as the campaign of 1812 for instance, they

+involuntarily describe it as resulting from an exercise of power—and say

+plainly that that was the result of Napoleon’s will. Speaking so, the

+historians of culture involuntarily contradict themselves, and show that

+the new force they have devised does not account for what happens in

+history, and that history can only be explained by introducing a power

+which they apparently do not recognize.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER III

+

+A locomotive is moving. Someone asks: “What moves it?” A peasant says

+the devil moves it. Another man says the locomotive moves because its

+wheels go round. A third asserts that the cause of its movement lies in

+the smoke which the wind carries away.

+

+The peasant is irrefutable. He has devised a complete explanation. To

+refute him someone would have to prove to him that there is no devil,

+or another peasant would have to explain to him that it is not the devil

+but a German, who moves the locomotive. Only then, as a result of the

+contradiction, will they see that they are both wrong. But the man who

+says that the movement of the wheels is the cause refutes himself, for

+having once begun to analyze he ought to go on and explain further why

+the wheels go round; and till he has reached the ultimate cause of the

+movement of the locomotive in the pressure of steam in the boiler, he

+has no right to stop in his search for the cause. The man who explains

+the movement of the locomotive by the smoke that is carried back has

+noticed that the wheels do not supply an explanation and has taken the

+first sign that occurs to him and in his turn has offered that as an

+explanation.

+

+The only conception that can explain the movement of the locomotive is

+that of a force commensurate with the movement observed.

+

+The only conception that can explain the movement of the peoples is that

+of some force commensurate with the whole movement of the peoples.

+

+Yet to supply this conception various historians take forces of

+different kinds, all of which are incommensurate with the movement

+observed. Some see it as a force directly inherent in heroes, as the

+peasant sees the devil in the locomotive; others as a force resulting

+from several other forces, like the movement of the wheels; others again

+as an intellectual influence, like the smoke that is blown away.

+

+So long as histories are written of separate individuals, whether

+Caesars, Alexanders, Luthers, or Voltaires, and not the histories

+of all, absolutely all those who take part in an event, it is quite

+impossible to describe the movement of humanity without the conception

+of a force compelling men to direct their activity toward a certain end.

+And the only such conception known to historians is that of power.

+

+This conception is the one handle by means of which the material of

+history, as at present expounded, can be dealt with, and anyone who

+breaks that handle off, as Buckle did, without finding some other method

+of treating historical material, merely deprives himself of the one

+possible way of dealing with it. The necessity of the conception of

+power as an explanation of historical events is best demonstrated by

+the universal historians and historians of culture themselves, for they

+professedly reject that conception but inevitably have recourse to it at

+every step.

+

+In dealing with humanity’s inquiry, the science of history up to now

+is like money in circulation—paper money and coin. The biographies and

+special national histories are like paper money. They can be used and

+can circulate and fulfill their purpose without harm to anyone and even

+advantageously, as long as no one asks what is the security behind them.

+You need only forget to ask how the will of heroes produces events, and

+such histories as Thiers’ will be interesting and instructive and may

+perhaps even possess a tinge of poetry. But just as doubts of the real

+value of paper money arise either because, being easy to make, too much

+of it gets made or because people try to exchange it for gold, so also

+doubts concerning the real value of such histories arise either because

+too many of them are written or because in his simplicity of heart

+someone inquires: by what force did Napoleon do this?—that is, wants

+to exchange the current paper money for the real gold of actual

+comprehension.

+

+The writers of universal histories and of the history of culture are

+like people who, recognizing the defects of paper money, decide to

+substitute for it money made of metal that has not the specific gravity

+of gold. It may indeed make jingling coin, but will do no more than

+that. Paper money may deceive the ignorant, but nobody is deceived by

+tokens of base metal that have no value but merely jingle. As gold is

+gold only if it is serviceable not merely for exchange but also for use,

+so universal historians will be valuable only when they can reply to

+history’s essential question: what is power? The universal historians

+give contradictory replies to that question, while the historians of

+culture evade it and answer something quite different. And as counters

+of imitation gold can be used only among a group of people who agree to

+accept them as gold, or among those who do not know the nature of

+gold, so universal historians and historians of culture, not answering

+humanity’s essential question, serve as currency for some purposes of

+their own, only in universities and among the mass of readers who have a

+taste for what they call “serious reading.”

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER IV

+

+Having abandoned the conception of the ancients as to the divine

+subjection of the will of a nation to some chosen man and the subjection

+of that man’s will to the Deity, history cannot without contradictions

+take a single step till it has chosen one of two things: either a return

+to the former belief in the direct intervention of the Deity in human

+affairs or a definite explanation of the meaning of the force producing

+historical events and termed “power.”

+

+A return to the first is impossible, the belief has been destroyed; and

+so it is essential to explain what is meant by power.

+

+Napoleon ordered an army to be raised and go to war. We are so

+accustomed to that idea and have become so used to it that the question:

+why did six hundred thousand men go to fight when Napoleon uttered

+certain words, seems to us senseless. He had the power and so what he

+ordered was done.

+

+This reply is quite satisfactory if we believe that the power was given

+him by God. But as soon as we do not admit that, it becomes essential to

+determine what is this power of one man over others.

+

+It cannot be the direct physical power of a strong man over a weak one—a

+domination based on the application or threat of physical force, like

+the power of Hercules; nor can it be based on the effect of moral force,

+as in their simplicity some historians think who say that the leading

+figures in history are heroes, that is, men gifted with a special

+strength of soul and mind called genius. This power cannot be based on

+the predominance of moral strength, for, not to mention heroes such as

+Napoleon about whose moral qualities opinions differ widely, history

+shows us that neither a Louis XI nor a Metternich, who ruled over

+millions of people, had any particular moral qualities, but on the

+contrary were generally morally weaker than any of the millions they

+ruled over.

+

+If the source of power lies neither in the physical nor in the moral

+qualities of him who possesses it, it must evidently be looked for

+elsewhere—in the relation to the people of the man who wields the power.

+

+And that is how power is understood by the science of jurisprudence,

+that exchange bank of history which offers to exchange history’s

+understanding of power for true gold.

+

+Power is the collective will of the people transferred, by expressed or

+tacit consent, to their chosen rulers.

+

+In the domain of jurisprudence, which consists of discussions of how a

+state and power might be arranged were it possible for all that to

+be arranged, it is all very clear; but when applied to history that

+definition of power needs explanation.

+

+The science of jurisprudence regards the state and power as the ancients

+regarded fire—namely, as something existing absolutely. But for history,

+the state and power are merely phenomena, just as for modern physics

+fire is not an element but a phenomenon.

+

+From this fundamental difference between the view held by history and

+that held by jurisprudence, it follows that jurisprudence can tell

+minutely how in its opinion power should be constituted and what

+power—existing immutably outside time—is, but to history’s questions

+about the meaning of the mutations of power in time it can answer

+nothing.

+

+If power be the collective will of the people transferred to their

+ruler, was Pugachëv a representative of the will of the people? If not,

+then why was Napoleon I? Why was Napoleon III a criminal when he was

+taken prisoner at Boulogne, and why, later on, were those criminals whom

+he arrested?

+

+Do palace revolutions—in which sometimes only two or three people take

+part—transfer the will of the people to a new ruler? In international

+relations, is the will of the people also transferred to their

+conqueror? Was the will of the Confederation of the Rhine transferred

+to Napoleon in 1806? Was the will of the Russian people transferred

+to Napoleon in 1809, when our army in alliance with the French went to

+fight the Austrians?

+

+To these questions three answers are possible:

+

+Either to assume (1) that the will of the people is always

+unconditionally transferred to the ruler or rulers they have chosen, and

+that therefore every emergence of a new power, every struggle

+against the power once appointed, should be absolutely regarded as an

+infringement of the real power; or (2) that the will of the people

+is transferred to the rulers conditionally, under definite and known

+conditions, and to show that all limitations, conflicts, and even

+destructions of power result from a nonobservance by the rulers of the

+conditions under which their power was entrusted to them; or (3) that

+the will of the people is delegated to the rulers conditionally, but

+that the conditions are unknown and indefinite, and that the appearance

+of several authorities, their struggles and their falls, result solely

+from the greater or lesser fulfillment by the rulers of these unknown

+conditions on which the will of the people is transferred from some

+people to others.

+

+And these are the three ways in which the historians do explain the

+relation of the people to their rulers.

+

+Some historians—those biographical and specialist historians already

+referred to—in their simplicity failing to understand the question of

+the meaning of power, seem to consider that the collective will of

+the people is unconditionally transferred to historical persons, and

+therefore when describing some single state they assume that particular

+power to be the one absolute and real power, and that any other force

+opposing this is not a power but a violation of power—mere violence.

+

+Their theory, suitable for primitive and peaceful periods of history,

+has the inconvenience—in application to complex and stormy periods in

+the life of nations during which various powers arise simultaneously and

+struggle with one another—that a Legitimist historian will prove

+that the National Convention, the Directory, and Bonaparte were mere

+infringers of the true power, while a Republican and a Bonapartist will

+prove: the one that the Convention and the other that the Empire was the

+real power, and that all the others were violations of power.

+Evidently the explanations furnished by these historians being mutually

+contradictory can only satisfy young children.

+

+Recognizing the falsity of this view of history, another set of

+historians say that power rests on a conditional delegation of the will

+of the people to their rulers, and that historical leaders have power

+only conditionally on carrying out the program that the will of the

+people has by tacit agreement prescribed to them. But what this program

+consists in these historians do not say, or if they do they continually

+contradict one another.

+

+Each historian, according to his view of what constitutes a nation’s

+progress, looks for these conditions in the greatness, wealth, freedom,

+or enlightenment of citizens of France or some other country. But not

+to mention the historians’ contradictions as to the nature of this

+program—or even admitting that some one general program of these

+conditions exists—the facts of history almost always contradict that

+theory. If the conditions under which power is entrusted consist in the

+wealth, freedom, and enlightenment of the people, how is it that Louis

+XIV and Iván the Terrible end their reigns tranquilly, while Louis XVI

+and Charles I are executed by their people? To this question historians

+reply that Louis XIV’s activity, contrary to the program, reacted on

+Louis XVI. But why did it not react on Louis XIV or on Louis XV—why

+should it react just on Louis XVI? And what is the time limit for such

+reactions? To these questions there are and can be no answers. Equally

+little does this view explain why for several centuries the collective

+will is not withdrawn from certain rulers and their heirs, and

+then suddenly during a period of fifty years is transferred to the

+Convention, to the Directory, to Napoleon, to Alexander, to Louis XVIII,

+to Napoleon again, to Charles X, to Louis Philippe, to a Republican

+government, and to Napoleon III. When explaining these rapid transfers

+of the people’s will from one individual to another, especially in view

+of international relations, conquests, and alliances, the historians are

+obliged to admit that some of these transfers are not normal delegations

+of the people’s will but are accidents dependent on cunning, on

+mistakes, on craft, or on the weakness of a diplomatist, a ruler, or a

+party leader. So that the greater part of the events of history—civil

+wars, revolutions, and conquests—are presented by these historians

+not as the results of free transferences of the people’s will, but as

+results of the ill-directed will of one or more individuals, that is,

+once again, as usurpations of power. And so these historians also see

+and admit historical events which are exceptions to the theory.

+

+These historians resemble a botanist who, having noticed that some

+plants grow from seeds producing two cotyledons, should insist that all

+that grows does so by sprouting into two leaves, and that the palm, the

+mushroom, and even the oak, which blossom into full growth and no longer

+resemble two leaves, are deviations from the theory.

+

+Historians of the third class assume that the will of the people

+is transferred to historic personages conditionally, but that the

+conditions are unknown to us. They say that historical personages have

+power only because they fulfill the will of the people which has been

+delegated to them.

+

+But in that case, if the force that moves nations lies not in the

+historic leaders but in the nations themselves, what significance have

+those leaders?

+

+The leaders, these historians tell us, express the will of the people:

+the activity of the leaders represents the activity of the people.

+

+But in that case the question arises whether all the activity of the

+leaders serves as an expression of the people’s will or only some part

+of it. If the whole activity of the leaders serves as the expression of

+the people’s will, as some historians suppose, then all the details

+of the court scandals contained in the biographies of a Napoleon or

+a Catherine serve to express the life of the nation, which is evident

+nonsense; but if it is only some particular side of the activity of an

+historical leader which serves to express the people’s life, as other

+so-called “philosophical” historians believe, then to determine which

+side of the activity of a leader expresses the nation’s life, we have

+first of all to know in what the nation’s life consists.

+

+Met by this difficulty historians of that class devise some most

+obscure, impalpable, and general abstraction which can cover all

+conceivable occurrences, and declare this abstraction to be the aim of

+humanity’s movement. The most usual generalizations adopted by almost

+all the historians are: freedom, equality, enlightenment, progress,

+civilization, and culture. Postulating some generalization as the goal

+of the movement of humanity, the historians study the men of whom the

+greatest number of monuments have remained: kings, ministers, generals,

+authors, reformers, popes, and journalists, to the extent to which in

+their opinion these persons have promoted or hindered that abstraction.

+But as it is in no way proved that the aim of humanity does consist in

+freedom, equality, enlightenment, or civilization, and as the connection

+of the people with the rulers and enlighteners of humanity is only based

+on the arbitrary assumption that the collective will of the people is

+always transferred to the men whom we have noticed, it happens that the

+activity of the millions who migrate, burn houses, abandon agriculture,

+and destroy one another never is expressed in the account of the

+activity of some dozen people who did not burn houses, practice

+agriculture, or slay their fellow creatures.

+

+History proves this at every turn. Is the ferment of the peoples of

+the west at the end of the eighteenth century and their drive eastward

+explained by the activity of Louis XIV, XV, and XVI, their mistresses

+and ministers, and by the lives of Napoleon, Rousseau, Diderot,

+Beaumarchais, and others?

+

+Is the movement of the Russian people eastward to Kazán and Siberia

+expressed by details of the morbid character of Iván the Terrible and by

+his correspondence with Kúrbski?

+

+Is the movement of the peoples at the time of the Crusades explained by

+the life and activity of the Godfreys and the Louis-es and their ladies?

+For us that movement of the peoples from west to east, without

+leaders, with a crowd of vagrants, and with Peter the Hermit, remains

+incomprehensible. And yet more incomprehensible is the cessation of that

+movement when a rational and sacred aim for the Crusade—the deliverance

+of Jerusalem—had been clearly defined by historic leaders. Popes, kings,

+and knights incited the peoples to free the Holy Land; but the people

+did not go, for the unknown cause which had previously impelled them to

+go no longer existed. The history of the Godfreys and the Minnesingers

+can evidently not cover the life of the peoples. And the history of the

+Godfreys and the Minnesingers has remained the history of Godfreys

+and Minnesingers, but the history of the life of the peoples and their

+impulses has remained unknown.

+

+Still less does the history of authors and reformers explain to us the

+life of the peoples.

+

+The history of culture explains to us the impulses and conditions of

+life and thought of a writer or a reformer. We learn that Luther had

+a hot temper and said such and such things; we learn that Rousseau was

+suspicious and wrote such and such books; but we do not learn why after

+the Reformation the peoples massacred one another, nor why during the

+French Revolution they guillotined one another.

+

+If we unite both these kinds of history, as is done by the newest

+historians, we shall have the history of monarchs and writers, but not

+the history of the life of the peoples.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER V

+

+The life of the nations is not contained in the lives of a few men, for

+the connection between those men and the nations has not been found.

+The theory that this connection is based on the transference of the

+collective will of a people to certain historical personages is an

+hypothesis unconfirmed by the experience of history.

+

+The theory of the transference of the collective will of the people to

+historic persons may perhaps explain much in the domain of jurisprudence

+and be essential for its purposes, but in its application to history, as

+soon as revolutions, conquests, or civil wars occur—that is, as soon as

+history begins—that theory explains nothing.

+

+The theory seems irrefutable just because the act of transference of the

+people’s will cannot be verified, for it never occurred.

+

+Whatever happens and whoever may stand at the head of affairs, the

+theory can always say that such and such a person took the lead because

+the collective will was transferred to him.

+

+The replies this theory gives to historical questions are like the

+replies of a man who, watching the movements of a herd of cattle and

+paying no attention to the varying quality of the pasturage in different

+parts of the field, or to the driving of the herdsman, should attribute

+the direction the herd takes to what animal happens to be at its head.

+

+“The herd goes in that direction because the animal in front leads

+it and the collective will of all the other animals is vested in that

+leader.” This is what historians of the first class say—those who assume

+the unconditional transference of the people’s will.

+

+“If the animals leading the herd change, this happens because the

+collective will of all the animals is transferred from one leader to

+another, according to whether the animal is or is not leading them in

+the direction selected by the whole herd.” Such is the reply historians

+who assume that the collective will of the people is delegated to

+rulers under conditions which they regard as known. (With this method

+of observation it often happens that the observer, influenced by the

+direction he himself prefers, regards those as leaders who, owing to the

+people’s change of direction, are no longer in front, but on one side,

+or even in the rear.)

+

+“If the animals in front are continually changing and the direction of

+the whole herd is constantly altered, this is because in order to follow

+a given direction the animals transfer their will to the animals that

+have attracted our attention, and to study the movements of the herd

+we must watch the movements of all the prominent animals moving on all

+sides of the herd.” So say the third class of historians who regard all

+historical persons, from monarchs to journalists, as the expression of

+their age.

+

+The theory of the transference of the will of the people to historic

+persons is merely a paraphrase—a restatement of the question in other

+words.

+

+What causes historical events? Power. What is power? Power is the

+collective will of the people transferred to one person. Under what

+condition is the will of the people delegated to one person? On

+condition that that person expresses the will of the whole people. That

+is, power is power: in other words, power is a word the meaning of which

+we do not understand.

+

+If the realm of human knowledge were confined to abstract reasoning,

+then having subjected to criticism the explanation of “power” that

+juridical science gives us, humanity would conclude that power is merely

+a word and has no real existence. But to understand phenomena man

+has, besides abstract reasoning, experience by which he verifies his

+reflections. And experience tells us that power is not merely a word but

+an actually existing phenomenon.

+

+Not to speak of the fact that no description of the collective activity

+of men can do without the conception of power, the existence of power is

+proved both by history and by observing contemporary events.

+

+Whenever an event occurs a man appears or men appear, by whose will the

+event seems to have taken place. Napoleon III issues a decree and the

+French go to Mexico. The King of Prussia and Bismarck issue decrees and

+an army enters Bohemia. Napoleon I issues a decree and an army enters

+Russia. Alexander I gives a command and the French submit to the

+Bourbons. Experience shows us that whatever event occurs it is always

+related to the will of one or of several men who have decreed it.

+

+The historians, in accord with the old habit of acknowledging divine

+intervention in human affairs, want to see the cause of events in

+the expression of the will of someone endowed with power, but that

+supposition is not confirmed either by reason or by experience.

+

+On the one side reflection shows that the expression of a man’s will—his

+words—are only part of the general activity expressed in an event,

+as for instance in a war or a revolution, and so without assuming an

+incomprehensible, supernatural force—a miracle—one cannot admit that

+words can be the immediate cause of the movements of millions of men.

+On the other hand, even if we admitted that words could be the cause

+of events, history shows that the expression of the will of historical

+personages does not in most cases produce any effect, that is to say,

+their commands are often not executed, and sometimes the very opposite

+of what they order occurs.

+

+Without admitting divine intervention in the affairs of humanity we

+cannot regard “power” as the cause of events.

+

+Power, from the standpoint of experience, is merely the relation that

+exists between the expression of someone’s will and the execution of

+that will by others.

+

+To explain the conditions of that relationship we must first establish a

+conception of the expression of will, referring it to man and not to the

+Deity.

+

+If the Deity issues a command, expresses His will, as ancient history

+tells us, the expression of that will is independent of time and is not

+caused by anything, for the Divinity is not controlled by an event. But

+speaking of commands that are the expression of the will of men acting

+in time and in relation to one another, to explain the connection of

+commands with events we must restore: (1) the condition of all that

+takes place: the continuity of movement in time both of the events and

+of the person who commands, and (2) the inevitability of the connection

+between the person commanding and those who execute his command.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER VI

+

+Only the expression of the will of the Deity, not dependent on time, can

+relate to a whole series of events occurring over a period of years or

+centuries, and only the Deity, independent of everything, can by His

+sole will determine the direction of humanity’s movement; but man acts

+in time and himself takes part in what occurs.

+

+Reinstating the first condition omitted, that of time, we see that no

+command can be executed without some preceding order having been given

+rendering the execution of the last command possible.

+

+No command ever appears spontaneously, or itself covers a whole series

+of occurrences; but each command follows from another, and never refers

+to a whole series of events but always to one moment only of an event.

+

+When, for instance, we say that Napoleon ordered armies to go to war,

+we combine in one simultaneous expression a whole series of consecutive

+commands dependent one on another. Napoleon could not have commanded

+an invasion of Russia and never did so. Today he ordered such and such

+papers to be written to Vienna, to Berlin, and to Petersburg;

+tomorrow such and such decrees and orders to the army, the fleet, the

+commissariat, and so on and so on—millions of commands, which formed

+a whole series corresponding to a series of events which brought the

+French armies into Russia.

+

+If throughout his reign Napoleon gave commands concerning an invasion

+of England and expended on no other undertaking so much time and effort,

+and yet during his whole reign never once attempted to execute that

+design but undertook an expedition into Russia, with which country he

+considered it desirable to be in alliance (a conviction he repeatedly

+expressed)—this came about because his commands did not correspond to

+the course of events in the first case, but did so correspond in the

+latter.

+

+For an order to be certainly executed, it is necessary that a man should

+order what can be executed. But to know what can and what cannot be

+executed is impossible, not only in the case of Napoleon’s invasion of

+Russia in which millions participated, but even in the simplest event,

+for in either case millions of obstacles may arise to prevent its

+execution. Every order executed is always one of an immense number

+unexecuted. All the impossible orders inconsistent with the course of

+events remain unexecuted. Only the possible ones get linked up with a

+consecutive series of commands corresponding to a series of events, and

+are executed.

+

+Our false conception that an event is caused by a command which precedes

+it is due to the fact that when the event has taken place and out of

+thousands of others those few commands which were consistent with that

+event have been executed, we forget about the others that were not

+executed because they could not be. Apart from that, the chief source

+of our error in this matter is due to the fact that in the historical

+accounts a whole series of innumerable, diverse, and petty events, such

+for instance as all those which led the French armies to Russia, is

+generalized into one event in accord with the result produced by that

+series of events, and corresponding with this generalization the whole

+series of commands is also generalized into a single expression of will.

+

+We say that Napoleon wished to invade Russia and invaded it. In

+reality in all Napoleon’s activity we never find anything resembling an

+expression of that wish, but find a series of orders, or expressions of

+his will, very variously and indefinitely directed. Amid a long series

+of unexecuted orders of Napoleon’s one series, for the campaign of 1812,

+was carried out—not because those orders differed in any way from the

+other, unexecuted orders but because they coincided with the course of

+events that led the French army into Russia; just as in stencil work

+this or that figure comes out not because the color was laid on from

+this side or in that way, but because it was laid on from all sides over

+the figure cut in the stencil.

+

+So that examining the relation in time of the commands to the events,

+we find that a command can never be the cause of the event, but that a

+certain definite dependence exists between the two.

+

+To understand in what this dependence consists it is necessary to

+reinstate another omitted condition of every command proceeding not from

+the Deity but from a man, which is, that the man who gives the command

+himself takes part in the event.

+

+This relation of the commander to those he commands is just what is

+called power. This relation consists in the following:

+

+For common action people always unite in certain combinations, in which

+regardless of the difference of the aims set for the common action, the

+relation between those taking part in it is always the same.

+

+Men uniting in these combinations always assume such relations toward

+one another that the larger number take a more direct share, and the

+smaller number a less direct share, in the collective action for which

+they have combined.

+

+Of all the combinations in which men unite for collective action one of

+the most striking and definite examples is an army.

+

+Every army is composed of lower grades of the service—the rank and

+file—of whom there are always the greatest number; of the next higher

+military rank—corporals and noncommissioned officers of whom there are

+fewer, and of still-higher officers of whom there are still fewer,

+and so on to the highest military command which is concentrated in one

+person.

+

+A military organization may be quite correctly compared to a cone, of

+which the base with the largest diameter consists of the rank and file;

+the next higher and smaller section of the cone consists of the next

+higher grades of the army, and so on to the apex, the point of which

+will represent the commander in chief.

+

+The soldiers, of whom there are the most, form the lower section of

+the cone and its base. The soldier himself does the stabbing, hacking,

+burning, and pillaging, and always receives orders for these actions

+from men above him; he himself never gives an order. The noncommissioned

+officers (of whom there are fewer) perform the action itself less

+frequently than the soldiers, but they already give commands. An

+officer still less often acts directly himself, but commands still more

+frequently. A general does nothing but command the troops, indicates the

+objective, and hardly ever uses a weapon himself. The commander in chief

+never takes direct part in the action itself, but only gives general

+orders concerning the movement of the mass of the troops. A similar

+relation of people to one another is seen in every combination of men

+for common activity—in agriculture, trade, and every administration.

+

+And so without particularly analyzing all the contiguous sections of

+a cone and of the ranks of an army, or the ranks and positions in

+any administrative or public business whatever from the lowest to the

+highest, we see a law by which men, to take associated action, combine

+in such relations that the more directly they participate in performing

+the action the less they can command and the more numerous they are,

+while the less their direct participation in the action itself, the more

+they command and the fewer of them there are; rising in this way from

+the lowest ranks to the man at the top, who takes the least direct share

+in the action and directs his activity chiefly to commanding.

+

+This relation of the men who command to those they command is what

+constitutes the essence of the conception called power.

+

+Having restored the condition of time under which all events occur,

+we find that a command is executed only when it is related to a

+corresponding series of events. Restoring the essential condition of

+relation between those who command and those who execute, we find that

+by the very nature of the case those who command take the smallest part

+in the action itself and that their activity is exclusively directed to

+commanding.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER VII

+

+When an event is taking place people express their opinions and wishes

+about it, and as the event results from the collective activity of

+many people, some one of the opinions or wishes expressed is sure to be

+fulfilled if but approximately. When one of the opinions expressed

+is fulfilled, that opinion gets connected with the event as a command

+preceding it.

+

+Men are hauling a log. Each of them expresses his opinion as to how and

+where to haul it. They haul the log away, and it happens that this is

+done as one of them said. He ordered it. There we have command and power

+in their primary form. The man who worked most with his hands could not

+think so much about what he was doing, or reflect on or command what

+would result from the common activity; while the man who commanded

+more would evidently work less with his hands on account of his greater

+verbal activity.

+

+When some larger concourse of men direct their activity to a common aim

+there is a yet sharper division of those who, because their activity is

+given to directing and commanding, take less part in the direct work.

+

+When a man works alone he always has a certain set of reflections which

+as it seems to him directed his past activity, justify his present

+activity, and guide him in planning his future actions. Just the same is

+done by a concourse of people, allowing those who do not take a direct

+part in the activity to devise considerations, justifications, and

+surmises concerning their collective activity.

+

+For reasons known or unknown to us the French began to drown and kill

+one another. And corresponding to the event its justification appears in

+people’s belief that this was necessary for the welfare of France, for

+liberty, and for equality. People ceased to kill one another, and

+this event was accompanied by its justification in the necessity for a

+centralization of power, resistance to Europe, and so on. Men went

+from the west to the east killing their fellow men, and the event

+was accompanied by phrases about the glory of France, the baseness of

+England, and so on. History shows us that these justifications of the

+events have no common sense and are all contradictory, as in the case of

+killing a man as the result of recognizing his rights, and the killing

+of millions in Russia for the humiliation of England. But these

+justifications have a very necessary significance in their own day.

+

+These justifications release those who produce the events from moral

+responsibility. These temporary aims are like the broom fixed in front

+of a locomotive to clear the snow from the rails in front: they clear

+men’s moral responsibilities from their path.

+

+Without such justification there would be no reply to the simplest

+question that presents itself when examining each historical event. How

+is it that millions of men commit collective crimes—make war, commit

+murder, and so on?

+

+With the present complex forms of political and social life in Europe

+can any event that is not prescribed, decreed, or ordered by monarchs,

+ministers, parliaments, or newspapers be imagined? Is there any

+collective action which cannot find its justification in political

+unity, in patriotism, in the balance of power, or in civilization? So

+that every event that occurs inevitably coincides with some expressed

+wish and, receiving a justification, presents itself as the result of

+the will of one man or of several men.

+

+In whatever direction a ship moves, the flow of the waves it cuts

+will always be noticeable ahead of it. To those on board the ship the

+movement of those waves will be the only perceptible motion.

+

+Only by watching closely moment by moment the movement of that flow and

+comparing it with the movement of the ship do we convince ourselves that

+every bit of it is occasioned by the forward movement of the ship,

+and that we were led into error by the fact that we ourselves were

+imperceptibly moving.

+

+We see the same if we watch moment by moment the movement of historical

+characters (that is, re-establish the inevitable condition of all that

+occurs—the continuity of movement in time) and do not lose sight of the

+essential connection of historical persons with the masses.

+

+When the ship moves in one direction there is one and the same wave

+ahead of it, when it turns frequently the wave ahead of it also turns

+frequently. But wherever it may turn there always will be the wave

+anticipating its movement.

+

+Whatever happens it always appears that just that event was foreseen

+and decreed. Wherever the ship may go, the rush of water which neither

+directs nor increases its movement foams ahead of it, and at a distance

+seems to us not merely to move of itself but to govern the ship’s

+movement also.

+

+Examining only those expressions of the will of historical persons

+which, as commands, were related to events, historians have assumed

+that the events depended on those commands. But examining the events

+themselves and the connection in which the historical persons stood to

+the people, we have found that they and their orders were dependent on

+events. The incontestable proof of this deduction is that, however many

+commands were issued, the event does not take place unless there are

+other causes for it, but as soon as an event occurs—be it what it

+may—then out of all the continually expressed wishes of different people

+some will always be found which by their meaning and their time of

+utterance are related as commands to the events.

+

+Arriving at this conclusion we can reply directly and positively to

+these two essential questions of history:

+

+(1) What is power?

+

+(2) What force produces the movement of the nations?

+

+(1) Power is the relation of a given person to other individuals,

+in which the more this person expresses opinions, predictions, and

+justifications of the collective action that is performed, the less is

+his participation in that action.

+

+(2) The movement of nations is caused not by power, nor by intellectual

+activity, nor even by a combination of the two as historians have

+supposed, but by the activity of all the people who participate in

+the events, and who always combine in such a way that those taking

+the largest direct share in the event take on themselves the least

+responsibility and vice versa.

+

+Morally the wielder of power appears to cause the event; physically

+it is those who submit to the power. But as the moral activity is

+inconceivable without the physical, the cause of the event is neither in

+the one nor in the other but in the union of the two.

+

+Or in other words, the conception of a cause is inapplicable to the

+phenomena we are examining.

+

+In the last analysis we reach the circle of infinity—that final limit

+to which in every domain of thought man’s reason arrives if it is not

+playing with the subject. Electricity produces heat, heat produces

+electricity. Atoms attract each other and atoms repel one another.

+

+Speaking of the interaction of heat and electricity and of atoms, we

+cannot say why this occurs, and we say that it is so because it is

+inconceivable otherwise, because it must be so and that it is a law. The

+same applies to historical events. Why war and revolution occur we do

+not know. We only know that to produce the one or the other action,

+people combine in a certain formation in which they all take part, and

+we say that this is so because it is unthinkable otherwise, or in other

+words that it is a law.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER VIII

+

+If history dealt only with external phenomena, the establishment of this

+simple and obvious law would suffice and we should have finished our

+argument. But the law of history relates to man. A particle of matter

+cannot tell us that it does not feel the law of attraction or repulsion

+and that that law is untrue, but man, who is the subject of history,

+says plainly: I am free and am therefore not subject to the law.

+

+The presence of the problem of man’s free will, though unexpressed, is

+felt at every step of history.

+

+All seriously thinking historians have involuntarily encountered this

+question. All the contradictions and obscurities of history and the

+false path historical science has followed are due solely to the lack of

+a solution of that question.

+

+If the will of every man were free, that is, if each man could act as he

+pleased, all history would be a series of disconnected incidents.

+

+If in a thousand years even one man in a million could act freely, that

+is, as he chose, it is evident that one single free act of that man’s

+in violation of the laws governing human action would destroy the

+possibility of the existence of any laws for the whole of humanity.

+

+If there be a single law governing the actions of men, free will cannot

+exist, for then man’s will is subject to that law.

+

+In this contradiction lies the problem of free will, which from most

+ancient times has occupied the best human minds and from most ancient

+times has been presented in its whole tremendous significance.

+

+The problem is that regarding man as a subject of observation

+from whatever point of view—theological, historical, ethical, or

+philosophic—we find a general law of necessity to which he (like all

+that exists) is subject. But regarding him from within ourselves as what

+we are conscious of, we feel ourselves to be free.

+

+This consciousness is a source of self-cognition quite apart from and

+independent of reason. Through his reason man observes himself, but only

+through consciousness does he know himself.

+

+Apart from consciousness of self no observation or application of reason

+is conceivable.

+

+To understand, observe, and draw conclusions, man must first of all be

+conscious of himself as living. A man is only conscious of himself as

+a living being by the fact that he wills, that is, is conscious of

+his volition. But his will—which forms the essence of his life—man

+recognizes (and can but recognize) as free.

+

+If, observing himself, man sees that his will is always directed by

+one and the same law (whether he observes the necessity of taking

+food, using his brain, or anything else) he cannot recognize this

+never-varying direction of his will otherwise than as a limitation of

+it. Were it not free it could not be limited. A man’s will seems to him

+to be limited just because he is not conscious of it except as free.

+

+You say: I am not free. But I have lifted my hand and let it fall.

+Everyone understands that this illogical reply is an irrefutable

+demonstration of freedom.

+

+That reply is the expression of a consciousness that is not subject to

+reason.

+

+If the consciousness of freedom were not a separate and independent

+source of self-consciousness it would be subject to reasoning and

+to experience, but in fact such subjection does not exist and is

+inconceivable.

+

+A series of experiments and arguments proves to every man that he, as

+an object of observation, is subject to certain laws, and man submits to

+them and never resists the laws of gravity or impermeability once he

+has become acquainted with them. But the same series of experiments

+and arguments proves to him that the complete freedom of which he is

+conscious in himself is impossible, and that his every action depends

+on his organization, his character, and the motives acting upon him; yet

+man never submits to the deductions of these experiments and arguments.

+Having learned from experiment and argument that a stone falls

+downwards, a man indubitably believes this and always expects the law

+that he has learned to be fulfilled.

+

+But learning just as certainly that his will is subject to laws, he does

+not and cannot believe this.

+

+However often experiment and reasoning may show a man that under the

+same conditions and with the same character he will do the same thing as

+before, yet when under the same conditions and with the same character

+he approaches for the thousandth time the action that always ends in the

+same way, he feels as certainly convinced as before the experiment

+that he can act as he pleases. Every man, savage or sage, however

+incontestably reason and experiment may prove to him that it is

+impossible to imagine two different courses of action in precisely the

+same conditions, feels that without this irrational conception (which

+constitutes the essence of freedom) he cannot imagine life. He feels

+that however impossible it may be, it is so, for without this conception

+of freedom not only would he be unable to understand life, but he would

+be unable to live for a single moment.

+

+He could not live, because all man’s efforts, all his impulses to life,

+are only efforts to increase freedom. Wealth and poverty, fame and

+obscurity, power and subordination, strength and weakness, health and

+disease, culture and ignorance, work and leisure, repletion and hunger,

+virtue and vice, are only greater or lesser degrees of freedom.

+

+A man having no freedom cannot be conceived of except as deprived of

+life.

+

+If the conception of freedom appears to reason to be a senseless

+contradiction like the possibility of performing two actions at one and

+the same instant of time, or of an effect without a cause, that only

+proves that consciousness is not subject to reason.

+

+This unshakable, irrefutable consciousness of freedom, uncontrolled by

+experiment or argument, recognized by all thinkers and felt by everyone

+without exception, this consciousness without which no conception of man

+is possible constitutes the other side of the question.

+

+Man is the creation of an all-powerful, all-good, and all-seeing God.

+What is sin, the conception of which arises from the consciousness of

+man’s freedom? That is a question for theology.

+

+The actions of men are subject to general immutable laws expressed in

+statistics. What is man’s responsibility to society, the conception of

+which results from the conception of freedom? That is a question for

+jurisprudence.

+

+Man’s actions proceed from his innate character and the motives acting

+upon him. What is conscience and the perception of right and wrong

+in actions that follows from the consciousness of freedom? That is a

+question for ethics.

+

+Man in connection with the general life of humanity appears subject

+to laws which determine that life. But the same man apart from that

+connection appears to be free. How should the past life of nations and

+of humanity be regarded—as the result of the free, or as the result of

+the constrained, activity of man? That is a question for history.

+

+Only in our self-confident day of the popularization of knowledge—thanks

+to that most powerful engine of ignorance, the diffusion of printed

+matter—has the question of the freedom of will been put on a level on

+which the question itself cannot exist. In our time the majority of

+so-called advanced people—that is, the crowd of ignoramuses—have taken

+the work of the naturalists who deal with one side of the question for a

+solution of the whole problem.

+

+They say and write and print that the soul and freedom do not exist,

+for the life of man is expressed by muscular movements and muscular

+movements are conditioned by the activity of the nerves; the soul and

+free will do not exist because at an unknown period of time we sprang

+from the apes. They say this, not at all suspecting that thousands of

+years ago that same law of necessity which with such ardor they are now

+trying to prove by physiology and comparative zoology was not merely

+acknowledged by all the religions and all the thinkers, but has never

+been denied. They do not see that the role of the natural sciences in

+this matter is merely to serve as an instrument for the illumination

+of one side of it. For the fact that, from the point of view of

+observation, reason and the will are merely secretions of the brain, and

+that man following the general law may have developed from lower animals

+at some unknown period of time, only explains from a fresh side

+the truth admitted thousands of years ago by all the religious and

+philosophic theories—that from the point of view of reason man is

+subject to the law of necessity; but it does not advance by a hair’s

+breadth the solution of the question, which has another, opposite, side,

+based on the consciousness of freedom.

+

+If men descended from the apes at an unknown period of time, that is

+as comprehensible as that they were made from a handful of earth at a

+certain period of time (in the first case the unknown quantity is the

+time, in the second case it is the origin); and the question of how

+man’s consciousness of freedom is to be reconciled with the law of

+necessity to which he is subject cannot be solved by comparative

+physiology and zoology, for in a frog, a rabbit, or an ape, we can

+observe only the muscular nervous activity, but in man we observe

+consciousness as well as the muscular and nervous activity.

+

+The naturalists and their followers, thinking they can solve this

+question, are like plasterers set to plaster one side of the walls of

+a church who, availing themselves of the absence of the chief

+superintendent of the work, should in an access of zeal plaster over the

+windows, icons, woodwork, and still unbuttressed walls, and should be

+delighted that from their point of view as plasterers, everything is now

+so smooth and regular.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER IX

+

+For the solution of the question of free will or inevitability, history

+has this advantage over other branches of knowledge in which the

+question is dealt with, that for history this question does not refer

+to the essence of man’s free will but its manifestation in the past and

+under certain conditions.

+

+In regard to this question, history stands to the other sciences as

+experimental science stands to abstract science.

+

+The subject for history is not man’s will itself but our presentation of

+it.

+

+And so for history, the insoluble mystery presented by the

+incompatibility of free will and inevitability does not exist as it does

+for theology, ethics, and philosophy. History surveys a presentation of

+man’s life in which the union of these two contradictions has already

+taken place.

+

+In actual life each historic event, each human action, is very clearly

+and definitely understood without any sense of contradiction, although

+each event presents itself as partly free and partly compulsory.

+

+To solve the question of how freedom and necessity are combined and

+what constitutes the essence of these two conceptions, the philosophy

+of history can and should follow a path contrary to that taken by other

+sciences. Instead of first defining the conceptions of freedom and

+inevitability in themselves, and then ranging the phenomena of life

+under those definitions, history should deduce a definition of the

+conception of freedom and inevitability themselves from the immense

+quantity of phenomena of which it is cognizant and that always appear

+dependent on these two elements.

+

+Whatever presentation of the activity of many men or of an individual

+we may consider, we always regard it as the result partly of man’s free

+will and partly of the law of inevitability.

+

+Whether we speak of the migration of the peoples and the incursions

+of the barbarians, or of the decrees of Napoleon III, or of someone’s

+action an hour ago in choosing one direction out of several for his

+walk, we are unconscious of any contradiction. The degree of freedom and

+inevitability governing the actions of these people is clearly defined

+for us.

+

+Our conception of the degree of freedom often varies according to

+differences in the point of view from which we regard the event, but

+every human action appears to us as a certain combination of freedom and

+inevitability. In every action we examine we see a certain measure of

+freedom and a certain measure of inevitability. And always the more

+freedom we see in any action the less inevitability do we perceive, and

+the more inevitability the less freedom.

+

+The proportion of freedom to inevitability decreases and increases

+according to the point of view from which the action is regarded, but

+their relation is always one of inverse proportion.

+

+A sinking man who clutches at another and drowns him; or a hungry mother

+exhausted by feeding her baby, who steals some food; or a man trained

+to discipline who on duty at the word of command kills a defenseless

+man—seem less guilty, that is, less free and more subject to the law of

+necessity, to one who knows the circumstances in which these people were

+placed, and more free to one who does not know that the man was himself

+drowning, that the mother was hungry, that the soldier was in the ranks,

+and so on. Similarly a man who committed a murder twenty years ago and

+has since lived peaceably and harmlessly in society seems less guilty

+and his action more due to the law of inevitability, to someone who

+considers his action after twenty years have elapsed than to one who

+examined it the day after it was committed. And in the same way every

+action of an insane, intoxicated, or highly excited man appears less

+free and more inevitable to one who knows the mental condition of him

+who committed the action, and seems more free and less inevitable to one

+who does not know it. In all these cases the conception of freedom

+is increased or diminished and the conception of compulsion is

+correspondingly decreased or increased, according to the point of view

+from which the action is regarded. So that the greater the conception of

+necessity the smaller the conception of freedom and vice versa.

+

+Religion, the common sense of mankind, the science of jurisprudence,

+and history itself understand alike this relation between necessity and

+freedom.

+

+All cases without exception in which our conception of freedom and

+necessity is increased and diminished depend on three considerations:

+

+(1) The relation to the external world of the man who commits the deeds.

+

+(2) His relation to time.

+

+(3) His relation to the causes leading to the action.

+

+The first consideration is the clearness of our perception of the man’s

+relation to the external world and the greater or lesser clearness

+of our understanding of the definite position occupied by the man

+in relation to everything coexisting with him. This is what makes it

+evident that a drowning man is less free and more subject to necessity

+than one standing on dry ground, and that makes the actions of a man

+closely connected with others in a thickly populated district, or of one

+bound by family, official, or business duties, seem certainly less free

+and more subject to necessity than those of a man living in solitude and

+seclusion.

+

+If we consider a man alone, apart from his relation to everything around

+him, each action of his seems to us free. But if we see his relation

+to anything around him, if we see his connection with anything

+whatever—with a man who speaks to him, a book he reads, the work on

+which he is engaged, even with the air he breathes or the light that

+falls on the things about him—we see that each of these circumstances

+has an influence on him and controls at least some side of his activity.

+And the more we perceive of these influences the more our conception of

+his freedom diminishes and the more our conception of the necessity that

+weighs on him increases.

+

+The second consideration is the more or less evident time relation of

+the man to the world and the clearness of our perception of the place

+the man’s action occupies in time. That is the ground which makes the

+fall of the first man, resulting in the production of the human race,

+appear evidently less free than a man’s entry into marriage today. It is

+the reason why the life and activity of people who lived centuries ago

+and are connected with me in time cannot seem to me as free as the life

+of a contemporary, the consequences of which are still unknown to me.

+

+The degree of our conception of freedom or inevitability depends in this

+respect on the greater or lesser lapse of time between the performance

+of the action and our judgment of it.

+

+If I examine an act I performed a moment ago in approximately the same

+circumstances as those I am in now, my action appears to me undoubtedly

+free. But if I examine an act performed a month ago, then being in

+different circumstances, I cannot help recognizing that if that act had

+not been committed much that resulted from it—good, agreeable, and even

+essential—would not have taken place. If I reflect on an action still

+more remote, ten years ago or more, then the consequences of my action

+are still plainer to me and I find it hard to imagine what would have

+happened had that action not been performed. The farther I go back

+in memory, or what is the same thing the farther I go forward in my

+judgment, the more doubtful becomes my belief in the freedom of my

+action.

+

+In history we find a very similar progress of conviction concerning

+the part played by free will in the general affairs of humanity. A

+contemporary event seems to us to be indubitably the doing of all the

+known participants, but with a more remote event we already see its

+inevitable results which prevent our considering anything else possible.

+And the farther we go back in examining events the less arbitrary do

+they appear.

+

+The Austro-Prussian war appears to us undoubtedly the result of the

+crafty conduct of Bismarck, and so on. The Napoleonic wars still seem

+to us, though already questionably, to be the outcome of their heroes’

+will. But in the Crusades we already see an event occupying its definite

+place in history and without which we cannot imagine the modern history

+of Europe, though to the chroniclers of the Crusades that event appeared

+as merely due to the will of certain people. In regard to the migration

+of the peoples it does not enter anyone’s head today to suppose that

+the renovation of the European world depended on Attila’s caprice. The

+farther back in history the object of our observation lies, the more

+doubtful does the free will of those concerned in the event become and

+the more manifest the law of inevitability.

+

+The third consideration is the degree to which we apprehend that

+endless chain of causation inevitably demanded by reason, in which each

+phenomenon comprehended, and therefore man’s every action, must have

+its definite place as a result of what has gone before and as a cause of

+what will follow.

+

+The better we are acquainted with the physiological, psychological, and

+historical laws deduced by observation and by which man is controlled,

+and the more correctly we perceive the physiological, psychological,

+and historical causes of the action, and the simpler the action we are

+observing and the less complex the character and mind of the man in

+question, the more subject to inevitability and the less free do our

+actions and those of others appear.

+

+When we do not at all understand the cause of an action, whether a

+crime, a good action, or even one that is simply nonmoral, we ascribe a

+greater amount of freedom to it. In the case of a crime we most urgently

+demand the punishment for such an act; in the case of a virtuous act we

+rate its merit most highly. In an indifferent case we recognize in it

+more individuality, originality, and independence. But if even one of

+the innumerable causes of the act is known to us we recognize a certain

+element of necessity and are less insistent on punishment for the crime,

+or the acknowledgment of the merit of the virtuous act, or the freedom

+of the apparently original action. That a criminal was reared among male

+factors mitigates his fault in our eyes. The self-sacrifice of a father

+or mother, or self-sacrifice with the possibility of a reward, is more

+comprehensible than gratuitous self-sacrifice, and therefore seems less

+deserving of sympathy and less the result of free will. The founder of a

+sect or party, or an inventor, impresses us less when we know how or by

+what the way was prepared for his activity. If we have a large range

+of examples, if our observation is constantly directed to seeking the

+correlation of cause and effect in people’s actions, their actions

+appear to us more under compulsion and less free the more correctly we

+connect the effects with the causes. If we examined simple actions and

+had a vast number of such actions under observation, our conception of

+their inevitability would be still greater. The dishonest conduct of the

+son of a dishonest father, the misconduct of a woman who had fallen

+into bad company, a drunkard’s relapse into drunkenness, and so on are

+actions that seem to us less free the better we understand their cause.

+If the man whose actions we are considering is on a very low stage of

+mental development, like a child, a madman, or a simpleton—then,

+knowing the causes of the act and the simplicity of the character and

+intelligence in question, we see so large an element of necessity and so

+little free will that as soon as we know the cause prompting the action

+we can foretell the result.

+

+On these three considerations alone is based the conception of

+irresponsibility for crimes and the extenuating circumstances admitted

+by all legislative codes. The responsibility appears greater or less

+according to our greater or lesser knowledge of the circumstances in

+which the man was placed whose action is being judged, and according

+to the greater or lesser interval of time between the commission of the

+action and its investigation, and according to the greater or lesser

+understanding of the causes that led to the action.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER X

+

+Thus our conception of free will and inevitability gradually diminishes

+or increases according to the greater or lesser connection with the

+external world, the greater or lesser remoteness of time, and the

+greater or lesser dependence on the causes in relation to which we

+contemplate a man’s life.

+

+So that if we examine the case of a man whose connection with the

+external world is well known, where the time between the action and

+its examination is great, and where the causes of the action are most

+accessible, we get the conception of a maximum of inevitability and a

+minimum of free will. If we examine a man little dependent on external

+conditions, whose action was performed very recently, and the causes of

+whose action are beyond our ken, we get the conception of a minimum of

+inevitability and a maximum of freedom.

+

+In neither case—however we may change our point of view, however plain

+we may make to ourselves the connection between the man and the external

+world, however inaccessible it may be to us, however long or short the

+period of time, however intelligible or incomprehensible the causes

+of the action may be—can we ever conceive either complete freedom or

+complete necessity.

+

+(1) To whatever degree we may imagine a man to be exempt from the

+influence of the external world, we never get a conception of freedom

+in space. Every human action is inevitably conditioned by what surrounds

+him and by his own body. I lift my arm and let it fall. My action seems

+to me free; but asking myself whether I could raise my arm in every

+direction, I see that I raised it in the direction in which there was

+least obstruction to that action either from things around me or from

+the construction of my own body. I chose one out of all the possible

+directions because in it there were fewest obstacles. For my action

+to be free it was necessary that it should encounter no obstacles. To

+conceive of a man being free we must imagine him outside space, which is

+evidently impossible.

+

+(2) However much we approximate the time of judgment to the time of the

+deed, we never get a conception of freedom in time. For if I examine

+an action committed a second ago I must still recognize it as not

+being free, for it is irrevocably linked to the moment at which it was

+committed. Can I lift my arm? I lift it, but ask myself: could I have

+abstained from lifting my arm at the moment that has already passed? To

+convince myself of this I do not lift it the next moment. But I am

+not now abstaining from doing so at the first moment when I asked the

+question. Time has gone by which I could not detain, the arm I then

+lifted is no longer the same as the arm I now refrain from lifting,

+nor is the air in which I lifted it the same that now surrounds me. The

+moment in which the first movement was made is irrevocable, and at that

+moment I could make only one movement, and whatever movement I made

+would be the only one. That I did not lift my arm a moment later does

+not prove that I could have abstained from lifting it then. And since I

+could make only one movement at that single moment of time, it could not

+have been any other. To imagine it as free, it is necessary to imagine

+it in the present, on the boundary between the past and the future—that

+is, outside time, which is impossible.

+

+(3) However much the difficulty of understanding the causes may be

+increased, we never reach a conception of complete freedom, that is,

+an absence of cause. However inaccessible to us may be the cause of the

+expression of will in any action, our own or another’s, the first demand

+of reason is the assumption of and search for a cause, for without a

+cause no phenomenon is conceivable. I raise my arm to perform an action

+independently of any cause, but my wish to perform an action without a

+cause is the cause of my action.

+

+But even if—imagining a man quite exempt from all influences, examining

+only his momentary action in the present, unevoked by any cause—we were

+to admit so infinitely small a remainder of inevitability as equaled

+zero, we should even then not have arrived at the conception of complete

+freedom in man, for a being uninfluenced by the external world, standing

+outside of time and independent of cause, is no longer a man.

+

+In the same way we can never imagine the action of a man quite devoid of

+freedom and entirely subject to the law of inevitability.

+

+(1) However we may increase our knowledge of the conditions of space

+in which man is situated, that knowledge can never be complete, for the

+number of those conditions is as infinite as the infinity of space. And

+therefore so long as not all the conditions influencing men are defined,

+there is no complete inevitability but a certain measure of freedom

+remains.

+

+(2) However we may prolong the period of time between the action we are

+examining and the judgment upon it, that period will be finite, while

+time is infinite, and so in this respect too there can never be absolute

+inevitability.

+

+(3) However accessible may be the chain of causation of any action, we

+shall never know the whole chain since it is endless, and so again we

+never reach absolute inevitability.

+

+But besides this, even if, admitting the remaining minimum of freedom to

+equal zero, we assumed in some given case—as for instance in that of a

+dying man, an unborn babe, or an idiot—complete absence of freedom, by

+so doing we should destroy the very conception of man in the case we are

+examining, for as soon as there is no freedom there is also no man. And

+so the conception of the action of a man subject solely to the law of

+inevitability without any element of freedom is just as impossible as

+the conception of a man’s completely free action.

+

+And so to imagine the action of a man entirely subject to the law of

+inevitability without any freedom, we must assume the knowledge of an

+infinite number of space relations, an infinitely long period of time,

+and an infinite series of causes.

+

+To imagine a man perfectly free and not subject to the law of

+inevitability, we must imagine him all alone, beyond space, beyond time,

+and free from dependence on cause.

+

+In the first case, if inevitability were possible without freedom

+we should have reached a definition of inevitability by the laws of

+inevitability itself, that is, a mere form without content.

+

+In the second case, if freedom were possible without inevitability we

+should have arrived at unconditioned freedom beyond space, time, and

+cause, which by the fact of its being unconditioned and unlimited would

+be nothing, or mere content without form.

+

+We should in fact have reached those two fundamentals of which man’s

+whole outlook on the universe is constructed—the incomprehensible

+essence of life, and the laws defining that essence.

+

+Reason says: (1) space with all the forms of matter that give it

+visibility is infinite, and cannot be imagined otherwise. (2) Time is

+infinite motion without a moment of rest and is unthinkable otherwise.

+(3) The connection between cause and effect has no beginning and can

+have no end.

+

+Consciousness says: (1) I alone am, and all that exists is but me,

+consequently I include space. (2) I measure flowing time by the fixed

+moment of the present in which alone I am conscious of myself as living,

+consequently I am outside time. (3) I am beyond cause, for I feel myself

+to be the cause of every manifestation of my life.

+

+Reason gives expression to the laws of inevitability. Consciousness

+gives expression to the essence of freedom.

+

+Freedom not limited by anything is the essence of life, in man’s

+consciousness. Inevitability without content is man’s reason in its

+three forms.

+

+Freedom is the thing examined. Inevitability is what examines. Freedom

+is the content. Inevitability is the form.

+

+Only by separating the two sources of cognition, related to one another

+as form to content, do we get the mutually exclusive and separately

+incomprehensible conceptions of freedom and inevitability.

+

+Only by uniting them do we get a clear conception of man’s life.

+

+Apart from these two concepts which in their union mutually define one

+another as form and content, no conception of life is possible.

+

+All that we know of the life of man is merely a certain relation of free

+will to inevitability, that is, of consciousness to the laws of reason.

+

+All that we know of the external world of nature is only a certain

+relation of the forces of nature to inevitability, or of the essence of

+life to the laws of reason.

+

+The great natural forces lie outside us and we are not conscious of

+them; we call those forces gravitation, inertia, electricity, animal

+force, and so on, but we are conscious of the force of life in man and

+we call that freedom.

+

+But just as the force of gravitation, incomprehensible in itself but

+felt by every man, is understood by us only to the extent to which we

+know the laws of inevitability to which it is subject (from the first

+knowledge that all bodies have weight, up to Newton’s law), so too the

+force of free will, incomprehensible in itself but of which everyone is

+conscious, is intelligible to us only in as far as we know the laws of

+inevitability to which it is subject (from the fact that every man dies,

+up to the knowledge of the most complex economic and historic laws).

+

+All knowledge is merely a bringing of this essence of life under the

+laws of reason.

+

+Man’s free will differs from every other force in that man is directly

+conscious of it, but in the eyes of reason it in no way differs from

+any other force. The forces of gravitation, electricity, or chemical

+affinity are only distinguished from one another in that they are

+differently defined by reason. Just so the force of man’s free will

+is distinguished by reason from the other forces of nature only by the

+definition reason gives it. Freedom, apart from necessity, that is,

+apart from the laws of reason that define it, differs in no way from

+gravitation, or heat, or the force that makes things grow; for reason,

+it is only a momentary undefinable sensation of life.

+

+And as the undefinable essence of the force moving the heavenly bodies,

+the undefinable essence of the forces of heat and electricity, or

+of chemical affinity, or of the vital force, forms the content of

+astronomy, physics, chemistry, botany, zoology, and so on, just in the

+same way does the force of free will form the content of history.

+But just as the subject of every science is the manifestation of this

+unknown essence of life while that essence itself can only be the

+subject of metaphysics, even the manifestation of the force of free will

+in human beings in space, in time, and in dependence on cause forms

+the subject of history, while free will itself is the subject of

+metaphysics.

+

+In the experimental sciences what we know we call the laws of

+inevitability, what is unknown to us we call vital force. Vital force is

+only an expression for the unknown remainder over and above what we know

+of the essence of life.

+

+So also in history what is known to us we call laws of inevitability,

+what is unknown we call free will. Free will is for history only an

+expression for the unknown remainder of what we know about the laws of

+human life.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XI

+

+History examines the manifestations of man’s free will in connection

+with the external world in time and in dependence on cause, that is, it

+defines this freedom by the laws of reason, and so history is a science

+only in so far as this free will is defined by those laws.

+

+The recognition of man’s free will as something capable of influencing

+historical events, that is, as not subject to laws, is the same for

+history as the recognition of a free force moving the heavenly bodies

+would be for astronomy.

+

+That assumption would destroy the possibility of the existence of laws,

+that is, of any science whatever. If there is even a single body

+moving freely, then the laws of Kepler and Newton are negatived and no

+conception of the movement of the heavenly bodies any longer exists. If

+any single action is due to free will, then not a single historical law

+can exist, nor any conception of historical events.

+

+For history, lines exist of the movement of human wills, one end

+of which is hidden in the unknown but at the other end of which a

+consciousness of man’s will in the present moves in space, time, and

+dependence on cause.

+

+The more this field of motion spreads out before our eyes, the more

+evident are the laws of that movement. To discover and define those laws

+is the problem of history.

+

+From the standpoint from which the science of history now regards its

+subject on the path it now follows, seeking the causes of events in

+man’s free will, a scientific enunciation of those laws is impossible,

+for however man’s free will may be restricted, as soon as we recognize

+it as a force not subject to law, the existence of law becomes

+impossible.

+

+Only by reducing this element of free will to the infinitesimal, that

+is, by regarding it as an infinitely small quantity, can we convince

+ourselves of the absolute inaccessibility of the causes, and then

+instead of seeking causes, history will take the discovery of laws as

+its problem.

+

+The search for these laws has long been begun and the new methods of

+thought which history must adopt are being worked out simultaneously

+with the self-destruction toward which—ever dissecting and dissecting

+the causes of phenomena—the old method of history is moving.

+

+All human sciences have traveled along that path. Arriving at

+infinitesimals, mathematics, the most exact of sciences, abandons the

+process of analysis and enters on the new process of the integration

+of unknown, infinitely small, quantities. Abandoning the conception

+of cause, mathematics seeks law, that is, the property common to all

+unknown, infinitely small, elements.

+

+In another form but along the same path of reflection the other sciences

+have proceeded. When Newton enunciated the law of gravity he did not say

+that the sun or the earth had a property of attraction; he said that all

+bodies from the largest to the smallest have the property of attracting

+one another, that is, leaving aside the question of the cause of the

+movement of the bodies, he expressed the property common to all bodies

+from the infinitely large to the infinitely small. The same is done by

+the natural sciences: leaving aside the question of cause, they seek for

+laws. History stands on the same path. And if history has for its object

+the study of the movement of the nations and of humanity and not the

+narration of episodes in the lives of individuals, it too, setting

+aside the conception of cause, should seek the laws common to all the

+inseparably interconnected infinitesimal elements of free will.

+

+

+

+

+

+CHAPTER XII

+

+From the time the law of Copernicus was discovered and proved, the mere

+recognition of the fact that it was not the sun but the earth that moves

+sufficed to destroy the whole cosmography of the ancients. By disproving

+that law it might have been possible to retain the old conception of

+the movements of the bodies, but without disproving it, it would seem

+impossible to continue studying the Ptolemaic worlds. But even after

+the discovery of the law of Copernicus the Ptolemaic worlds were still

+studied for a long time.

+

+From the time the first person said and proved that the number of births

+or of crimes is subject to mathematical laws, and that this or that

+mode of government is determined by certain geographical and economic

+conditions, and that certain relations of population to soil produce

+migrations of peoples, the foundations on which history had been built

+were destroyed in their essence.

+

+By refuting these new laws the former view of history might have been

+retained; but without refuting them it would seem impossible to continue

+studying historic events as the results of man’s free will. For if a

+certain mode of government was established or certain migrations

+of peoples took place in consequence of such and such geographic,

+ethnographic, or economic conditions, then the free will of those

+individuals who appear to us to have established that mode of government

+or occasioned the migrations can no longer be regarded as the cause.

+

+And yet the former history continues to be studied side by side with the

+laws of statistics, geography, political economy, comparative philology,

+and geology, which directly contradict its assumptions.

+

+The struggle between the old views and the new was long and stubbornly

+fought out in physical philosophy. Theology stood on guard for the

+old views and accused the new of violating revelation. But when truth

+conquered, theology established itself just as firmly on the new

+foundation.

+

+Just as prolonged and stubborn is the struggle now proceeding between

+the old and the new conception of history, and theology in the same way

+stands on guard for the old view, and accuses the new view of subverting

+revelation.

+

+In the one case as in the other, on both sides the struggle provokes

+passion and stifles truth. On the one hand there is fear and regret for

+the loss of the whole edifice constructed through the ages, on the other

+is the passion for destruction.

+

+To the men who fought against the rising truths of physical philosophy,

+it seemed that if they admitted that truth it would destroy faith in

+God, in the creation of the firmament, and in the miracle of Joshua the

+son of Nun. To the defenders of the laws of Copernicus and Newton, to

+Voltaire for example, it seemed that the laws of astronomy destroyed

+religion, and he utilized the law of gravitation as a weapon against

+religion.

+

+Just so it now seems as if we have only to admit the law of

+inevitability, to destroy the conception of the soul, of good and evil,

+and all the institutions of state and church that have been built up on

+those conceptions.

+

+So too, like Voltaire in his time, uninvited defenders of the law of

+inevitability today use that law as a weapon against religion, though

+the law of inevitability in history, like the law of Copernicus in

+astronomy, far from destroying, even strengthens the foundation on which

+the institutions of state and church are erected.

+

+As in the question of astronomy then, so in the question of history

+now, the whole difference of opinion is based on the recognition or

+nonrecognition of something absolute, serving as the measure of visible

+phenomena. In astronomy it was the immovability of the earth, in history

+it is the independence of personality—free will.

+

+As with astronomy the difficulty of recognizing the motion of the earth

+lay in abandoning the immediate sensation of the earth’s fixity and of

+the motion of the planets, so in history the difficulty of recognizing

+the subjection of personality to the laws of space, time, and cause

+lies in renouncing the direct feeling of the independence of one’s own

+personality. But as in astronomy the new view said: “It is true that we

+do not feel the movement of the earth, but by admitting its immobility

+we arrive at absurdity, while by admitting its motion (which we do not

+feel) we arrive at laws,” so also in history the new view says: “It is

+true that we are not conscious of our dependence, but by admitting our

+free will we arrive at absurdity, while by admitting our dependence on

+the external world, on time, and on cause, we arrive at laws.”

+

+In the first case it was necessary to renounce the consciousness of an

+unreal immobility in space and to recognize a motion we did not feel;

+in the present case it is similarly necessary to renounce a freedom

+that does not exist, and to recognize a dependence of which we are not

+conscious.

+

+

+

+

+

+

+

+

+

+

+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of War and Peace, by Leo Tolstoy

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diff --git a/OLD/csci1913/Python/lab1_strap012.py b/OLD/csci1913/Python/lab1_strap012.py
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..396fda9
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/csci1913/Python/lab1_strap012.py
@@ -0,0 +1,115 @@
+#Matthew Strapp
+#5449340
+#Lab 1
+
+def left(exp):
+	return exp[0]
+def op(exp):
+	return exp[1]
+def right(exp):
+	return exp[2]
+
+
+def isInside(var, e):
+	if type(e) is tuple:
+		return isInside(var, left(e)) or isInside(var, right(e))
+	elif type(e) is str:
+		return var==e
+	else:
+	    return -1
+
+def solve(v, e):
+	if isInside(v, left(e)):
+		return solving(v, e)
+	elif isInside(v,right(e)):
+		newE=(right(e),op(e),left(e))
+		return solving(v,newE)
+	    #Solving defined on line 52
+	else:
+		return None
+
+#Four major solving means
+def solvingAdd(v,q):
+	if isInside(v, left(left(q))):
+		return left(left(q)), '=', (right(q), '-', right(left(q)))
+	else:
+		return right(left(q)), '=', (right(q), '-', left(left(q)))
+def solvingSubtract(v,q):
+	if isInside(v, left(left(q))):
+		return left(left(q)), '=', (right(q), '+', right(left(q)))
+	else:
+		return right(left(q)), '=', (left(left(q)), '-', right(q))
+def solvingMultiply(v,q):
+	if isInside(v, left(left(q))):
+		return left(left(q)), '=', (right(q), '/', right(left(q)))
+	else:
+		return right(left(q)), '=', (right(q), '/', left(left(q)))
+def solvingDivide(v,q):
+	if isInside(v, left(left(q))):
+		return left(left(q)), '=', (right(q), '*', right(left(q)))
+	else:
+		return right(left(q)), '=', (left(left(q)), '/', right(q))
+
+#Dict based off of lecture 13th Sept. 2019
+dispatcher={'+':solvingAdd,'-':solvingSubtract,'*':solvingMultiply,'/':solvingDivide}
+
+def solving(v,q):
+    if left(q) is v:
+        return q
+    else:
+        if op(left(q)) in dispatcher:
+            newQ=dispatcher[op(left(q))](v,q)
+        else:
+            raise ValueError
+    return solving(v,newQ)
+
+#
+#  TESTS. Test the equation solver for CSci 1913 Lab 1.
+#
+#    James Moen
+#    10 Sep 18
+#
+#  Every test is followed by a comment which shows what must be printed if your
+#  code works correctly. It also shows how many points the test is worth, for a
+#  total of 35 possible points.
+#
+
+print(isInside('x', 'x'))                          #  True   1 point
+print(isInside('x', 'y'))                          #  False  1 point
+print(isInside('x', ('x', '+', 'y')))              #  True   2 points
+print(isInside('x', ('a', '+', 'b')))              #  False  2 points
+print(isInside('+', ('a', '+', 'b')))              #  False  2 points
+print(isInside('x', (('m', '*', 'x'), '+', 'b')))  #  True   2 points
+
+print(solve('x', (('a', '+', 'x'), '=', 'c')))
+#  ('x', '=', ('c', '-', 'a'))  2 points
+
+print(solve('x', (('x', '+', 'b'), '=', 'c')))
+#  ('x', '=', ('c', '-', 'b'))  2 points
+
+print(solve('x', (('a', '-', 'x'), '=', 'c')))
+#  ('x', '=', ('a', '-', 'c'))  2 points
+
+print(solve('x', (('x', '-', 'b'), '=', 'c')))
+#  ('x', '=', ('c', '+', 'b'))  2 points
+
+print(solve('x', (('a', '*', 'x'), '=', 'c')))
+#  ('x', '=', ('c', '/', 'a'))  2 points
+
+print(solve('x', (('x', '*', 'b'), '=', 'c')))
+#  ('x', '=', ('c', '/', 'b'))  2 points
+
+print(solve('x', (('a', '/', 'x'), '=', 'c')))
+#  ('x', '=', ('a', '/', 'c'))  2 points
+
+print(solve('x', (('x', '/', 'b'), '=', 'c')))
+#  ('x', '=', ('c', '*', 'b'))  2 points
+
+print(solve('y', ('y', '=', (('m', '*', 'x'), '+', 'b'))))
+# ('y', '=', (('m', '*', 'x'), '+', 'b'))  2 points
+
+print(solve('x', ('y', '=', (('m', '*', 'x'), '+', 'b'))))
+# ('x', '=', (('y', '-', 'b'), '/', 'm'))  2 points
+
+print(solve('a', (('b', '+', 'c'), '=', ('d', '*', (('a', '/', 'e'), '-', 'f')))))
+# ('a', '=', (((('b', '+', 'c'), '/', 'd'), '+', 'f'), '*', 'e'))  5 points
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/OLD/csci1913/Python/lab2_strap012.py b/OLD/csci1913/Python/lab2_strap012.py
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..511e6bf
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/csci1913/Python/lab2_strap012.py
@@ -0,0 +1,137 @@
+class Zillion:
+  def __init__(self,digits):
+    self.digits = digits
+    self.List = []
+    self.toList()
+
+  def toList(self):
+    badBoolean=False           #Kludge
+    if len(self.digits) == 0 :
+      raise RuntimeError       #Cannot make a list of nothing
+    for n in range (0,len(self.digits)):
+      if self.digits[n] is not ',':
+        if self.digits[n] is not ' ':
+          try:
+            self.List+=[int(self.digits[n])]
+            badBoolean=True
+          except ValueError:   #Non-comma character in string
+            raise RuntimeError
+    if badBoolean is False:    #No numbers in string
+      raise RuntimeError
+    else:
+      return self.List
+
+
+  def increment(self):
+    length = len(self.List) - 1
+    newList = self.List
+    newList[length] += 1
+    if newList[length]>=10:     #Loop to increment all 10s to 0s with carry
+      for n in range (0,length):
+        newList[length-n]=0
+        newList[length-n-1]+=1
+
+  def isZero(self):
+    for p in range (0,len(self.List)-1):
+      if self.List[p] is not 0:
+        return False
+    return True
+
+  def toString(self):
+    string=''
+    for q in range (0,len(self.List)):
+      string+=str(self.List[q])    #Make string by concatenation
+    return string
+
+
+
+#
+#  TESTS. Test the class Zillion for CSci 1913 Lab 2.
+#
+#    James Moen
+#    18 Sep 17
+#
+#  Every test is followed by a comment which shows what must be printed if your
+#  code works correctly. It also shows how many points the test is worth.
+#
+
+try:
+  z = Zillion('')
+except RuntimeError:
+  print('Empty string')
+
+# It must print 'Empty string' without apostrophes. 2 points.
+
+try:
+  z = Zillion(' , ')
+except RuntimeError:
+  print('No digits in the string')
+
+# It must print 'No digits in the string' without apostrophes. 2 points.
+
+try:
+  z = Zillion('1+0')
+except RuntimeError:
+  print('Non-digit in the string')
+
+# It must print 'Non-digit in the string' without apostrophes. 2 points.
+
+try:
+  z = Zillion('0')
+except RuntimeError:
+  print('This must not be printed')
+
+#  It must print nothing. 2 points.
+
+print(z.isZero())    #  It must print True. 2 points.
+
+try:
+  z = Zillion('000000000')
+except RuntimeError:
+  print('This must not be printed')
+
+#  It must print nothing. 2 points.
+
+print(z.isZero())    #  It must print True. 2 points.
+
+try:
+  z = Zillion('000 000 000')
+except RuntimeError:
+  print('This must not be printed')
+
+#  It must print nothing. 2 points.
+
+print(z.isZero())    #  It must print True. 2 points.
+
+try:
+  z = Zillion('997')
+except RuntimeError:
+  print('This must not be printed')
+
+#  It must print nothing.  2 points.
+
+print(z.isZero())    #  It must print False. 2 points.
+
+print(z.toString())  #  It must print 997. 2 points.
+
+z.increment()
+
+print(z.toString())  #  It must print 998. 2 points.
+
+z.increment()
+
+print(z.toString())  #  It must print 999. 2 points.
+
+z.increment()
+
+print(z.toString())  #  It must print 1000. 2 points.
+
+try:
+  z = Zillion('0 9,9 9')
+except:
+  print('This must not be printed')
+
+#  It must print nothing.  3 points.
+
+z.increment()
+print(z.toString())  #  It must print 1000. 2 points.
diff --git a/OLD/csci1913/Python/lab3_strap012.py b/OLD/csci1913/Python/lab3_strap012.py
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..f9df918
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/csci1913/Python/lab3_strap012.py
@@ -0,0 +1,63 @@
+#"New" functions
+def Reduce(F,S):
+    if len(S)==0:
+        return -255
+    else:
+        return F(Reduce(F,S[:-1]),S[-1])
+def returnGreater(a,b):
+    if a > b:
+        return a
+    else:
+        return b
+
+#Implementation from Lab
+def Sort(T):
+    if len(T)==0:
+        return ()
+    else:
+        return (Sort(Remove(T,Maximum(T))))+(Maximum(T),)
+def Maximum(T):
+    return Reduce(returnGreater,T)
+def Remove(T,E):
+    if len(T)==0:
+        return ()
+    elif T[0] is E:
+        return T[1:]
+    else:
+        return (T[0],)+Remove(T[1:],E)
+
+
+#
+#  TESTS. Tests for CSci 1913 Lab 3.
+#
+#    James Moen
+#    11 Feb 19
+#
+#  Each test is worth 2 points, for 40 points total. Comments show what must be
+#  printed to receive credit. Note that your function SORT must work for tuples
+#  with negative elements.
+#
+
+print(Maximum((1,)))                      #  1                            2 pt.
+print(Maximum((-2, -1)))                  # -1                            2 pt.
+print(Maximum((1, 1)))                    #  1                            2 pt.
+print(Maximum((1, 2, 3)))                 #  3                            2 pt.
+
+print(Remove((), 1))                      #  ()                           2 pt.
+print(Remove((1,), 1))                    #  ()                           2 pt.
+print(Remove((0, 1), 0))                  #  (1,)                         2 pt.
+print(Remove((0, 1, 2, 1, 3), 1))         #  (0, 2, 1, 3)                 2 pt.
+print(Remove((0, 1, 2, 1, 3), 2))         #  (0, 1, 1, 3)                 2 pt.
+print(Remove((1, 2, 3), 3))               #  (1, 2)                       2 pt.
+
+print(Sort(()))                           #  ()                           2 pt.
+print(Sort((0,)))                         #  (0,)                         2 pt.
+print(Sort((0, -1)))                      #  (-1, 0)                      2 pt.
+print(Sort((1, 0)))                       #  (0, 1)                       2 pt.
+print(Sort((0, 0, 1)))                    #  (0, 0, 1)                    2 pt.
+print(Sort((0, -1, 0)))                   #  (-1, 0, 0)                   2 pt.
+print(Sort((0, 0, 1)))                    #  (0, 0, 1)                    2 pt.
+
+print(Sort((9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1)))  #  (1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9)  2 pt.
+print(Sort((1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9)))  #  (1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9)  2 pt.
+print(Sort((1, 2, 1, 4, 2, 5, 4, 5, 3)))  #  (1, 1, 2, 2, 3, 4, 4, 5, 5)  2 pt.
diff --git a/OLD/csci1913/Python/project1_strap012.py b/OLD/csci1913/Python/project1_strap012.py
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..c825359
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/csci1913/Python/project1_strap012.py
@@ -0,0 +1,134 @@
+class Random:    
+    def __init__(self, seed):
+        self.sevenFive = 16807
+        self.twoThirtyone = 2147483647
+        self.newNum = seed
+
+    def next(self):
+        self.newNum = self.sevenFive*self.newNum % self.twoThirtyone
+        return self.newNum
+
+    def choose(self, limit):
+        return self.next()%limit
+
+
+
+class Rule:
+    def __init__(self, left, right):
+        self.left = left
+        self.right = right
+        self.count = 1
+
+    def __repr__(self):
+        string = str(self.count)
+        string += " "
+        string += str(self.left)
+        string += " -> "
+        for n in range (0, len(self.right)):
+            string += self.right[n]
+            string += " "
+        return string
+
+
+
+class Grammar:
+    def __init__(self, seed):
+        self.r = Random(seed)
+        self.dictionary = {}
+
+    def rule(self, left, right):
+        if left not in self.dictionary:
+            self.dictionary[left] = (Rule(left,right),)
+        else:
+            self.dictionary[left] += (Rule(left, right),)
+
+    def generate(self):
+        if 'Start' in self.dictionary:
+           return self.generating(('Start',))
+        else:
+            raise RuntimeError
+
+    def select(self, left):
+        rules = self.dictionary[left]
+        total = 0
+        c = 0
+        #Some of the loops are probably not needed
+        for m in range (0, len(rules)):
+            total += rules[m].count
+        index = self.r.choose(total)
+        for c in range (0, len(rules)):
+            index -= rules[c].count
+            if index <= 0:
+                break
+        chosen = rules[c]
+        for n in range (0, len(rules)):
+            if rules[n] is not chosen:
+                rules[n].count += 1
+        return chosen.right
+
+    def generating(self,strings):
+        result=''
+        for n in range (0, len(strings)):
+            if strings[n] not in self.dictionary:
+                result += strings[n]
+                result += " "
+            else:
+                result += self.generating(self.select(strings[n]))
+        return result
+
+
+
+
+G = Grammar(101)
+G.rule('Noun',   ('cat',))  # 01
+G.rule('Noun',   ('boy',))  # 02
+G.rule('Noun',   ('dog',))  # 03
+G.rule('Noun',   ('girl',))  # 04
+G.rule('Verb',   ('bit',))  # 05
+G.rule('Verb',   ('chased',))  # 06
+G.rule('Verb',   ('kissed',))  # 07
+G.rule('Phrase', ('the', 'Noun', 'Verb', 'the', 'Noun'))  # 08
+G.rule('Story',  ('Phrase',))  # 09
+G.rule('Story',  ('Phrase', 'and', 'Story'))  # 10
+G.rule('Story',  ('Phrase', 'but', 'Story'))  # 11
+G.rule('Start',  ('Story', '.'))  # 12
+for _ in range (0, 5):
+    print(G.generate())
+
+# the cat bit the boy .
+# the cat kissed the dog and the boy chased the boy .
+# the cat chased the dog and the girl bit the boy but the girl chased the cat .
+# the girl chased the dog .
+# the boy kissed the girl and the cat kissed the girl .
+
+print()
+print()
+
+# 
+# 
+
+J = Grammar(1453)
+J.rule('Noun',   ('sentence',))
+J.rule('Noun',   ('walrus',))
+J.rule('Noun',   ('sky',))
+J.rule('Noun',   ('diamond',))
+J.rule('Noun',   ('Ottoman Empire',))
+J.rule('Verb',   ('is',))
+J.rule('Verb',   ('fanned',))
+J.rule('Verb',   ('generated',))
+J.rule('Verb',   ('hit',))
+J.rule('Phrase', ('the', 'Noun', 'Verb', 'the', 'Noun'))  # 08
+J.rule('Phrase', ('Noun', 'Verb', 'the', 'Noun'))
+J.rule('Story',  ('Phrase',))  # 09
+J.rule('Story',  ('Phrase', 'and', 'Story'))  # 10
+J.rule('Story',  ('Phrase', 'but', 'Story'))  # 11
+J.rule('Start',  ('Story', '.'))  # 12
+
+for _ in range(0, 5):
+    print(J.generate())
+
+# the walrus is the sentence and the diamond generated the walrus .
+# the walrus generated the walrus and the walrus generated the sentence but diamond hit the sentence .
+# sentence fanned the Ottoman Empire .
+# the sky hit the diamond and sky is the sentence but the sky fanned the diamond .
+# the walrus generated the diamond and the diamond generated the Ottoman Empire but the sky generated the sentence .
diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/filename_test.m b/OLD/ee1301/filename_test.m
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..d8f2a59
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/filename_test.m
@@ -0,0 +1,88 @@
+function valid = filename_test(fileLoc, tar_name, username, hwNumber, numOfAssignment)

+% fileLoc is the folder where you stored your tar file, you can find it by cd into the folder and 

+% type "pwd" in terminal, don't forget to put it in quote like this:

+% 'fileLoc',  because it's a string!

+

+% tar_name is the name of the tar file you want to test, it should also be

+% a string, so again, don't forget the quote!

+

+% username is your X500 ID, also a string!

+

+% hwNumber is the number of assignment, "HW hwNumber". input just a number here

+

+% numOfAssignment is how many problems are there in this assignment, also a number

+

+% Example command:

+% filename_test('/home/jc/Desktop', 'hw1_yuanx320.tgz', 'yuanx320', 1, 2);

+

+%  -----------------How to use:-------------------

+%  -----------------------------------------------

+% - Upload this file to CSE machine

+% - Log into CSE machine and open terminal

+% - In terminal, cd into the folder where you store this matlab code

+% - Type "matlab", wait for matlab open

+% - In the command window of matlab, type in the command you generated 

+%   following the instructions up there

+

+

+% ----------------Expected output------------------

+% -------------------------------------------------

+% After running the tester,

+% in the command window of matlab you will see some output

+% Modify your file name accoddingly until you see "File name test passed!"

+% 

+

+% tar_name = strcat(sprintf('hw%d_',hwNumber), username, '.tgz');

+cd(fileLoc);

+untar(tar_name);

+

+folder_name = sprintf('hw%d_directory', hwNumber);

+file_name = cell(numOfAssignment);

+a = 'A';

+for i = 1:numOfAssignment

+    b = char(a+i-1);

+    file_name{i} = strcat(username, sprintf('_HW%d', hwNumber), b, '.cpp');

+end

+

+

+mkdir temp;

+command1 = strcat('tar -xzvf ', tar_name, ' -C temp/');

+system(command1);

+cd temp;

+a = exist(folder_name);

+valid = true;

+        

+if a == 7

+    cd(folder_name);

+    filecpp = dir('*.cpp');

+    if ~isempty(filecpp)

+        for i = 1:numOfAssignment

+            if strcmp(filecpp(i).name, file_name{i, 1}) == false

+                valid = false;

+            end

+        end

+        

+        if valid == 0

+            fprintf(".cpp file name incorrect! Example: yuanx320_HW2A.cpp\n");

+        else

+            fprintf("File name test passed!\n");

+        end

+        

+    else

+        fprintf("No .cpp file included in this directory.\n");

+    end

+    cd ..;

+    

+    

+            

+    

+else

+    fprintf("Wrong folder name, it should be hw2_directory.\n");

+end

+

+cd ..;

+rmdir temp s;   

+

+

+

+end
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/input_files/blahblah.txt b/OLD/ee1301/input_files/blahblah.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..0066de1
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/input_files/blahblah.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,9 @@
+Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Integer vitae tincidunt enim. Orci varius natoque penatibus et magnis dis parturient montes, nascetur ridiculus mus. Aliquam bibendum hendrerit tellus auctor convallis. Pellentesque ut sapien non libero ultricies rhoncus eget in purus. Integer nec efficitur ante. Pellentesque vitae iaculis nunc. Maecenas id nibh lectus. Donec malesuada metus id mauris fermentum tincidunt. Quisque non leo eu tellus porttitor condimentum eu id odio. Duis bibendum facilisis volutpat. Interdum et malesuada fames ac ante ipsum primis in faucibus.
+
+Mauris et semper sapien. Proin posuere massa odio, ut volutpat metus placerat a. Integer sed ipsum hendrerit, iaculis augue nec, feugiat justo. Nullam ultrices nisl ornare tincidunt placerat. Fusce sed mauris nibh. Nulla id turpis orci. In consequat magna nulla, ac imperdiet tellus aliquet a. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Curabitur tristique eleifend nisl ut bibendum. Etiam tincidunt tempus euismod. Curabitur in viverra lorem, nec hendrerit mauris. Donec non interdum augue, eu iaculis tellus. Nunc accumsan, velit ut placerat finibus, felis est consectetur velit, id tempor orci turpis sit amet nulla. Aliquam commodo diam sit amet dui luctus, nec fermentum metus mollis.
+
+Pellentesque ultricies pulvinar blandit. Sed id odio maximus, porta nibh dapibus, commodo diam. Cras a urna ut lacus vestibulum consectetur et ac risus. Ut facilisis posuere erat et sodales. Duis bibendum diam varius libero volutpat efficitur. Sed ut malesuada nisi, ut commodo mi. Donec vestibulum, ipsum a consequat vulputate, lectus eros fringilla nulla, ac egestas urna sapien et mauris. Praesent eu elementum mauris. Nam porttitor, ligula facilisis semper vulputate, ex neque mollis ligula, sit amet pharetra lorem nisl nec magna. Quisque pretium lorem odio, sed lobortis lorem dapibus facilisis. Curabitur tincidunt nibh mollis auctor porttitor. Pellentesque habitant morbi tristique senectus et netus et malesuada fames ac turpis egestas. Nullam sed lacinia magna, ac bibendum arcu. Aliquam id nibh eget ex gravida tincidunt egestas a dui. Nunc in rhoncus neque. Donec quis risus lectus.
+
+Nunc nisi mi, aliquet quis urna sed, maximus tincidunt velit. Nulla facilisi. Vivamus ac nisl sodales, condimentum libero et, maximus dolor. Morbi id interdum purus, laoreet consectetur massa. Aenean et libero vestibulum, imperdiet nulla vitae, lobortis metus. Proin venenatis, dui quis consequat tincidunt, tellus lorem accumsan turpis, id fringilla felis metus sed augue. Vivamus viverra augue tellus, sit amet tincidunt purus blandit a. Morbi sodales, lacus et finibus commodo, dolor nisl bibendum purus, in blandit lacus ex vel dolor. Duis finibus lacinia nibh, quis fringilla erat lacinia sit amet. Aenean ac placerat leo, sit amet hendrerit sem. Duis sapien risus, ultricies vitae egestas non, lobortis ut justo. Vivamus rhoncus diam vel urna imperdiet, et faucibus elit iaculis. Ut in sagittis tortor.
+
+Ut sit amet lacus dictum, condimentum lacus ac, fringilla purus. Interdum et malesuada fames ac ante ipsum primis in faucibus. Sed eget libero ac nisi scelerisque maximus tristique a urna. Quisque suscipit ultrices lacus sit amet sollicitudin. Nullam ultrices orci eget tellus vestibulum fringilla. Proin facilisis eros purus, id semper nibh pellentesque a. Sed aliquet mauris eget lectus vulputate vehicula. Pellentesque in congue dui. Donec fermentum ultricies turpis, sit amet eleifend tortor porttitor nec. Integer eget mollis risus. Integer dapibus felis ut justo lobortis, in aliquam sapien commodo.
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/input_files/grades.txt b/OLD/ee1301/input_files/grades.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..5da5a37
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/input_files/grades.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,12 @@
+John Watson 43

+Sherlock Holmes 92

+Violet Crawley 83

+Greg Lestrade 74

+Missus Hudson 85

+Jim Moriarty 99.99999999999

+Molly Hooper 65

+Irene Adler 91

+Mycroft Holmes 82

+Tom Branson 83

+John Bates 89

+Mister Carson 79
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk0/Lec1p3p1.cpp b/OLD/ee1301/wk0/Lec1p3p1.cpp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..b965270
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk0/Lec1p3p1.cpp
@@ -0,0 +1,23 @@
+#include <iostream>

+#include <bitset>

+using namespace std;

+

+int main()

+{

+

+  // Store data in MEMORY

+  int X = 0b0;

+  int Y = 0b1;

+

+  // Load data, perform AND instruction, store result to memory

+  int X_and_Y = X & Y;

+

+  // Load data, perform OR instruction, store result to memory

+  int X_or_Y = X | Y;

+

+  // Write the results to terminal

+  cout << "X AND Y = " << bitset<1>(X_and_Y) << endl;

+  cout << "X OR Y = " << bitset<1>(X_or_Y) << endl;

+

+  return 0;

+} 

diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk0/hw0/strap012_HW0.cpp b/OLD/ee1301/wk0/hw0/strap012_HW0.cpp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..b8ca0b9
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk0/hw0/strap012_HW0.cpp
@@ -0,0 +1,27 @@
+// EE 1301 
+// HW 0
+// Matthew Strapp
+// strap012
+// 0.3490658503988659
+
+#include <iostream>
+#include <cmath>
+
+using namespace std;
+
+int main()
+{
+	double inAngle, firstRI, secondRI;
+	cout << "Input incident angle in degrees: ";
+	cin >> inAngle;
+	cout << "Input index of refraction of first medium: ";
+	cin >> firstRI;
+	cout << "Input index of refraction of second medium: ";
+	cin >> secondRI;
+	
+	inAngle = inAngle *M_PI / 180.0; // convert to radians
+	double outAngle = 180/M_PI * asin(firstRI/secondRI * sin(inAngle)); //snell's law
+	cout << "Refracted angle in degrees: " << outAngle <<endl;
+	
+	return 0;
+}
diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk0/lab0/lab0.cpp b/OLD/ee1301/wk0/lab0/lab0.cpp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..0fe5983
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk0/lab0/lab0.cpp
@@ -0,0 +1,13 @@
+// Lab 0

+// Matthew Strapp

+// 2018-01-23

+//

+// This program displays a message to the screen

+#include <iostream>

+using namespace std;

+

+int main()

+{

+  cout << "Hello!" << endl;

+return 0;

+}

diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk0/lab0/sample-text.txt b/OLD/ee1301/wk0/lab0/sample-text.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..1de7d5a
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk0/lab0/sample-text.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,10355 @@
+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

+

+by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

+

+(#15 in our series by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle)

+

+

+

+Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the

+

+copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing

+

+this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook.

+

+

+

+This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project

+

+Gutenberg file.  Please do not remove it.  Do not change or edit the

+

+header without written permission.

+

+

+

+Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the

+

+eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file.  Included is

+

+important information about your specific rights and restrictions in

+

+how the file may be used.  You can also find out about how to make a

+

+donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved.

+

+

+

+

+

+**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**

+

+

+

+**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971**

+

+

+

+*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!*****

+

+

+

+

+

+Title: The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

+

+

+

+Author: Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

+

+

+

+Release Date: March, 1999  [EBook #1661]

+

+[Most recently updated: November 29, 2002]

+

+

+

+Edition: 12

+

+

+

+Language: English

+

+

+

+Character set encoding: ASCII

+

+

+

+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, THE ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES ***

+

+

+

+

+

+THE ADVENTURES OF

+

+SHERLOCK HOLMES

+

+

+

+BY

+

+

+

+SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

+

+

+

+CONTENTS

+

+

+

+I.	A Scandal in Bohemia

+

+II.	The Red-Headed League

+

+III.	A Case of Identity

+

+IV.	The Boscombe Valley Mystery

+

+V.	The Five Orange Pips

+

+VI.	The Man with the Twisted Lip

+

+VII.	The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle

+

+VIII.	The Adventure of the Speckled Band

+

+IX.	The Adventure of the Engineer's Thumb

+

+X.	The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor

+

+XI.	The Adventure of the Beryl Coronet

+

+XII.	The Adventure of the Copper Beeches

+

+

+

+

+

+ADVENTURE  I.  A SCANDAL IN BOHEMIA

+

+

+

+I.

+

+

+

+

+

+To Sherlock Holmes she is always the woman. I have seldom heard him mention her under any other name. In his eyes she eclipses and predominates the whole of her sex. It was not that he felt any emotion akin to love for Irene Adler. All emotions, and that one particularly, were abhorrent to his cold, precise but admirably balanced mind. He was, I take it, the most perfect reasoning and observing machine that the world has seen, but as a lover he would have placed himself in a false position. He never spoke of the softer passions, save with a gibe and a sneer. They were admirable things for the observer--excellent for drawing the veil from men's motives and actions. But for the trained reasoner to admit such intrusions into his own delicate and finely adjusted temperament was to introduce a distracting factor which might throw a doubt upon all his mental results. Grit in a sensitive instrument, or a crack in one of his own high-power lenses, would not be more disturbing than a strong emotion in a nature such as his. And yet there was but one woman to him, and that woman was the late Irene Adler, of dubious and questionable memory.

+

+

+

+I had seen little of Holmes lately. My marriage had drifted us away from each other. My own complete happiness, and the home-centred interests which rise up around the man who first finds himself master of his own establishment, were sufficient to absorb all my attention, while Holmes, who loathed every form of society with his whole Bohemian soul, remained in our lodgings in Baker Street, buried among his old books, and alternating from week to week between cocaine and ambition, the drowsiness of the drug, and the fierce energy of his own keen nature. He was still, as ever, deeply attracted by the study of crime, and occupied his immense faculties and extraordinary powers of observation in following out those clues, and clearing up those mysteries which had been abandoned as hopeless by the official police. From time to time I heard some vague account of his doings: of his summons to Odessa in the case of the Trepoff murder, of his clearing up of the singular tragedy of the Atkinson brothers at Trincomalee, and finally of the mission which he had accomplished so delicately and successfully for the reigning family of Holland. Beyond these signs of his activity, however, which I merely shared with all the readers of the daily press, I knew little of my former friend and companion.

+

+

+

+One night--it was on the twentieth of March, 1888--I was returning from a journey to a patient (for I had now returned to civil practice), when my way led me through Baker Street. As I passed the well-remembered door, which must always be associated in my mind with my wooing, and with the dark incidents of the Study in Scarlet, I was seized with a keen desire to see Holmes again, and to know how he was employing his extraordinary powers. His rooms were brilliantly lit, and, even as I looked up, I saw his tall, spare figure pass twice in a dark silhouette against the blind. He was pacing the room swiftly, eagerly, with his head sunk upon his chest and his hands clasped behind him. To me, who knew his every mood and habit, his attitude and manner told their own story. He was at work again. He had risen out of his drug-created dreams and was hot upon the scent of some new problem. I rang the bell and was shown up to the chamber which had formerly been in part my own.

+

+

+

+His manner was not effusive. It seldom was; but he was glad, I think, to see me. With hardly a word spoken, but with a kindly eye, he waved me to an armchair, threw across his case of cigars, and indicated a spirit case and a gasogene in the corner. Then he stood before the fire and looked me over in his singular introspective fashion.

+

+

+

+"Wedlock suits you," he remarked. "I think, Watson, that you have put on seven and a half pounds since I saw you."

+

+

+

+"Seven!" I answered.

+

+

+

+"Indeed, I should have thought a little more. Just a trifle more, I fancy, Watson. And in practice again, I observe. You did not tell me that you intended to go into harness."

+

+

+

+"Then, how do you know?"

+

+

+

+"I see it, I deduce it. How do I know that you have been getting yourself very wet lately, and that you have a most clumsy and careless servant girl?"

+

+

+

+"My dear Holmes," said I, "this is too much. You would certainly have been burned, had you lived a few centuries ago. It is true that I had a country walk on Thursday and came home in a dreadful mess, but as I have changed my clothes I can't imagine how you deduce it. As to Mary Jane, she is incorrigible, and my wife has given her notice, but there, again, I fail to see how you work it out."

+

+

+

+He chuckled to himself and rubbed his long, nervous hands together.

+

+

+

+"It is simplicity itself," said he; "my eyes tell me that on the inside of your left shoe, just where the firelight strikes it, the leather is scored by six almost parallel cuts. Obviously they have been caused by someone who has very carelessly scraped round the edges of the sole in order to remove crusted mud from it. Hence, you see, my double deduction that you had been out in vile weather, and that you had a particularly malignant boot-slitting specimen of the London slavey. As to your practice, if a gentleman walks into my rooms smelling of iodoform, with a black mark of nitrate of silver upon his right forefinger, and a bulge on the right side of his top-hat to show where he has secreted his stethoscope, I must be dull, indeed, if I do not pronounce him to be an active member of the medical profession."

+

+

+

+I could not help laughing at the ease with which he explained his process of deduction. "When I hear you give your reasons," I remarked, "the thing always appears to me to be so ridiculously simple that I could easily do it myself, though at each successive instance of your reasoning I am baffled until you explain your process. And yet I believe that my eyes are as good as yours."

+

+

+

+"Quite so," he answered, lighting a cigarette, and throwing himself down into an armchair. "You see, but you do not observe. The distinction is clear. For example, you have frequently seen the steps which lead up from the hall to this room."

+

+

+

+"Frequently."

+

+

+

+"How often?"

+

+

+

+"Well, some hundreds of times."

+

+

+

+"Then how many are there?"

+

+

+

+"How many? I don't know."

+

+

+

+"Quite so! You have not observed. And yet you have seen. That is just my point. Now, I know that there are seventeen steps, because I have both seen and observed. By the way, since you are interested in these little problems, and since you are good enough to chronicle one or two of my trifling experiences, you may be interested in this." He threw over a sheet of thick, pink-tinted notepaper which had been lying open upon the table. "It came by the last post," said he. "Read it aloud."

+

+

+

+The note was undated, and without either signature or address.

+

+

+

+"There will call upon you to-night, at a quarter to eight o'clock," it said, "a gentleman who desires to consult you upon a matter of the very deepest moment. Your recent services to one of the royal houses of Europe have shown that you are one who may safely be trusted with matters which are of an importance which can hardly be exaggerated. This account of you we have from all quarters received. Be in your chamber then at that hour, and do not take it amiss if your visitor wear a mask."

+

+

+

+"This is indeed a mystery," I remarked. "What do you imagine that it means?"

+

+

+

+"I have no data yet. It is a capital mistake to theorise before one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts. But the note itself. What do you deduce from it?"

+

+

+

+I carefully examined the writing, and the paper upon which it was written.

+

+

+

+"The man who wrote it was presumably well to do," I remarked, endeavouring to imitate my companion's processes. "Such paper could not be bought under half a crown a packet. It is peculiarly strong and stiff."

+

+

+

+"Peculiar--that is the very word," said Holmes. "It is not an English paper at all. Hold it up to the light."

+

+

+

+I did so, and saw a large "E" with a small "g," a "P," and a large "G" with a small "t" woven into the texture of the paper.

+

+

+

+"What do you make of that?" asked Holmes.

+

+

+

+"The name of the maker, no doubt; or his monogram, rather."

+

+

+

+"Not at all. The 'G' with the small 't' stands for 'Gesellschaft,' which is the German for 'Company.' It is a customary contraction like our 'Co.' 'P,' of course, stands for 'Papier.' Now for the 'Eg.' Let us glance at our Continental Gazetteer." He took down a heavy brown volume from his shelves. "Eglow, Eglonitz--here we are, Egria. It is in a German-speaking country--in Bohemia, not far from Carlsbad. 'Remarkable as being the scene of the death of Wallenstein, and for its numerous glass-factories and paper-mills.' Ha, ha, my boy, what do you make of that?" His eyes sparkled, and he sent up a great blue triumphant cloud from his cigarette.

+

+

+

+"The paper was made in Bohemia," I said.

+

+

+

+"Precisely. And the man who wrote the note is a German. Do you note the peculiar construction of the sentence--'This account of you we have from all quarters received.' A Frenchman or Russian could not have written that. It is the German who is so uncourteous to his verbs. It only remains, therefore, to discover what is wanted by this German who writes upon Bohemian paper and prefers wearing a mask to showing his face. And here he comes, if I am not mistaken, to resolve all our doubts."

+

+

+

+As he spoke there was the sharp sound of horses' hoofs and grating wheels against the curb, followed by a sharp pull at the bell. Holmes whistled.

+

+

+

+"A pair, by the sound," said he. "Yes," he continued, glancing out of the window. "A nice little brougham and a pair of beauties. A hundred and fifty guineas apiece. There's money in this case, Watson, if there is nothing else."

+

+

+

+"I think that I had better go, Holmes."

+

+

+

+"Not a bit, Doctor. Stay where you are. I am lost without my Boswell. And this promises to be interesting. It would be a pity to miss it."

+

+

+

+"But your client--"

+

+

+

+"Never mind him. I may want your help, and so may he. Here he comes. Sit down in that armchair, Doctor, and give us your best attention."

+

+

+

+A slow and heavy step, which had been heard upon the stairs and in the passage, paused immediately outside the door. Then there was a loud and authoritative tap.

+

+

+

+"Come in!" said Holmes.

+

+

+

+A man entered who could hardly have been less than six feet six inches in height, with the chest and limbs of a Hercules. His dress was rich with a richness which would, in England, be looked upon as akin to bad taste. Heavy bands of astrakhan were slashed across the sleeves and fronts of his double-breasted coat, while the deep blue cloak which was thrown over his shoulders was lined with flame-coloured silk and secured at the neck with a brooch which consisted of a single flaming beryl. Boots which extended halfway up his calves, and which were trimmed at the tops with rich brown fur, completed the impression of barbaric opulence which was suggested by his whole appearance. He carried a broad-brimmed hat in his hand, while he wore across the upper part of his face, extending down past the cheekbones, a black vizard mask, which he had apparently adjusted that very moment, for his hand was still raised to it as he entered. From the lower part of the face he appeared to be a man of strong character, with a thick, hanging lip, and a long, straight chin suggestive of resolution pushed to the length of obstinacy.

+

+

+

+"You had my note?" he asked with a deep harsh voice and a strongly marked German accent. "I told you that I would call." He looked from one to the other of us, as if uncertain which to address.

+

+

+

+"Pray take a seat," said Holmes. "This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson, who is occasionally good enough to help me in my cases. Whom have I the honour to address?"

+

+

+

+"You may address me as the Count Von Kramm, a Bohemian nobleman. I understand that this gentleman, your friend, is a man of honour and discretion, whom I may trust with a matter of the most extreme importance. If not, I should much prefer to communicate with you alone."

+

+

+

+I rose to go, but Holmes caught me by the wrist and pushed me back into my chair. "It is both, or none," said he. "You may say before this gentleman anything which you may say to me."

+

+

+

+The Count shrugged his broad shoulders. "Then I must begin," said he, "by binding you both to absolute secrecy for two years; at the end of that time the matter will be of no importance. At present it is not too much to say that it is of such weight it may have an influence upon European history."

+

+

+

+"I promise," said Holmes.

+

+

+

+"And I."

+

+

+

+"You will excuse this mask," continued our strange visitor. "The august person who employs me wishes his agent to be unknown to you, and I may confess at once that the title by which I have just called myself is not exactly my own."

+

+

+

+"I was aware of it," said Holmes dryly.

+

+

+

+"The circumstances are of great delicacy, and every precaution has to be taken to quench what might grow to be an immense scandal and seriously compromise one of the reigning families of Europe. To speak plainly, the matter implicates the great House of Ormstein, hereditary kings of Bohemia."

+

+

+

+"I was also aware of that," murmured Holmes, settling himself down in his armchair and closing his eyes.

+

+

+

+Our visitor glanced with some apparent surprise at the languid, lounging figure of the man who had been no doubt depicted to him as the most incisive reasoner and most energetic agent in Europe. Holmes slowly reopened his eyes and looked impatiently at his gigantic client.

+

+

+

+"If your Majesty would condescend to state your case," he remarked, "I should be better able to advise you."

+

+

+

+The man sprang from his chair and paced up and down the room in uncontrollable agitation. Then, with a gesture of desperation, he tore the mask from his face and hurled it upon the ground. "You are right," he cried; "I am the King. Why should I attempt to conceal it?"

+

+

+

+"Why, indeed?" murmured Holmes. "Your Majesty had not spoken before I was aware that I was addressing Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond von Ormstein, Grand Duke of Cassel-Felstein, and hereditary King of Bohemia."

+

+

+

+"But you can understand," said our strange visitor, sitting down once more and passing his hand over his high white forehead, "you can understand that I am not accustomed to doing such business in my own person. Yet the matter was so delicate that I could not confide it to an agent without putting myself in his power. I have come incognito from Prague for the purpose of consulting you."

+

+

+

+"Then, pray consult," said Holmes, shutting his eyes once more.

+

+

+

+"The facts are briefly these: Some five years ago, during a lengthy visit to Warsaw, I made the acquaintance of the well-known adventuress, Irene Adler. The name is no doubt familiar to you."

+

+

+

+"Kindly look her up in my index, Doctor," murmured Holmes without opening his eyes. For many years he had adopted a system of docketing all paragraphs concerning men and things, so that it was difficult to name a subject or a person on which he could not at once furnish information. In this case I found her biography sandwiched in between that of a Hebrew rabbi and that of a staff-commander who had written a monograph upon the deep-sea fishes.

+

+

+

+"Let me see!" said Holmes. "Hum! Born in New Jersey in the year 1858. Contralto--hum! La Scala, hum! Prima donna Imperial Opera of Warsaw--yes! Retired from operatic stage--ha! Living in London--quite so! Your Majesty, as I understand, became entangled with this young person, wrote her some compromising letters, and is now desirous of getting those letters back."

+

+

+

+"Precisely so. But how--"

+

+

+

+"Was there a secret marriage?"

+

+

+

+"None."

+

+

+

+"No legal papers or certificates?"

+

+

+

+"None."

+

+

+

+"Then I fail to follow your Majesty. If this young person should produce her letters for blackmailing or other purposes, how is she to prove their authenticity?"

+

+

+

+"There is the writing."

+

+

+

+"Pooh, pooh! Forgery."

+

+

+

+"My private note-paper."

+

+

+

+"Stolen."

+

+

+

+"My own seal."

+

+

+

+"Imitated."

+

+

+

+"My photograph."

+

+

+

+"Bought."

+

+

+

+"We were both in the photograph."

+

+

+

+"Oh, dear! That is very bad! Your Majesty has indeed committed an indiscretion."

+

+

+

+"I was mad--insane."

+

+

+

+"You have compromised yourself seriously."

+

+

+

+"I was only Crown Prince then. I was young. I am but thirty now."

+

+

+

+"It must be recovered."

+

+

+

+"We have tried and failed."

+

+

+

+"Your Majesty must pay. It must be bought."

+

+

+

+"She will not sell."

+

+

+

+"Stolen, then."

+

+

+

+"Five attempts have been made. Twice burglars in my pay ransacked her house. Once we diverted her luggage when she travelled. Twice she has been waylaid. There has been no result."

+

+

+

+"No sign of it?"

+

+

+

+"Absolutely none."

+

+

+

+Holmes laughed. "It is quite a pretty little problem," said he.

+

+

+

+"But a very serious one to me," returned the King reproachfully.

+

+

+

+"Very, indeed. And what does she propose to do with the photograph?"

+

+

+

+"To ruin me."

+

+

+

+"But how?"

+

+

+

+"I am about to be married."

+

+

+

+"So I have heard."

+

+

+

+"To Clotilde Lothman von Saxe-Meningen, second daughter of the King of Scandinavia. You may know the strict principles of her family. She is herself the very soul of delicacy. A shadow of a doubt as to my conduct would bring the matter to an end."

+

+

+

+"And Irene Adler?"

+

+

+

+"Threatens to send them the photograph. And she will do it. I know that she will do it. You do not know her, but she has a soul of steel. She has the face of the most beautiful of women, and the mind of the most resolute of men. Rather than I should marry another woman, there are no lengths to which she would not go--none."

+

+

+

+"You are sure that she has not sent it yet?"

+

+

+

+"I am sure."

+

+

+

+"And why?"

+

+

+

+"Because she has said that she would send it on the day when the betrothal was publicly proclaimed. That will be next Monday."

+

+

+

+"Oh, then we have three days yet," said Holmes with a yawn. "That is very fortunate, as I have one or two matters of importance to look into just at present. Your Majesty will, of course, stay in London for the present?"

+

+

+

+"Certainly. You will find me at the Langham under the name of the Count Von Kramm."

+

+

+

+"Then I shall drop you a line to let you know how we progress."

+

+

+

+"Pray do so. I shall be all anxiety."

+

+

+

+"Then, as to money?"

+

+

+

+"You have carte blanche."

+

+

+

+"Absolutely?"

+

+

+

+"I tell you that I would give one of the provinces of my kingdom to have that photograph."

+

+

+

+"And for present expenses?"

+

+

+

+The King took a heavy chamois leather bag from under his cloak and laid it on the table.

+

+

+

+"There are three hundred pounds in gold and seven hundred in notes," he said.

+

+

+

+Holmes scribbled a receipt upon a sheet of his note-book and handed it to him.

+

+

+

+"And Mademoiselle's address?" he asked.

+

+

+

+"Is Briony Lodge, Serpentine Avenue, St. John's Wood."

+

+

+

+Holmes took a note of it. "One other question," said he. "Was the photograph a cabinet?"

+

+

+

+"It was."

+

+

+

+"Then, good-night, your Majesty, and I trust that we shall soon have some good news for you. And good-night, Watson," he added, as the wheels of the royal brougham rolled down the street. "If you will be good enough to call to-morrow afternoon at three o'clock I should like to chat this little matter over with you."

+

+

+

+II.

+

+

+

+

+

+At three o'clock precisely I was at Baker Street, but Holmes had not yet returned. The landlady informed me that he had left the house shortly after eight o'clock in the morning. I sat down beside the fire, however, with the intention of awaiting him, however long he might be. I was already deeply interested in his inquiry, for, though it was surrounded by none of the grim and strange features which were associated with the two crimes which I have already recorded, still, the nature of the case and the exalted station of his client gave it a character of its own. Indeed, apart from the nature of the investigation which my friend had on hand, there was something in his masterly grasp of a situation, and his keen, incisive reasoning, which made it a pleasure to me to study his system of work, and to follow the quick, subtle methods by which he disentangled the most inextricable mysteries. So accustomed was I to his invariable success that the very possibility of his failing had ceased to enter into my head.

+

+

+

+It was close upon four before the door opened, and a drunken-looking groom, ill-kempt and side-whiskered, with an inflamed face and disreputable clothes, walked into the room. Accustomed as I was to my friend's amazing powers in the use of disguises, I had to look three times before I was certain that it was indeed he. With a nod he vanished into the bedroom, whence he emerged in five minutes tweed-suited and respectable, as of old. Putting his hands into his pockets, he stretched out his legs in front of the fire and laughed heartily for some minutes.

+

+

+

+"Well, really!" he cried, and then he choked and laughed again until he was obliged to lie back, limp and helpless, in the chair.

+

+

+

+"What is it?"

+

+

+

+"It's quite too funny. I am sure you could never guess how I employed my morning, or what I ended by doing."

+

+

+

+"I can't imagine. I suppose that you have been watching the habits, and perhaps the house, of Miss Irene Adler."

+

+

+

+"Quite so; but the sequel was rather unusual. I will tell you, however. I left the house a little after eight o'clock this morning in the character of a groom out of work. There is a wonderful sympathy and freemasonry among horsey men. Be one of them, and you will know all that there is to know. I soon found Briony Lodge. It is a bijou villa, with a garden at the back, but built out in front right up to the road, two stories. Chubb lock to the door. Large sitting-room on the right side, well furnished, with long windows almost to the floor, and those preposterous English window fasteners which a child could open. Behind there was nothing remarkable, save that the passage window could be reached from the top of the coach-house. I walked round it and examined it closely from every point of view, but without noting anything else of interest.

+

+

+

+"I then lounged down the street and found, as I expected, that there was a mews in a lane which runs down by one wall of the garden. I lent the ostlers a hand in rubbing down their horses, and received in exchange twopence, a glass of half-and-half, two fills of shag tobacco, and as much information as I could desire about Miss Adler, to say nothing of half a dozen other people in the neighbourhood in whom I was not in the least interested, but whose biographies I was compelled to listen to."

+

+

+

+"And what of Irene Adler?" I asked.

+

+

+

+"Oh, she has turned all the men's heads down in that part. She is the daintiest thing under a bonnet on this planet. So say the Serpentine-mews, to a man. She lives quietly, sings at concerts, drives out at five every day, and returns at seven sharp for dinner. Seldom goes out at other times, except when she sings. Has only one male visitor, but a good deal of him. He is dark, handsome, and dashing, never calls less than once a day, and often twice. He is a Mr. Godfrey Norton, of the Inner Temple. See the advantages of a cabman as a confidant. They had driven him home a dozen times from Serpentine-mews, and knew all about him. When I had listened to all they had to tell, I began to walk up and down near Briony Lodge once more, and to think over my plan of campaign.

+

+

+

+"This Godfrey Norton was evidently an important factor in the matter. He was a lawyer. That sounded ominous. What was the relation between them, and what the object of his repeated visits? Was she his client, his friend, or his mistress? If the former, she had probably transferred the photograph to his keeping. If the latter, it was less likely. On the issue of this question depended whether I should continue my work at Briony Lodge, or turn my attention to the gentleman's chambers in the Temple. It was a delicate point, and it widened the field of my inquiry. I fear that I bore you with these details, but I have to let you see my little difficulties, if you are to understand the situation."

+

+

+

+"I am following you closely," I answered.

+

+

+

+"I was still balancing the matter in my mind when a hansom cab drove up to Briony Lodge, and a gentleman sprang out. He was a remarkably handsome man, dark, aquiline, and moustached--evidently the man of whom I had heard. He appeared to be in a great hurry, shouted to the cabman to wait, and brushed past the maid who opened the door with the air of a man who was thoroughly at home.

+

+

+

+"He was in the house about half an hour, and I could catch glimpses of him in the windows of the sitting-room, pacing up and down, talking excitedly, and waving his arms. Of her I could see nothing. Presently he emerged, looking even more flurried than before. As he stepped up to the cab, he pulled a gold watch from his pocket and looked at it earnestly, 'Drive like the devil,' he shouted, 'first to Gross & Hankey's in Regent Street, and then to the Church of St. Monica in the Edgeware Road. Half a guinea if you do it in twenty minutes!'

+

+

+

+"Away they went, and I was just wondering whether I should not do well to follow them when up the lane came a neat little landau, the coachman with his coat only half-buttoned, and his tie under his ear, while all the tags of his harness were sticking out of the buckles. It hadn't pulled up before she shot out of the hall door and into it. I only caught a glimpse of her at the moment, but she was a lovely woman, with a face that a man might die for.

+

+

+

+" 'The Church of St. Monica, John,' she cried, 'and half a sovereign if you reach it in twenty minutes.'

+

+

+

+"This was quite too good to lose, Watson. I was just balancing whether I should run for it, or whether I should perch behind her landau when a cab came through the street. The driver looked twice at such a shabby fare, but I jumped in before he could object. 'The Church of St. Monica,' said I, 'and half a sovereign if you reach it in twenty minutes.' It was twenty-five minutes to twelve, and of course it was clear enough what was in the wind.

+

+

+

+"My cabby drove fast. I don't think I ever drove faster, but the others were there before us. The cab and the landau with their steaming horses were in front of the door when I arrived. I paid the man and hurried into the church. There was not a soul there save the two whom I had followed and a surpliced clergyman, who seemed to be expostulating with them. They were all three standing in a knot in front of the altar. I lounged up the side aisle like any other idler who has dropped into a church. Suddenly, to my surprise, the three at the altar faced round to me, and Godfrey Norton came running as hard as he could towards me.

+

+

+

+" 'Thank God,' he cried. 'You'll do. Come! Come!'

+

+

+

+" 'What then?' I asked.

+

+

+

+" 'Come, man, come, only three minutes, or it won't be legal.'

+

+

+

+"I was half-dragged up to the altar, and before I knew where I was I found myself mumbling responses which were whispered in my ear, and vouching for things of which I knew nothing, and generally assisting in the secure tying up of Irene Adler, spinster, to Godfrey Norton, bachelor. It was all done in an instant, and there was the gentleman thanking me on the one side and the lady on the other, while the clergyman beamed on me in front. It was the most preposterous position in which I ever found myself in my life, and it was the thought of it that started me laughing just now. It seems that there had been some informality about their license, that the clergyman absolutely refused to marry them without a witness of some sort, and that my lucky appearance saved the bridegroom from having to sally out into the streets in search of a best man. The bride gave me a sovereign, and I mean to wear it on my watch chain in memory of the occasion."

+

+

+

+"This is a very unexpected turn of affairs," said I; "and what then?"

+

+

+

+"Well, I found my plans very seriously menaced. It looked as if the pair might take an immediate departure, and so necessitate very prompt and energetic measures on my part. At the church door, however, they separated, he driving back to the Temple, and she to her own house. 'I shall drive out in the park at five as usual,' she said as she left him. I heard no more. They drove away in different directions, and I went off to make my own arrangements."

+

+

+

+"Which are?"

+

+

+

+"Some cold beef and a glass of beer," he answered, ringing the bell. "I have been too busy to think of food, and I am likely to be busier still this evening. By the way, Doctor, I shall want your co-operation."

+

+

+

+"I shall be delighted."

+

+

+

+"You don't mind breaking the law?"

+

+

+

+"Not in the least."

+

+

+

+"Nor running a chance of arrest?"

+

+

+

+"Not in a good cause."

+

+

+

+"Oh, the cause is excellent!"

+

+

+

+"Then I am your man."

+

+

+

+"I was sure that I might rely on you."

+

+

+

+"But what is it you wish?"

+

+

+

+"When Mrs. Turner has brought in the tray I will make it clear to you. Now," he said as he turned hungrily on the simple fare that our landlady had provided, "I must discuss it while I eat, for I have not much time. It is nearly five now. In two hours we must be on the scene of action. Miss Irene, or Madame, rather, returns from her drive at seven. We must be at Briony Lodge to meet her."

+

+

+

+"And what then?"

+

+

+

+"You must leave that to me. I have already arranged what is to occur. There is only one point on which I must insist. You must not interfere, come what may. You understand?"

+

+

+

+"I am to be neutral?"

+

+

+

+"To do nothing whatever. There will probably be some small unpleasantness. Do not join in it. It will end in my being conveyed into the house. Four or five minutes afterwards the sitting-room window will open. You are to station yourself close to that open window."

+

+

+

+"Yes."

+

+

+

+"You are to watch me, for I will be visible to you."

+

+

+

+"Yes."

+

+

+

+"And when I raise my hand--so--you will throw into the room what I give you to throw, and will, at the same time, raise the cry of fire. You quite follow me?"

+

+

+

+"Entirely."

+

+

+

+"It is nothing very formidable," he said, taking a long cigar-shaped roll from his pocket. "It is an ordinary plumber's smoke-rocket, fitted with a cap at either end to make it self-lighting. Your task is confined to that. When you raise your cry of fire, it will be taken up by quite a number of people. You may then walk to the end of the street, and I will rejoin you in ten minutes. I hope that I have made myself clear?"

+

+

+

+"I am to remain neutral, to get near the window, to watch you, and at the signal to throw in this object, then to raise the cry of fire, and to wait you at the corner of the street."

+

+

+

+"Precisely."

+

+

+

+"Then you may entirely rely on me."

+

+

+

+"That is excellent. I think, perhaps, it is almost time that I prepare for the new role I have to play."

+

+

+

+He disappeared into his bedroom and returned in a few minutes in the character of an amiable and simple-minded Nonconformist clergyman. His broad black hat, his baggy trousers, his white tie, his sympathetic smile, and general look of peering and benevolent curiosity were such as Mr. John Hare alone could have equalled. It was not merely that Holmes changed his costume. His expression, his manner, his very soul seemed to vary with every fresh part that he assumed. The stage lost a fine actor, even as science lost an acute reasoner, when he became a specialist in crime.

+

+

+

+It was a quarter past six when we left Baker Street, and it still wanted ten minutes to the hour when we found ourselves in Serpentine Avenue. It was already dusk, and the lamps were just being lighted as we paced up and down in front of Briony Lodge, waiting for the coming of its occupant. The house was just such as I had pictured it from Sherlock Holmes' succinct description, but the locality appeared to be less private than I expected. On the contrary, for a small street in a quiet neighbourhood, it was remarkably animated. There was a group of shabbily dressed men smoking and laughing in a corner, a scissors-grinder with his wheel, two guardsmen who were flirting with a nurse-girl, and several well-dressed young men who were lounging up and down with cigars in their mouths.

+

+

+

+"You see," remarked Holmes, as we paced to and fro in front of the house, "this marriage rather simplifies matters. The photograph becomes a double-edged weapon now. The chances are that she would be as averse to its being seen by Mr. Godfrey Norton, as our client is to its coming to the eyes of his princess. Now the question is, Where are we to find the photograph?"

+

+

+

+"Where, indeed?"

+

+

+

+"It is most unlikely that she carries it about with her. It is cabinet size. Too large for easy concealment about a woman's dress. She knows that the King is capable of having her waylaid and searched. Two attempts of the sort have already been made. We may take it, then, that she does not carry it about with her."

+

+

+

+"Where, then?"

+

+

+

+"Her banker or her lawyer. There is that double possibility. But I am inclined to think neither. Women are naturally secretive, and they like to do their own secreting. Why should she hand it over to anyone else? She could trust her own guardianship, but she could not tell what indirect or political influence might be brought to bear upon a business man. Besides, remember that she had resolved to use it within a few days. It must be where she can lay her hands upon it. It must be in her own house."

+

+

+

+"But it has twice been burgled."

+

+

+

+"Pshaw! They did not know how to look."

+

+

+

+"But how will you look?"

+

+

+

+"I will not look."

+

+

+

+"What then?"

+

+

+

+"I will get her to show me."

+

+

+

+"But she will refuse."

+

+

+

+"She will not be able to. But I hear the rumble of wheels. It is her carriage. Now carry out my orders to the letter."

+

+

+

+As he spoke the gleam of the sidelights of a carriage came round the curve of the avenue. It was a smart little landau which rattled up to the door of Briony Lodge. As it pulled up, one of the loafing men at the corner dashed forward to open the door in the hope of earning a copper, but was elbowed away by another loafer, who had rushed up with the same intention. A fierce quarrel broke out, which was increased by the two guardsmen, who took sides with one of the loungers, and by the scissors-grinder, who was equally hot upon the other side. A blow was struck, and in an instant the lady, who had stepped from her carriage, was the centre of a little knot of flushed and struggling men, who struck savagely at each other with their fists and sticks. Holmes dashed into the crowd to protect the lady; but, just as he reached her, he gave a cry and dropped to the ground, with the blood running freely down his face. At his fall the guardsmen took to their heels in one direction and the loungers in the other, while a number of better dressed people, who had watched the scuffle without taking part in it, crowded in to help the lady and to attend to the injured man. Irene Adler, as I will still call her, had hurried up the steps; but she stood at the top with her superb figure outlined against the lights of the hall, looking back into the street.

+

+

+

+"Is the poor gentleman much hurt?" she asked.

+

+

+

+"He is dead," cried several voices.

+

+

+

+"No, no, there's life in him!" shouted another. "But he'll be gone before you can get him to hospital."

+

+

+

+"He's a brave fellow," said a woman. "They would have had the lady's purse and watch if it hadn't been for him. They were a gang, and a rough one, too. Ah, he's breathing now."

+

+

+

+"He can't lie in the street. May we bring him in, marm?"

+

+

+

+"Surely. Bring him into the sitting-room. There is a comfortable sofa. This way, please!"

+

+

+

+Slowly and solemnly he was borne into Briony Lodge and laid out in the principal room, while I still observed the proceedings from my post by the window. The lamps had been lit, but the blinds had not been drawn, so that I could see Holmes as he lay upon the couch. I do not know whether he was seized with compunction at that moment for the part he was playing, but I know that I never felt more heartily ashamed of myself in my life than when I saw the beautiful creature against whom I was conspiring, or the grace and kindliness with which she waited upon the injured man. And yet it would be the blackest treachery to Holmes to draw back now from the part which he had intrusted to me. I hardened my heart, and took the smoke-rocket from under my ulster. After all, I thought, we are not injuring her. We are but preventing her from injuring another.

+

+

+

+Holmes had sat up upon the couch, and I saw him motion like a man who is in need of air. A maid rushed across and threw open the window. At the same instant I saw him raise his hand and at the signal I tossed my rocket into the room with a cry of "Fire!" The word was no sooner out of my mouth than the whole crowd of spectators, well dressed and ill--gentlemen, ostlers, and servant maids--joined in a general shriek of "Fire!" Thick clouds of smoke curled through the room and out at the open window. I caught a glimpse of rushing figures, and a moment later the voice of Holmes from within assuring them that it was a false alarm. Slipping through the shouting crowd I made my way to the corner of the street, and in ten minutes was rejoiced to find my friend's arm in mine, and to get away from the scene of uproar. He walked swiftly and in silence for some few minutes until we had turned down one of the quiet streets which lead towards the Edgeware Road.

+

+

+

+"You did it very nicely, Doctor," he remarked. "Nothing could have been better. It is all right."

+

+

+

+"You have the photograph?"

+

+

+

+"I know where it is."

+

+

+

+"And how did you find out?"

+

+

+

+"She showed me, as I told you she would."

+

+

+

+"I am still in the dark."

+

+

+

+"I do not wish to make a mystery," said he, laughing. "The matter was perfectly simple. You, of course, saw that everyone in the street was an accomplice. They were all engaged for the evening."

+

+

+

+"I guessed as much."

+

+

+

+"Then, when the row broke out, I had a little moist red paint in the palm of my hand. I rushed forward, fell down, clapped my hand to my face, and became a piteous spectacle. It is an old trick."

+

+

+

+"That also I could fathom."

+

+

+

+"Then they carried me in. She was bound to have me in. What else could she do? And into her sitting-room, which was the very room which I suspected. It lay between that and her bedroom, and I was determined to see which. They laid me on a couch, I motioned for air, they were compelled to open the window, and you had your chance."

+

+

+

+"How did that help you?"

+

+

+

+"It was all-important. When a woman thinks that her house is on fire, her instinct is at once to rush to the thing which she values most. It is a perfectly overpowering impulse, and I have more than once taken advantage of it. In the case of the Darlington Substitution Scandal it was of use to me, and also in the Arnsworth Castle business. A married woman grabs at her baby; an unmarried one reaches for her jewel-box. Now it was clear to me that our lady of to-day had nothing in the house more precious to her than what we are in quest of. She would rush to secure it. The alarm of fire was admirably done. The smoke and shouting were enough to shake nerves of steel. She responded beautifully. The photograph is in a recess behind a sliding panel just above the right bell-pull. She was there in an instant, and I caught a glimpse of it as she half drew it out. When I cried out that it was a false alarm, she replaced it, glanced at the rocket, rushed from the room, and I have not seen her since. I rose, and, making my excuses, escaped from the house. I hesitated whether to attempt to secure the photograph at once; but the coachman had come in, and as he was watching me narrowly, it seemed safer to wait. A little over-precipitance may ruin all."

+

+

+

+"And now?" I asked.

+

+

+

+"Our quest is practically finished. I shall call with the King to-morrow, and with you, if you care to come with us. We will be shown into the sitting-room to wait for the lady, but it is probable that when she comes she may find neither us nor the photograph. It might be a satisfaction to his Majesty to regain it with his own hands."

+

+

+

+"And when will you call?"

+

+

+

+"At eight in the morning. She will not be up, so that we shall have a clear field. Besides, we must be prompt, for this marriage may mean a complete change in her life and habits. I must wire to the King without delay."

+

+

+

+We had reached Baker Street and had stopped at the door. He was searching his pockets for the key when someone passing said:

+

+

+

+"Good-night, Mister Sherlock Holmes."

+

+

+

+There were several people on the pavement at the time, but the greeting appeared to come from a slim youth in an ulster who had hurried by.

+

+

+

+"I've heard that voice before," said Holmes, staring down the dimly lit street. "Now, I wonder who the deuce that could have been."

+

+

+

+III.

+

+

+

+

+

+I slept at Baker Street that night, and we were engaged upon our toast and coffee in the morning when the King of Bohemia rushed into the room.

+

+

+

+"You have really got it!" he cried, grasping Sherlock Holmes by either shoulder and looking eagerly into his face.

+

+

+

+"Not yet."

+

+

+

+"But you have hopes?"

+

+

+

+"I have hopes."

+

+

+

+"Then, come. I am all impatience to be gone."

+

+

+

+"We must have a cab."

+

+

+

+"No, my brougham is waiting."

+

+

+

+"Then that will simplify matters." We descended and started off once more for Briony Lodge.

+

+

+

+"Irene Adler is married," remarked Holmes.

+

+

+

+"Married! When?"

+

+

+

+"Yesterday."

+

+

+

+"But to whom?"

+

+

+

+"To an English lawyer named Norton."

+

+

+

+"But she could not love him."

+

+

+

+"I am in hopes that she does."

+

+

+

+"And why in hopes?"

+

+

+

+"Because it would spare your Majesty all fear of future annoyance. If the lady loves her husband, she does not love your Majesty. If she does not love your Majesty, there is no reason why she should interfere with your Majesty's plan."

+

+

+

+"It is true. And yet--! Well! I wish she had been of my own station! What a queen she would have made!" He relapsed into a moody silence, which was not broken until we drew up in Serpentine Avenue.

+

+

+

+The door of Briony Lodge was open, and an elderly woman stood upon the steps. She watched us with a sardonic eye as we stepped from the brougham.

+

+

+

+"Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I believe?" said she.

+

+

+

+"I am Mr. Holmes," answered my companion, looking at her with a questioning and rather startled gaze.

+

+

+

+"Indeed! My mistress told me that you were likely to call. She left this morning with her husband by the 5:15 train from Charing Cross for the Continent."

+

+

+

+"What!" Sherlock Holmes staggered back, white with chagrin and surprise. "Do you mean that she has left England?"

+

+

+

+"Never to return."

+

+

+

+"And the papers?" asked the King hoarsely. "All is lost."

+

+

+

+"We shall see." He pushed past the servant and rushed into the drawing-room, followed by the King and myself. The furniture was scattered about in every direction, with dismantled shelves and open drawers, as if the lady had hurriedly ransacked them before her flight. Holmes rushed at the bell-pull, tore back a small sliding shutter, and, plunging in his hand, pulled out a photograph and a letter. The photograph was of Irene Adler herself in evening dress, the letter was superscribed to "Sherlock Holmes, Esq. To be left till called for." My friend tore it open, and we all three read it together. It was dated at midnight of the preceding night and ran in this way:

+

+

+

+"MY DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES,--You really did it very well. You took me in completely. Until after the alarm of fire, I had not a suspicion. But then, when I found how I had betrayed myself, I began to think. I had been warned against you months ago. I had been told that, if the King employed an agent, it would certainly be you. And your address had been given me. Yet, with all this, you made me reveal what you wanted to know. Even after I became suspicious, I found it hard to think evil of such a dear, kind old clergyman. But, you know, I have been trained as an actress myself. Male costume is nothing new to me. I often take advantage of the freedom which it gives. I sent John, the coachman, to watch you, ran upstairs, got into my walking clothes, as I call them, and came down just as you departed.

+

+

+

+"Well, I followed you to your door, and so made sure that I was really an object of interest to the celebrated Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Then I, rather imprudently, wished you good-night, and started for the Temple to see my husband.

+

+

+

+"We both thought the best resource was flight, when pursued by so formidable an antagonist; so you will find the nest empty when you call to-morrow. As to the photograph, your client may rest in peace. I love and am loved by a better man than he. The King may do what he will without hindrance from one whom he has cruelly wronged. I keep it only to safeguard myself, and to preserve a weapon which will always secure me from any steps which he might take in the future. I leave a photograph which he might care to possess; and I remain, dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,

+

+

+

+

+

+"Very truly yours,              

+

+"IRENE NORTON, nee ADLER."

+

+

+

+"What a woman--oh, what a woman!" cried the King of Bohemia, when we had all three read this epistle. "Did I not tell you how quick and resolute she was? Would she not have made an admirable queen? Is it not a pity that she was not on my level?"

+

+

+

+"From what I have seen of the lady, she seems, indeed, to be on a very different level to your Majesty," said Holmes coldly. "I am sorry that I have not been able to bring your Majesty's business to a more successful conclusion."

+

+

+

+"On the contrary, my dear sir," cried the King; "nothing could be more successful. I know that her word is inviolate. The photograph is now as safe as if it were in the fire."

+

+

+

+"I am glad to hear your Majesty say so."

+

+

+

+"I am immensely indebted to you. Pray tell me in what way I can reward you. This ring--" He slipped an emerald snake ring from his finger and held it out upon the palm of his hand.

+

+

+

+"Your Majesty has something which I should value even more highly," said Holmes.

+

+

+

+"You have but to name it."

+

+

+

+"This photograph!"

+

+

+

+The King stared at him in amazement.

+

+

+

+"Irene's photograph!" he cried. "Certainly, if you wish it."

+

+

+

+"I thank your Majesty. Then there is no more to be done in the matter. I have the honour to wish you a very good morning." He bowed, and, turning away without observing the hand which the King had stretched out to him, he set off in my company for his chambers.

+

+

+

+And that was how a great scandal threatened to affect the kingdom of Bohemia, and how the best plans of Mr. Sherlock Holmes were beaten by a woman's wit. He used to make merry over the cleverness of women, but I have not heard him do it of late. And when he speaks of Irene Adler, or when he refers to her photograph, it is always under the honourable title of the woman.

+

+

+

+ADVENTURE  II.  THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE

+

+

+

+

+

+I had called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one day in the autumn of last year and found him in deep conversation with a very stout, florid-faced, elderly gentleman with fiery red hair. With an apology for my intrusion, I was about to withdraw when Holmes pulled me abruptly into the room and closed the door behind me.

+

+

+

+"You could not possibly have come at a better time, my dear Watson," he said cordially.

+

+

+

+"I was afraid that you were engaged."

+

+

+

+"So I am. Very much so."

+

+

+

+"Then I can wait in the next room."

+

+

+

+"Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been my partner and helper in many of my most successful cases, and I have no doubt that he will be of the utmost use to me in yours also."

+

+

+

+The stout gentleman half rose from his chair and gave a bob of greeting, with a quick little questioning glance from his small fat-encircled eyes.

+

+

+

+"Try the settee," said Holmes, relapsing into his armchair and putting his fingertips together, as was his custom when in judicial moods. "I know, my dear Watson, that you share my love of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum routine of everyday life. You have shown your relish for it by the enthusiasm which has prompted you to chronicle, and, if you will excuse my saying so, somewhat to embellish so many of my own little adventures."

+

+

+

+"Your cases have indeed been of the greatest interest to me," I observed.

+

+

+

+"You will remember that I remarked the other day, just before we went into the very simple problem presented by Miss Mary Sutherland, that for strange effects and extraordinary combinations we must go to life itself, which is always far more daring than any effort of the imagination."

+

+

+

+"A proposition which I took the liberty of doubting."

+

+

+

+"You did, Doctor, but none the less you must come round to my view, for otherwise I shall keep on piling fact upon fact on you until your reason breaks down under them and acknowledges me to be right. Now, Mr. Jabez Wilson here has been good enough to call upon me this morning, and to begin a narrative which promises to be one of the most singular which I have listened to for some time. You have heard me remark that the strangest and most unique things are very often connected not with the larger but with the smaller crimes, and occasionally, indeed, where there is room for doubt whether any positive crime has been committed. As far as I have heard, it is impossible for me to say whether the present case is an instance of crime or not, but the course of events is certainly among the most singular that I have ever listened to. Perhaps, Mr. Wilson, you would have the great kindness to recommence your narrative. I ask you not merely because my friend Dr. Watson has not heard the opening part but also because the peculiar nature of the story makes me anxious to have every possible detail from your lips. As a rule, when I have heard some slight indication of the course of events, I am able to guide myself by the thousands of other similar cases which occur to my memory. In the present instance I am forced to admit that the facts are, to the best of my belief, unique."

+

+

+

+The portly client puffed out his chest with an appearance of some little pride and pulled a dirty and wrinkled newspaper from the inside pocket of his greatcoat. As he glanced down the advertisement column, with his head thrust forward and the paper flattened out upon his knee, I took a good look at the man and endeavoured, after the fashion of my companion, to read the indications which might be presented by his dress or appearance.

+

+

+

+I did not gain very much, however, by my inspection. Our visitor bore every mark of being an average commonplace British tradesman, obese, pompous, and slow. He wore rather baggy grey shepherd's check trousers, a not over-clean black frock-coat, unbuttoned in the front, and a drab waistcoat with a heavy brassy Albert chain, and a square pierced bit of metal dangling down as an ornament. A frayed top-hat and a faded brown overcoat with a wrinkled velvet collar lay upon a chair beside him. Altogether, look as I would, there was nothing remarkable about the man save his blazing red head, and the expression of extreme chagrin and discontent upon his features.

+

+

+

+Sherlock Holmes' quick eye took in my occupation, and he shook his head with a smile as he noticed my questioning glances. "Beyond the obvious facts that he has at some time done manual labour, that he takes snuff, that he is a Freemason, that he has been in China, and that he has done a considerable amount of writing lately, I can deduce nothing else."

+

+

+

+Mr. Jabez Wilson started up in his chair, with his forefinger upon the paper, but his eyes upon my companion.

+

+

+

+"How, in the name of good-fortune, did you know all that, Mr. Holmes?" he asked. "How did you know, for example, that I did manual labour. It's as true as gospel, for I began as a ship's carpenter."

+

+

+

+"Your hands, my dear sir. Your right hand is quite a size larger than your left. You have worked with it, and the muscles are more developed."

+

+

+

+"Well, the snuff, then, and the Freemasonry?"

+

+

+

+"I won't insult your intelligence by telling you how I read that, especially as, rather against the strict rules of your order, you use an arc-and-compass breastpin."

+

+

+

+"Ah, of course, I forgot that. But the writing?"

+

+

+

+"What else can be indicated by that right cuff so very shiny for five inches, and the left one with the smooth patch near the elbow where you rest it upon the desk?"

+

+

+

+"Well, but China?"

+

+

+

+"The fish that you have tattooed immediately above your right wrist could only have been done in China. I have made a small study of tattoo marks and have even contributed to the literature of the subject. That trick of staining the fishes' scales of a delicate pink is quite peculiar to China. When, in addition, I see a Chinese coin hanging from your watch-chain, the matter becomes even more simple."

+

+

+

+Mr. Jabez Wilson laughed heavily. "Well, I never!" said he. "I thought at first that you had done something clever, but I see that there was nothing in it after all."

+

+

+

+"I begin to think, Watson," said Holmes, "that I make a mistake in explaining. 'Omne ignotum pro magnifico,' you know, and my poor little reputation, such as it is, will suffer shipwreck if I am so candid. Can you not find the advertisement, Mr. Wilson?"

+

+

+

+"Yes, I have got it now," he answered with his thick red finger planted halfway down the column. "Here it is. This is what began it all. You just read it for yourself, sir."

+

+

+

+I took the paper from him and read as follows:

+

+

+

+"TO THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE: On account of the bequest of the late Ezekiah Hopkins, of Lebanon, Pennsylvania, U. S. A., there is now another vacancy open which entitles a member of the League to a salary of $4 a week for purely nominal services. All red-headed men who are sound in body and mind and above the age of twenty-one years, are eligible. Apply in person on Monday, at eleven o'clock, to Duncan Ross, at the offices of the League, 7 Pope's Court, Fleet Street."

+

+

+

+"What on earth does this mean?" I ejaculated after I had twice read over the extraordinary announcement.

+

+

+

+Holmes chuckled and wriggled in his chair, as was his habit when in high spirits. "It is a little off the beaten track, isn't it?" said he. "And now, Mr. Wilson, off you go at scratch and tell us all about yourself, your household, and the effect which this advertisement had upon your fortunes. You will first make a note, Doctor, of the paper and the date."

+

+

+

+"It is The Morning Chronicle of April 27, 1890. Just two months ago."

+

+

+

+"Very good. Now, Mr. Wilson?"

+

+

+

+"Well, it is just as I have been telling you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said Jabez Wilson, mopping his forehead; "I have a small pawnbroker's business at Coburg Square, near the City. It's not a very large affair, and of late years it has not done more than just give me a living. I used to be able to keep two assistants, but now I only keep one; and I would have a job to pay him but that he is willing to come for half wages so as to learn the business."

+

+

+

+"What is the name of this obliging youth?" asked Sherlock Holmes.

+

+

+

+"His name is Vincent Spaulding, and he's not such a youth, either. It's hard to say his age. I should not wish a smarter assistant, Mr. Holmes; and I know very well that he could better himself and earn twice what I am able to give him. But, after all, if he is satisfied, why should I put ideas in his head?"

+

+

+

+"Why, indeed? You seem most fortunate in having an employe who comes under the full market price. It is not a common experience among employers in this age. I don't know that your assistant is not as remarkable as your advertisement."

+

+

+

+"Oh, he has his faults, too," said Mr. Wilson. "Never was such a fellow for photography. Snapping away with a camera when he ought to be improving his mind, and then diving down into the cellar like a rabbit into its hole to develop his pictures. That is his main fault, but on the whole he's a good worker. There's no vice in him."

+

+

+

+"He is still with you, I presume?"

+

+

+

+"Yes, sir. He and a girl of fourteen, who does a bit of simple cooking and keeps the place clean--that's all I have in the house, for I am a widower and never had any family. We live very quietly, sir, the three of us; and we keep a roof over our heads and pay our debts, if we do nothing more.

+

+

+

+"The first thing that put us out was that advertisement. Spaulding, he came down into the office just this day eight weeks, with this very paper in his hand, and he says:

+

+

+

+" 'I wish to the Lord, Mr. Wilson, that I was a red-headed man.'

+

+

+

+" 'Why that?' I asks.

+

+

+

+" 'Why,' says he, 'here's another vacancy on the League of the Red-headed Men. It's worth quite a little fortune to any man who gets it, and I understand that there are more vacancies than there are men, so that the trustees are at their wits' end what to do with the money. If my hair would only change colour, here's a nice little crib all ready for me to step into.'

+

+

+

+" 'Why, what is it, then?' I asked. You see, Mr. Holmes, I am a very stay-at-home man, and as my business came to me instead of my having to go to it, I was often weeks on end without putting my foot over the door-mat. In that way I didn't know much of what was going on outside, and I was always glad of a bit of news.

+

+

+

+" 'Have you never heard of the League of the Red-headed Men?' he asked with his eyes open.

+

+

+

+" 'Never.'

+

+

+

+" 'Why, I wonder at that, for you are eligible yourself for one of the vacancies.'

+

+

+

+" 'And what are they worth?' I asked.

+

+

+

+" 'Oh, merely a couple of hundred a year, but the work is slight, and it need not interfere very much with one's other occupations.'

+

+

+

+"Well, you can easily think that that made me prick up my ears, for the business has not been over good for some years, and an extra couple of hundred would have been very handy.

+

+

+

+" 'Tell me all about it,' said I.

+

+

+

+" 'Well,' said he, showing me the advertisement, 'you can see for yourself that the League has a vacancy, and there is the address where you should apply for particulars. As far as I can make out, the League was founded by an American millionaire, Ezekiah Hopkins, who was very peculiar in his ways. He was himself red-headed, and he had a great sympathy for all red-headed men; so, when he died, it was found that he had left his enormous fortune in the hands of trustees, with instructions to apply the interest to the providing of easy berths to men whose hair is of that colour. From all I hear it is splendid pay and very little to do.'

+

+

+

+" 'But,' said I, 'there would be millions of red-headed men who would apply.'

+

+

+

+" 'Not so many as you might think,' he answered. 'You see it is really confined to Londoners, and to grown men. This American had started from London when he was young, and he wanted to do the old town a good turn. Then, again, I have heard it is no use your applying if your hair is light red, or dark red, or anything but real bright, blazing, fiery red. Now, if you cared to apply, Mr. Wilson, you would just walk in; but perhaps it would hardly be worth your while to put yourself out of the way for the sake of a few hundred pounds.'

+

+

+

+"Now, it is a fact, gentlemen, as you may see for yourselves, that my hair is of a very full and rich tint, so that it seemed to me that if there was to be any competition in the matter I stood as good a chance as any man that I had ever met. Vincent Spaulding seemed to know so much about it that I thought he might prove useful, so I just ordered him to put up the shutters for the day and to come right away with me. He was very willing to have a holiday, so we shut the business up and started off for the address that was given us in the advertisement.

+

+

+

+"I never hope to see such a sight as that again, Mr. Holmes. From north, south, east, and west every man who had a shade of red in his hair had tramped into the city to answer the advertisement. Fleet Street was choked with red-headed folk, and Pope's Court looked like a coster's orange barrow. I should not have thought there were so many in the whole country as were brought together by that single advertisement. Every shade of colour they were--straw, lemon, orange, brick, Irish-setter, liver, clay; but, as Spaulding said, there were not many who had the real vivid flame-coloured tint. When I saw how many were waiting, I would have given it up in despair; but Spaulding would not hear of it. How he did it I could not imagine, but he pushed and pulled and butted until he got me through the crowd, and right up to the steps which led to the office. There was a double stream upon the stair, some going up in hope, and some coming back dejected; but we wedged in as well as we could and soon found ourselves in the office."

+

+

+

+"Your experience has been a most entertaining one," remarked Holmes as his client paused and refreshed his memory with a huge pinch of snuff. "Pray continue your very interesting statement."

+

+

+

+"There was nothing in the office but a couple of wooden chairs and a deal table, behind which sat a small man with a head that was even redder than mine. He said a few words to each candidate as he came up, and then he always managed to find some fault in them which would disqualify them. Getting a vacancy did not seem to be such a very easy matter, after all. However, when our turn came the little man was much more favourable to me than to any of the others, and he closed the door as we entered, so that he might have a private word with us.

+

+

+

+" 'This is Mr. Jabez Wilson,' said my assistant, 'and he is willing to fill a vacancy in the League.'

+

+

+

+" 'And he is admirably suited for it,' the other answered. 'He has every requirement. I cannot recall when I have seen anything so fine.' He took a step backward, cocked his head on one side, and gazed at my hair until I felt quite bashful. Then suddenly he plunged forward, wrung my hand, and congratulated me warmly on my success.

+

+

+

+" 'It would be injustice to hesitate,' said he. 'You will, however, I am sure, excuse me for taking an obvious precaution.' With that he seized my hair in both his hands, and tugged until I yelled with the pain. 'There is water in your eyes,' said he as he released me. 'I perceive that all is as it should be. But we have to be careful, for we have twice been deceived by wigs and once by paint. I could tell you tales of cobbler's wax which would disgust you with human nature.' He stepped over to the window and shouted through it at the top of his voice that the vacancy was filled. A groan of disappointment came up from below, and the folk all trooped away in different directions until there was not a red-head to be seen except my own and that of the manager.

+

+

+

+" 'My name,' said he, 'is Mr. Duncan Ross, and I am myself one of the pensioners upon the fund left by our noble benefactor. Are you a married man, Mr. Wilson? Have you a family?'

+

+

+

+"I answered that I had not.

+

+

+

+"His face fell immediately.

+

+

+

+" 'Dear me!' he said gravely, 'that is very serious indeed! I am sorry to hear you say that. The fund was, of course, for the propagation and spread of the red-heads as well as for their maintenance. It is exceedingly unfortunate that you should be a bachelor.'

+

+

+

+"My face lengthened at this, Mr. Holmes, for I thought that I was not to have the vacancy after all; but after thinking it over for a few minutes he said that it would be all right.

+

+

+

+" 'In the case of another,' said he, 'the objection might be fatal, but we must stretch a point in favour of a man with such a head of hair as yours. When shall you be able to enter upon your new duties?'

+

+

+

+" 'Well, it is a little awkward, for I have a business already,' said I.

+

+

+

+" 'Oh, never mind about that, Mr. Wilson!' said Vincent Spaulding. 'I should be able to look after that for you.'

+

+

+

+" 'What would be the hours?' I asked.

+

+

+

+" 'Ten to two.'

+

+

+

+"Now a pawnbroker's business is mostly done of an evening, Mr. Holmes, especially Thursday and Friday evening, which is just before pay-day; so it would suit me very well to earn a little in the mornings. Besides, I knew that my assistant was a good man, and that he would see to anything that turned up.

+

+

+

+" 'That would suit me very well,' said I. 'And the pay?'

+

+

+

+" 'Is $4 a week.'

+

+

+

+" 'And the work?'

+

+

+

+" 'Is purely nominal.'

+

+

+

+" 'What do you call purely nominal?'

+

+

+

+" 'Well, you have to be in the office, or at least in the building, the whole time. If you leave, you forfeit your whole position forever. The will is very clear upon that point. You don't comply with the conditions if you budge from the office during that time.'

+

+

+

+" 'It's only four hours a day, and I should not think of leaving,' said I.

+

+

+

+" 'No excuse will avail,' said Mr. Duncan Ross; 'neither sickness nor business nor anything else. There you must stay, or you lose your billet.'

+

+

+

+" 'And the work?'

+

+

+

+" 'Is to copy out the Encyclopaedia Britannica. There is the first volume of it in that press. You must find your own ink, pens, and blotting-paper, but we provide this table and chair. Will you be ready to-morrow?'

+

+

+

+" 'Certainly,' I answered.

+

+

+

+" 'Then, good-bye, Mr. Jabez Wilson, and let me congratulate you once more on the important position which you have been fortunate enough to gain.' He bowed me out of the room and I went home with my assistant, hardly knowing what to say or do, I was so pleased at my own good fortune.

+

+

+

+"Well, I thought over the matter all day, and by evening I was in low spirits again; for I had quite persuaded myself that the whole affair must be some great hoax or fraud, though what its object might be I could not imagine. It seemed altogether past belief that anyone could make such a will, or that they would pay such a sum for doing anything so simple as copying out the Encyclopaedia Britannica. Vincent Spaulding did what he could to cheer me up, but by bedtime I had reasoned myself out of the whole thing. However, in the morning I determined to have a look at it anyhow, so I bought a penny bottle of ink, and with a quill-pen, and seven sheets of foolscap paper, I started off for Pope's Court.

+

+

+

+"Well, to my surprise and delight, everything was as right as possible. The table was set out ready for me, and Mr. Duncan Ross was there to see that I got fairly to work. He started me off upon the letter A, and then he left me; but he would drop in from time to time to see that all was right with me. At two o'clock he bade me good-day, complimented me upon the amount that I had written, and locked the door of the office after me.

+

+

+

+"This went on day after day, Mr. Holmes, and on Saturday the manager came in and planked down four golden sovereigns for my week's work. It was the same next week, and the same the week after. Every morning I was there at ten, and every afternoon I left at two. By degrees Mr. Duncan Ross took to coming in only once of a morning, and then, after a time, he did not come in at all. Still, of course, I never dared to leave the room for an instant, for I was not sure when he might come, and the billet was such a good one, and suited me so well, that I would not risk the loss of it.

+

+

+

+"Eight weeks passed away like this, and I had written about Abbots and Archery and Armour and Architecture and Attica, and hoped with diligence that I might get on to the B's before very long. It cost me something in foolscap, and I had pretty nearly filled a shelf with my writings. And then suddenly the whole business came to an end."

+

+

+

+"To an end?"

+

+

+

+"Yes, sir. And no later than this morning. I went to my work as usual at ten o'clock, but the door was shut and locked, with a little square of cardboard hammered on to the middle of the panel with a tack. Here it is, and you can read for yourself."

+

+

+

+He held up a piece of white cardboard about the size of a sheet of note-paper. It read in this fashion:

+

+

+

+

+

+THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE

+

+

+

+IS

+

+

+

+DISSOLVED.

+

+

+

+October 9, 1890.

+

+

+

+

+

+Sherlock Holmes and I surveyed this curt announcement and the rueful face behind it, until the comical side of the affair so completely overtopped every other consideration that we both burst out into a roar of laughter.

+

+

+

+"I cannot see that there is anything very funny," cried our client, flushing up to the roots of his flaming head. "If you can do nothing better than laugh at me, I can go elsewhere."

+

+

+

+"No, no," cried Holmes, shoving him back into the chair from which he had half risen. "I really wouldn't miss your case for the world. It is most refreshingly unusual. But there is, if you will excuse my saying so, something just a little funny about it. Pray what steps did you take when you found the card upon the door?"

+

+

+

+"I was staggered, sir. I did not know what to do. Then I called at the offices round, but none of them seemed to know anything about it. Finally, I went to the landlord, who is an accountant living on the ground floor, and I asked him if he could tell me what had become of the Red-headed League. He said that he had never heard of any such body. Then I asked him who Mr. Duncan Ross was. He answered that the name was new to him.

+

+

+

+" 'Well,' said I, 'the gentleman at No. 4.'

+

+

+

+" 'What, the red-headed man?'

+

+

+

+" 'Yes.'

+

+

+

+" 'Oh,' said he, 'his name was William Morris. He was a solicitor and was using my room as a temporary convenience until his new premises were ready. He moved out yesterday.'

+

+

+

+" 'Where could I find him?'

+

+

+

+" 'Oh, at his new offices. He did tell me the address. Yes, 17 King Edward Street, near St. Paul's.'

+

+

+

+"I started off, Mr. Holmes, but when I got to that address it was a manufactory of artificial knee-caps, and no one in it had ever heard of either Mr. William Morris or Mr. Duncan Ross."

+

+

+

+"And what did you do then?" asked Holmes.

+

+

+

+"I went home to Saxe-Coburg Square, and I took the advice of my assistant. But he could not help me in any way. He could only say that if I waited I should hear by post. But that was not quite good enough, Mr. Holmes. I did not wish to lose such a place without a struggle, so, as I had heard that you were good enough to give advice to poor folk who were in need of it, I came right away to you."

+

+

+

+"And you did very wisely," said Holmes. "Your case is an exceedingly remarkable one, and I shall be happy to look into it. From what you have told me I think that it is possible that graver issues hang from it than might at first sight appear."

+

+

+

+"Grave enough!" said Mr. Jabez Wilson. "Why, I have lost four pound a week."

+

+

+

+"As far as you are personally concerned," remarked Holmes, "I do not see that you have any grievance against this extraordinary league. On the contrary, you are, as I understand, richer by some $30, to say nothing of the minute knowledge which you have gained on every subject which comes under the letter A. You have lost nothing by them."

+

+

+

+"No, sir. But I want to find out about them, and who they are, and what their object was in playing this prank--if it was a prank--upon me. It was a pretty expensive joke for them, for it cost them two and thirty pounds."

+

+

+

+"We shall endeavour to clear up these points for you. And, first, one or two questions, Mr. Wilson. This assistant of yours who first called your attention to the advertisement--how long had he been with you?"

+

+

+

+"About a month then."

+

+

+

+"How did he come?"

+

+

+

+"In answer to an advertisement."

+

+

+

+"Was he the only applicant?"

+

+

+

+"No, I had a dozen."

+

+

+

+"Why did you pick him?"

+

+

+

+"Because he was handy and would come cheap."

+

+

+

+"At half wages, in fact."

+

+

+

+"Yes."

+

+

+

+"What is he like, this Vincent Spaulding?"

+

+

+

+"Small, stout-built, very quick in his ways, no hair on his face, though he's not short of thirty. Has a white splash of acid upon his forehead."

+

+

+

+Holmes sat up in his chair in considerable excitement. "I thought as much," said he. "Have you ever observed that his ears are pierced for earrings?"

+

+

+

+"Yes, sir. He told me that a gipsy had done it for him when he was a lad."

+

+

+

+"Hum!" said Holmes, sinking back in deep thought. "He is still with you?"

+

+

+

+"Oh, yes, sir; I have only just left him."

+

+

+

+"And has your business been attended to in your absence?"

+

+

+

+"Nothing to complain of, sir. There's never very much to do of a morning."

+

+

+

+"That will do, Mr. Wilson. I shall be happy to give you an opinion upon the subject in the course of a day or two. To-day is Saturday, and I hope that by Monday we may come to a conclusion."

+

+

+

+"Well, Watson," said Holmes when our visitor had left us, "what do you make of it all?"

+

+

+

+"I make nothing of it," I answered frankly. "It is a most mysterious business."

+

+

+

+"As a rule," said Holmes, "the more bizarre a thing is the less mysterious it proves to be. It is your commonplace, featureless crimes which are really puzzling, just as a commonplace face is the most difficult to identify. But I must be prompt over this matter."

+

+

+

+"What are you going to do, then?" I asked.

+

+

+

+"To smoke," he answered. "It is quite a three pipe problem, and I beg that you won't speak to me for fifty minutes." He curled himself up in his chair, with his thin knees drawn up to his hawk-like nose, and there he sat with his eyes closed and his black clay pipe thrusting out like the bill of some strange bird. I had come to the conclusion that he had dropped asleep, and indeed was nodding myself, when he suddenly sprang out of his chair with the gesture of a man who has made up his mind and put his pipe down upon the mantelpiece.

+

+

+

+"Sarasate plays at the St. James's Hall this afternoon," he remarked. "What do you think, Watson? Could your patients spare you for a few hours?"

+

+

+

+"I have nothing to do to-day. My practice is never very absorbing."

+

+

+

+"Then put on your hat and come. I am going through the City first, and we can have some lunch on the way. I observe that there is a good deal of German music on the programme, which is rather more to my taste than Italian or French. It is introspective, and I want to introspect. Come along!"

+

+

+

+We travelled by the Underground as far as Aldersgate; and a short walk took us to Saxe-Coburg Square, the scene of the singular story which we had listened to in the morning. It was a poky, little, shabby-genteel place, where four lines of dingy two-storied brick houses looked out into a small railed-in enclosure, where a lawn of weedy grass and a few clumps of faded laurel bushes made a hard fight against a smoke-laden and uncongenial atmosphere. Three gilt balls and a brown board with "JABEZ WILSON" in white letters, upon a corner house, announced the place where our red-headed client carried on his business. Sherlock Holmes stopped in front of it with his head on one side and looked it all over, with his eyes shining brightly between puckered lids. Then he walked slowly up the street, and then down again to the corner, still looking keenly at the houses. Finally he returned to the pawnbroker's, and, having thumped vigorously upon the pavement with his stick two or three times, he went up to the door and knocked. It was instantly opened by a bright-looking, clean-shaven young fellow, who asked him to step in.

+

+

+

+"Thank you," said Holmes, "I only wished to ask you how you would go from here to the Strand."

+

+

+

+"Third right, fourth left," answered the assistant promptly, closing the door.

+

+

+

+"Smart fellow, that," observed Holmes as we walked away. "He is, in my judgment, the fourth smartest man in London, and for daring I am not sure that he has not a claim to be third. I have known something of him before."

+

+

+

+"Evidently," said I, "Mr. Wilson's assistant counts for a good deal in this mystery of the Red-headed League. I am sure that you inquired your way merely in order that you might see him."

+

+

+

+"Not him."

+

+

+

+"What then?"

+

+

+

+"The knees of his trousers."

+

+

+

+"And what did you see?"

+

+

+

+"What I expected to see."

+

+

+

+"Why did you beat the pavement?"

+

+

+

+"My dear doctor, this is a time for observation, not for talk. We are spies in an enemy's country. We know something of Saxe-Coburg Square. Let us now explore the parts which lie behind it."

+

+

+

+The road in which we found ourselves as we turned round the corner from the retired Saxe-Coburg Square presented as great a contrast to it as the front of a picture does to the back. It was one of the main arteries which conveyed the traffic of the City to the north and west. The roadway was blocked with the immense stream of commerce flowing in a double tide inward and outward, while the footpaths were black with the hurrying swarm of pedestrians. It was difficult to realise as we looked at the line of fine shops and stately business premises that they really abutted on the other side upon the faded and stagnant square which we had just quitted.

+

+

+

+"Let me see," said Holmes, standing at the corner and glancing along the line, "I should like just to remember the order of the houses here. It is a hobby of mine to have an exact knowledge of London. There is Mortimer's, the tobacconist, the little newspaper shop, the Coburg branch of the City and Suburban Bank, the Vegetarian Restaurant, and McFarlane's carriage-building depot. That carries us right on to the other block. And now, Doctor, we've done our work, so it's time we had some play. A sandwich and a cup of coffee, and then off to violin-land, where all is sweetness and delicacy and harmony, and there are no red-headed clients to vex us with their conundrums."

+

+

+

+My friend was an enthusiastic musician, being himself not only a very capable performer but a composer of no ordinary merit. All the afternoon he sat in the stalls wrapped in the most perfect happiness, gently waving his long, thin fingers in time to the music, while his gently smiling face and his languid, dreamy eyes were as unlike those of Holmes the sleuth-hound, Holmes the relentless, keen-witted, ready-handed criminal agent, as it was possible to conceive. In his singular character the dual nature alternately asserted itself, and his extreme exactness and astuteness represented, as I have often thought, the reaction against the poetic and contemplative mood which occasionally predominated in him. The swing of his nature took him from extreme languor to devouring energy; and, as I knew well, he was never so truly formidable as when, for days on end, he had been lounging in his armchair amid his improvisations and his black-letter editions. Then it was that the lust of the chase would suddenly come upon him, and that his brilliant reasoning power would rise to the level of intuition, until those who were unacquainted with his methods would look askance at him as on a man whose knowledge was not that of other mortals. When I saw him that afternoon so enwrapped in the music at St. James's Hall I felt that an evil time might be coming upon those whom he had set himself to hunt down.

+

+

+

+"You want to go home, no doubt, Doctor," he remarked as we emerged.

+

+

+

+"Yes, it would be as well."

+

+

+

+"And I have some business to do which will take some hours. This business at Coburg Square is serious."

+

+

+

+"Why serious?"

+

+

+

+"A considerable crime is in contemplation. I have every reason to believe that we shall be in time to stop it. But to-day being Saturday rather complicates matters. I shall want your help to-night."

+

+

+

+"At what time?"

+

+

+

+"Ten will be early enough."

+

+

+

+"I shall be at Baker Street at ten."

+

+

+

+"Very well. And, I say, Doctor, there may be some little danger, so kindly put your army revolver in your pocket." He waved his hand, turned on his heel, and disappeared in an instant among the crowd.

+

+

+

+I trust that I am not more dense than my neighbours, but I was always oppressed with a sense of my own stupidity in my dealings with Sherlock Holmes. Here I had heard what he had heard, I had seen what he had seen, and yet from his words it was evident that he saw clearly not only what had happened but what was about to happen, while to me the whole business was still confused and grotesque. As I drove home to my house in Kensington I thought over it all, from the extraordinary story of the red-headed copier of the Encyclopaedia down to the visit to Saxe-Coburg Square, and the ominous words with which he had parted from me. What was this nocturnal expedition, and why should I go armed? Where were we going, and what were we to do? I had the hint from Holmes that this smooth-faced pawnbroker's assistant was a formidable man--a man who might play a deep game. I tried to puzzle it out, but gave it up in despair and set the matter aside until night should bring an explanation.

+

+

+

+It was a quarter-past nine when I started from home and made my way across the Park, and so through Oxford Street to Baker Street. Two hansoms were standing at the door, and as I entered the passage I heard the sound of voices from above. On entering his room, I found Holmes in animated conversation with two men, one of whom I recognised as Peter Jones, the official police agent, while the other was a long, thin, sad-faced man, with a very shiny hat and oppressively respectable frock-coat.

+

+

+

+"Ha! Our party is complete," said Holmes, buttoning up his pea-jacket and taking his heavy hunting crop from the rack. "Watson, I think you know Mr. Jones, of Scotland Yard? Let me introduce you to Mr. Merryweather, who is to be our companion in to-night's adventure."

+

+

+

+"We're hunting in couples again, Doctor, you see," said Jones in his consequential way. "Our friend here is a wonderful man for starting a chase. All he wants is an old dog to help him to do the running down."

+

+

+

+"I hope a wild goose may not prove to be the end of our chase," observed Mr. Merryweather gloomily.

+

+

+

+"You may place considerable confidence in Mr. Holmes, sir," said the police agent loftily. "He has his own little methods, which are, if he won't mind my saying so, just a little too theoretical and fantastic, but he has the makings of a detective in him. It is not too much to say that once or twice, as in that business of the Sholto murder and the Agra treasure, he has been more nearly correct than the official force."

+

+

+

+"Oh, if you say so, Mr. Jones, it is all right," said the stranger with deference. "Still, I confess that I miss my rubber. It is the first Saturday night for seven-and-twenty years that I have not had my rubber."

+

+

+

+"I think you will find," said Sherlock Holmes, "that you will play for a higher stake to-night than you have ever done yet, and that the play will be more exciting. For you, Mr. Merryweather, the stake will be some $30,000; and for you, Jones, it will be the man upon whom you wish to lay your hands."

+

+

+

+"John Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher, and forger. He's a young man, Mr. Merryweather, but he is at the head of his profession, and I would rather have my bracelets on him than on any criminal in London. He's a remarkable man, is young John Clay. His grandfather was a royal duke, and he himself has been to Eton and Oxford. His brain is as cunning as his fingers, and though we meet signs of him at every turn, we never know where to find the man himself. He'll crack a crib in Scotland one week, and be raising money to build an orphanage in Cornwall the next. I've been on his track for years and have never set eyes on him yet."

+

+

+

+"I hope that I may have the pleasure of introducing you to-night. I've had one or two little turns also with Mr. John Clay, and I agree with you that he is at the head of his profession. It is past ten, however, and quite time that we started. If you two will take the first hansom, Watson and I will follow in the second."

+

+

+

+Sherlock Holmes was not very communicative during the long drive and lay back in the cab humming the tunes which he had heard in the afternoon. We rattled through an endless labyrinth of gas-lit streets until we emerged into Farrington Street.

+

+

+

+"We are close there now," my friend remarked. "This fellow Merryweather is a bank director, and personally interested in the matter. I thought it as well to have Jones with us also. He is not a bad fellow, though an absolute imbecile in his profession. He has one positive virtue. He is as brave as a bulldog and as tenacious as a lobster if he gets his claws upon anyone. Here we are, and they are waiting for us."

+

+

+

+We had reached the same crowded thoroughfare in which we had found ourselves in the morning. Our cabs were dismissed, and, following the guidance of Mr. Merryweather, we passed down a narrow passage and through a side door, which he opened for us. Within there was a small corridor, which ended in a very massive iron gate. This also was opened, and led down a flight of winding stone steps, which terminated at another formidable gate. Mr. Merryweather stopped to light a lantern, and then conducted us down a dark, earth-smelling passage, and so, after opening a third door, into a huge vault or cellar, which was piled all round with crates and massive boxes.

+

+

+

+"You are not very vulnerable from above," Holmes remarked as he held up the lantern and gazed about him.

+

+

+

+"Nor from below," said Mr. Merryweather, striking his stick upon the flags which lined the floor. "Why, dear me, it sounds quite hollow!" he remarked, looking up in surprise.

+

+

+

+"I must really ask you to be a little more quiet!" said Holmes severely. "You have already imperilled the whole success of our expedition. Might I beg that you would have the goodness to sit down upon one of those boxes, and not to interfere?"

+

+

+

+The solemn Mr. Merryweather perched himself upon a crate, with a very injured expression upon his face, while Holmes fell upon his knees upon the floor and, with the lantern and a magnifying lens, began to examine minutely the cracks between the stones. A few seconds sufficed to satisfy him, for he sprang to his feet again and put his glass in his pocket.

+

+

+

+"We have at least an hour before us," he remarked, "for they can hardly take any steps until the good pawnbroker is safely in bed. Then they will not lose a minute, for the sooner they do their work the longer time they will have for their escape. We are at present, Doctor--as no doubt you have divined--in the cellar of the City branch of one of the principal London banks. Mr. Merryweather is the chairman of directors, and he will explain to you that there are reasons why the more daring criminals of London should take a considerable interest in this cellar at present."

+

+

+

+"It is our French gold," whispered the director. "We have had several warnings that an attempt might be made upon it."

+

+

+

+"Your French gold?"

+

+

+

+"Yes. We had occasion some months ago to strengthen our resources and borrowed for that purpose 30,000 napoleons from the Bank of France. It has become known that we have never had occasion to unpack the money, and that it is still lying in our cellar. The crate upon which I sit contains 2,000 napoleons packed between layers of lead foil. Our reserve of bullion is much larger at present than is usually kept in a single branch office, and the directors have had misgivings upon the subject."

+

+

+

+"Which were very well justified," observed Holmes. "And now it is time that we arranged our little plans. I expect that within an hour matters will come to a head. In the meantime Mr. Merryweather, we must put the screen over that dark lantern."

+

+

+

+"And sit in the dark?"

+

+

+

+"I am afraid so. I had brought a pack of cards in my pocket, and I thought that, as we were a partie carree, you might have your rubber after all. But I see that the enemy's preparations have gone so far that we cannot risk the presence of a light. And, first of all, we must choose our positions. These are daring men, and though we shall take them at a disadvantage, they may do us some harm unless we are careful. I shall stand behind this crate, and do you conceal yourselves behind those. Then, when I flash a light upon them, close in swiftly. If they fire, Watson, have no compunction about shooting them down."

+

+

+

+I placed my revolver, cocked, upon the top of the wooden case behind which I crouched. Holmes shot the slide across the front of his lantern and left us in pitch darkness--such an absolute darkness as I have never before experienced. The smell of hot metal remained to assure us that the light was still there, ready to flash out at a moment's notice. To me, with my nerves worked up to a pitch of expectancy, there was something depressing and subduing in the sudden gloom, and in the cold dank air of the vault.

+

+

+

+"They have but one retreat," whispered Holmes. "That is back through the house into Saxe-Coburg Square. I hope that you have done what I asked you, Jones?"

+

+

+

+"I have an inspector and two officers waiting at the front door."

+

+

+

+"Then we have stopped all the holes. And now we must be silent and wait."

+

+

+

+What a time it seemed! From comparing notes afterwards it was but an hour and a quarter, yet it appeared to me that the night must have almost gone, and the dawn be breaking above us. My limbs were weary and stiff, for I feared to change my position; yet my nerves were worked up to the highest pitch of tension, and my hearing was so acute that I could not only hear the gentle breathing of my companions, but I could distinguish the deeper, heavier in-breath of the bulky Jones from the thin, sighing note of the bank director. From my position I could look over the case in the direction of the floor. Suddenly my eyes caught the glint of a light.

+

+

+

+At first it was but a lurid spark upon the stone pavement. Then it lengthened out until it became a yellow line, and then, without any warning or sound, a gash seemed to open and a hand appeared, a white, almost womanly hand, which felt about in the centre of the little area of light. For a minute or more the hand, with its writhing fingers, protruded out of the floor. Then it was withdrawn as suddenly as it appeared, and all was dark again save the single lurid spark which marked a chink between the stones.

+

+

+

+Its disappearance, however, was but momentary. With a rending, tearing sound, one of the broad, white stones turned over upon its side and left a square, gaping hole, through which streamed the light of a lantern. Over the edge there peeped a clean-cut, boyish face, which looked keenly about it, and then, with a hand on either side of the aperture, drew itself shoulder-high and waist-high, until one knee rested upon the edge. In another instant he stood at the side of the hole and was hauling after him a companion, lithe and small like himself, with a pale face and a shock of very red hair.

+

+

+

+"It's all clear," he whispered. "Have you the chisel and the bags? Great Scott! Jump, Archie, jump, and I'll swing for it!"

+

+

+

+Sherlock Holmes had sprung out and seized the intruder by the collar. The other dived down the hole, and I heard the sound of rending cloth as Jones clutched at his skirts. The light flashed upon the barrel of a revolver, but Holmes' hunting crop came down on the man's wrist, and the pistol clinked upon the stone floor.

+

+

+

+"It's no use, John Clay," said Holmes blandly. "You have no chance at all."

+

+

+

+"So I see," the other answered with the utmost coolness. "I fancy that my pal is all right, though I see you have got his coat-tails."

+

+

+

+"There are three men waiting for him at the door," said Holmes.

+

+

+

+"Oh, indeed! You seem to have done the thing very completely. I must compliment you."

+

+

+

+"And I you," Holmes answered. "Your red-headed idea was very new and effective."

+

+

+

+"You'll see your pal again presently," said Jones. "He's quicker at climbing down holes than I am. Just hold out while I fix the derbies."

+

+

+

+"I beg that you will not touch me with your filthy hands," remarked our prisoner as the handcuffs clattered upon his wrists. "You may not be aware that I have royal blood in my veins. Have the goodness, also, when you address me always to say 'sir' and 'please.' "

+

+

+

+"All right," said Jones with a stare and a snigger. "Well, would you please, sir, march upstairs, where we can get a cab to carry your Highness to the police-station?"

+

+

+

+"That is better," said John Clay serenely. He made a sweeping bow to the three of us and walked quietly off in the custody of the detective.

+

+

+

+"Really, Mr. Holmes," said Mr. Merryweather as we followed them from the cellar, "I do not know how the bank can thank you or repay you. There is no doubt that you have detected and defeated in the most complete manner one of the most determined attempts at bank robbery that have ever come within my experience."

+

+

+

+"I have had one or two little scores of my own to settle with Mr. John Clay," said Holmes. "I have been at some small expense over this matter, which I shall expect the bank to refund, but beyond that I am amply repaid by having had an experience which is in many ways unique, and by hearing the very remarkable narrative of the Red-headed League."

+

+

+

+"You see, Watson," he explained in the early hours of the morning as we sat over a glass of whisky and soda in Baker Street, "it was perfectly obvious from the first that the only possible object of this rather fantastic business of the advertisement of the League, and the copying of the Encyclopaedia, must be to get this not over-bright pawnbroker out of the way for a number of hours every day. It was a curious way of managing it, but, really, it would be difficult to suggest a better. The method was no doubt suggested to Clay's ingenious mind by the colour of his accomplice's hair. The $4 a week was a lure which must draw him, and what was it to them, who were playing for thousands? They put in the advertisement, one rogue has the temporary office, the other rogue incites the man to apply for it, and together they manage to secure his absence every morning in the week. From the time that I heard of the assistant having come for half wages, it was obvious to me that he had some strong motive for securing the situation."

+

+

+

+"But how could you guess what the motive was?"

+

+

+

+"Had there been women in the house, I should have suspected a mere vulgar intrigue. That, however, was out of the question. The man's business was a small one, and there was nothing in his house which could account for such elaborate preparations, and such an expenditure as they were at. It must, then, be something out of the house. What could it be? I thought of the assistant's fondness for photography, and his trick of vanishing into the cellar. The cellar! There was the end of this tangled clue. Then I made inquiries as to this mysterious assistant and found that I had to deal with one of the coolest and most daring criminals in London. He was doing something in the cellar--something which took many hours a day for months on end. What could it be, once more? I could think of nothing save that he was running a tunnel to some other building.

+

+

+

+"So far I had got when we went to visit the scene of action. I surprised you by beating upon the pavement with my stick. I was ascertaining whether the cellar stretched out in front or behind. It was not in front. Then I rang the bell, and, as I hoped, the assistant answered it. We have had some skirmishes, but we had never set eyes upon each other before. I hardly looked at his face. His knees were what I wished to see. You must yourself have remarked how worn, wrinkled, and stained they were. They spoke of those hours of burrowing. The only remaining point was what they were burrowing for. I walked round the corner, saw the City and Suburban Bank abutted on our friend's premises, and felt that I had solved my problem. When you drove home after the concert I called upon Scotland Yard and upon the chairman of the bank directors, with the result that you have seen."

+

+

+

+"And how could you tell that they would make their attempt to-night?" I asked.

+

+

+

+"Well, when they closed their League offices that was a sign that they cared no longer about Mr. Jabez Wilson's presence--in other words, that they had completed their tunnel. But it was essential that they should use it soon, as it might be discovered, or the bullion might be removed. Saturday would suit them better than any other day, as it would give them two days for their escape. For all these reasons I expected them to come to-night."

+

+

+

+"You reasoned it out beautifully," I exclaimed in unfeigned admiration. "It is so long a chain, and yet every link rings true."

+

+

+

+"It saved me from ennui," he answered, yawning. "Alas! I already feel it closing in upon me. My life is spent in one long effort to escape from the commonplaces of existence. These little problems help me to do so."

+

+

+

+"And you are a benefactor of the race," said I.

+

+

+

+He shrugged his shoulders. "Well, perhaps, after all, it is of some little use," he remarked. " 'L'homme c'est rien--l'oeuvre c'est tout,' as Gustave Flaubert wrote to George Sand."

+

+

+

+ADVENTURE  III.  A CASE OF IDENTITY

+

+

+

+

+

+"My dear fellow," said Sherlock Holmes as we sat on either side of the fire in his lodgings at Baker Street, "life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. We would not dare to conceive the things which are really mere commonplaces of existence. If we could fly out of that window hand in hand, hover over this great city, gently remove the roofs, and peep in at the queer things which are going on, the strange coincidences, the plannings, the cross-purposes, the wonderful chains of events, working through generations, and leading to the most outre results, it would make all fiction with its conventionalities and foreseen conclusions most stale and unprofitable."

+

+

+

+"And yet I am not convinced of it," I answered. "The cases which come to light in the papers are, as a rule, bald enough, and vulgar enough. We have in our police reports realism pushed to its extreme limits, and yet the result is, it must be confessed, neither fascinating nor artistic."

+

+

+

+"A certain selection and discretion must be used in producing a realistic effect," remarked Holmes. "This is wanting in the police report, where more stress is laid, perhaps, upon the platitudes of the magistrate than upon the details, which to an observer contain the vital essence of the whole matter. Depend upon it, there is nothing so unnatural as the commonplace."

+

+

+

+I smiled and shook my head. "I can quite understand your thinking so." I said. "Of course, in your position of unofficial adviser and helper to everybody who is absolutely puzzled, throughout three continents, you are brought in contact with all that is strange and bizarre. But here"--I picked up the morning paper from the ground--"let us put it to a practical test. Here is the first heading upon which I come. 'A husband's cruelty to his wife.' There is half a column of print, but I know without reading it that it is all perfectly familiar to me. There is, of course, the other woman, the drink, the push, the blow, the bruise, the sympathetic sister or landlady. The crudest of writers could invent nothing more crude."

+

+

+

+"Indeed, your example is an unfortunate one for your argument," said Holmes, taking the paper and glancing his eye down it. "This is the Dundas separation case, and, as it happens, I was engaged in clearing up some small points in connection with it. The husband was a teetotaler, there was no other woman, and the conduct complained of was that he had drifted into the habit of winding up every meal by taking out his false teeth and hurling them at his wife, which, you will allow, is not an action likely to occur to the imagination of the average story-teller. Take a pinch of snuff, Doctor, and acknowledge that I have scored over you in your example."

+

+

+

+He held out his snuffbox of old gold, with a great amethyst in the centre of the lid. Its splendour was in such contrast to his homely ways and simple life that I could not help commenting upon it.

+

+

+

+"Ah," said he, "I forgot that I had not seen you for some weeks. It is a little souvenir from the King of Bohemia in return for my assistance in the case of the Irene Adler papers."

+

+

+

+"And the ring?" I asked, glancing at a remarkable brilliant which sparkled upon his finger.

+

+

+

+"It was from the reigning family of Holland, though the matter in which I served them was of such delicacy that I cannot confide it even to you, who have been good enough to chronicle one or two of my little problems."

+

+

+

+"And have you any on hand just now?" I asked with interest.

+

+

+

+"Some ten or twelve, but none which present any feature of interest. They are important, you understand, without being interesting. Indeed, I have found that it is usually in unimportant matters that there is a field for the observation, and for the quick analysis of cause and effect which gives the charm to an investigation. The larger crimes are apt to be the simpler, for the bigger the crime the more obvious, as a rule, is the motive. In these cases, save for one rather intricate matter which has been referred to me from Marseilles, there is nothing which presents any features of interest. It is possible, however, that I may have something better before very many minutes are over, for this is one of my clients, or I am much mistaken."

+

+

+

+He had risen from his chair and was standing between the parted blinds gazing down into the dull neutral-tinted London street. Looking over his shoulder, I saw that on the pavement opposite there stood a large woman with a heavy fur boa round her neck, and a large curling red feather in a broad-brimmed hat which was tilted in a coquettish Duchess of Devonshire fashion over her ear. From under this great panoply she peeped up in a nervous, hesitating fashion at our windows, while her body oscillated backward and forward, and her fingers fidgeted with her glove buttons. Suddenly, with a plunge, as of the swimmer who leaves the bank, she hurried across the road, and we heard the sharp clang of the bell.

+

+

+

+"I have seen those symptoms before," said Holmes, throwing his cigarette into the fire. "Oscillation upon the pavement always means an affaire de coeur. She would like advice, but is not sure that the matter is not too delicate for communication. And yet even here we may discriminate. When a woman has been seriously wronged by a man she no longer oscillates, and the usual symptom is a broken bell wire. Here we may take it that there is a love matter, but that the maiden is not so much angry as perplexed, or grieved. But here she comes in person to resolve our doubts."

+

+

+

+As he spoke there was a tap at the door, and the boy in buttons entered to announce Miss Mary Sutherland, while the lady herself loomed behind his small black figure like a full-sailed merchant-man behind a tiny pilot boat. Sherlock Holmes welcomed her with the easy courtesy for which he was remarkable, and, having closed the door and bowed her into an armchair, he looked her over in the minute and yet abstracted fashion which was peculiar to him.

+

+

+

+"Do you not find," he said, "that with your short sight it is a little trying to do so much typewriting?"

+

+

+

+"I did at first," she answered, "but now I know where the letters are without looking." Then, suddenly realising the full purport of his words, she gave a violent start and looked up, with fear and astonishment upon her broad, good-humoured face. "You've heard about me, Mr. Holmes," she cried, "else how could you know all that?"

+

+

+

+"Never mind," said Holmes, laughing; "it is my business to know things. Perhaps I have trained myself to see what others overlook. If not, why should you come to consult me?"

+

+

+

+"I came to you, sir, because I heard of you from Mrs. Etherege, whose husband you found so easy when the police and everyone had given him up for dead. Oh, Mr. Holmes, I wish you would do as much for me. I'm not rich, but still I have a hundred a year in my own right, besides the little that I make by the machine, and I would give it all to know what has become of Mr. Hosmer Angel."

+

+

+

+"Why did you come away to consult me in such a hurry?" asked Sherlock Holmes, with his finger-tips together and his eyes to the ceiling.

+

+

+

+Again a startled look came over the somewhat vacuous face of Miss Mary Sutherland. "Yes, I did bang out of the house," she said, "for it made me angry to see the easy way in which Mr. Windibank--that is, my father--took it all. He would not go to the police, and he would not go to you, and so at last, as he would do nothing and kept on saying that there was no harm done, it made me mad, and I just on with my things and came right away to you."

+

+

+

+"Your father," said Holmes, "your stepfather, surely, since the name is different."

+

+

+

+"Yes, my stepfather. I call him father, though it sounds funny, too, for he is only five years and two months older than myself."

+

+

+

+"And your mother is alive?"

+

+

+

+"Oh, yes, mother is alive and well. I wasn't best pleased, Mr. Holmes, when she married again so soon after father's death, and a man who was nearly fifteen years younger than herself. Father was a plumber in the Tottenham Court Road, and he left a tidy business behind him, which mother carried on with Mr. Hardy, the foreman; but when Mr. Windibank came he made her sell the business, for he was very superior, being a traveller in wines. They got $4700 for the goodwill and interest, which wasn't near as much as father could have got if he had been alive."

+

+

+

+I had expected to see Sherlock Holmes impatient under this rambling and inconsequential narrative, but, on the contrary, he had listened with the greatest concentration of attention.

+

+

+

+"Your own little income," he asked, "does it come out of the business?"

+

+

+

+"Oh, no, sir. It is quite separate and was left me by my uncle Ned in Auckland. It is in New Zealand stock, paying 4 1/4 per cent. Two thousand five hundred pounds was the amount, but I can only touch the interest."

+

+

+

+"You interest me extremely," said Holmes. "And since you draw so large a sum as a hundred a year, with what you earn into the bargain, you no doubt travel a little and indulge yourself in every way. I believe that a single lady can get on very nicely upon an income of about $60."

+

+

+

+"I could do with much less than that, Mr. Holmes, but you understand that as long as I live at home I don't wish to be a burden to them, and so they have the use of the money just while I am staying with them. Of course, that is only just for the time. Mr. Windibank draws my interest every quarter and pays it over to mother, and I find that I can do pretty well with what I earn at typewriting. It brings me twopence a sheet, and I can often do from fifteen to twenty sheets in a day."

+

+

+

+"You have made your position very clear to me," said Holmes. "This is my friend, Dr. Watson, before whom you can speak as freely as before myself. Kindly tell us now all about your connection with Mr. Hosmer Angel."

+

+

+

+A flush stole over Miss Sutherland's face, and she picked nervously at the fringe of her jacket. "I met him first at the gasfitters' ball," she said. "They used to send father tickets when he was alive, and then afterwards they remembered us, and sent them to mother. Mr. Windibank did not wish us to go. He never did wish us to go anywhere. He would get quite mad if I wanted so much as to join a Sunday-school treat. But this time I was set on going, and I would go; for what right had he to prevent? He said the folk were not fit for us to know, when all father's friends were to be there. And he said that I had nothing fit to wear, when I had my purple plush that I had never so much as taken out of the drawer. At last, when nothing else would do, he went off to France upon the business of the firm, but we went, mother and I, with Mr. Hardy, who used to be our foreman, and it was there I met Mr. Hosmer Angel."

+

+

+

+"I suppose," said Holmes, "that when Mr. Windibank came back from France he was very annoyed at your having gone to the ball."

+

+

+

+"Oh, well, he was very good about it. He laughed, I remember, and shrugged his shoulders, and said there was no use denying anything to a woman, for she would have her way."

+

+

+

+"I see. Then at the gasfitters' ball you met, as I understand, a gentleman called Mr. Hosmer Angel."

+

+

+

+"Yes, sir. I met him that night, and he called next day to ask if we had got home all safe, and after that we met him--that is to say, Mr. Holmes, I met him twice for walks, but after that father came back again, and Mr. Hosmer Angel could not come to the house any more."

+

+

+

+"No?"

+

+

+

+"Well, you know father didn't like anything of the sort. He wouldn't have any visitors if he could help it, and he used to say that a woman should be happy in her own family circle. But then, as I used to say to mother, a woman wants her own circle to begin with, and I had not got mine yet."

+

+

+

+"But how about Mr. Hosmer Angel? Did he make no attempt to see you?"

+

+

+

+"Well, father was going off to France again in a week, and Hosmer wrote and said that it would be safer and better not to see each other until he had gone. We could write in the meantime, and he used to write every day. I took the letters in in the morning, so there was no need for father to know."

+

+

+

+"Were you engaged to the gentleman at this time?"

+

+

+

+"Oh, yes, Mr. Holmes. We were engaged after the first walk that we took. Hosmer--Mr. Angel--was a cashier in an office in Leadenhall Street--and--"

+

+

+

+"What office?"

+

+

+

+"That's the worst of it, Mr. Holmes, I don't know."

+

+

+

+"Where did he live, then?"

+

+

+

+"He slept on the premises."

+

+

+

+"And you don't know his address?"

+

+

+

+"No--except that it was Leadenhall Street."

+

+

+

+"Where did you address your letters, then?"

+

+

+

+"To the Leadenhall Street Post Office, to be left till called for. He said that if they were sent to the office he would be chaffed by all the other clerks about having letters from a lady, so I offered to typewrite them, like he did his, but he wouldn't have that, for he said that when I wrote them they seemed to come from me, but when they were typewritten he always felt that the machine had come between us. That will just show you how fond he was of me, Mr. Holmes, and the little things that he would think of."

+

+

+

+"It was most suggestive," said Holmes. "It has long been an axiom of mine that the little things are infinitely the most important. Can you remember any other little things about Mr. Hosmer Angel?"

+

+

+

+"He was a very shy man, Mr. Holmes. He would rather walk with me in the evening than in the daylight, for he said that he hated to be conspicuous. Very retiring and gentlemanly he was. Even his voice was gentle. He'd had the quinsy and swollen glands when he was young, he told me, and it had left him with a weak throat, and a hesitating, whispering fashion of speech. He was always well dressed, very neat and plain, but his eyes were weak, just as mine are, and he wore tinted glasses against the glare."

+

+

+

+"Well, and what happened when Mr. Windibank, your stepfather, returned to France?"

+

+

+

+"Mr. Hosmer Angel came to the house again and proposed that we should marry before father came back. He was in dreadful earnest and made me swear, with my hands on the Testament, that whatever happened I would always be true to him. Mother said he was quite right to make me swear, and that it was a sign of his passion. Mother was all in his favour from the first and was even fonder of him than I was. Then, when they talked of marrying within the week, I began to ask about father; but they both said never to mind about father, but just to tell him afterwards, and mother said she would make it all right with him. I didn't quite like that, Mr. Holmes. It seemed funny that I should ask his leave, as he was only a few years older than me; but I didn't want to do anything on the sly, so I wrote to father at Bordeaux, where the company has its French offices, but the letter came back to me on the very morning of the wedding."

+

+

+

+"It missed him, then?"

+

+

+

+"Yes, sir; for he had started to England just before it arrived."

+

+

+

+"Ha! that was unfortunate. Your wedding was arranged, then, for the Friday. Was it to be in church?"

+

+

+

+"Yes, sir, but very quietly. It was to be at St. Saviour's, near King's Cross, and we were to have breakfast afterwards at the St. Pancras Hotel. Hosmer came for us in a hansom, but as there were two of us he put us both into it and stepped himself into a four-wheeler, which happened to be the only other cab in the street. We got to the church first, and when the four-wheeler drove up we waited for him to step out, but he never did, and when the cabman got down from the box and looked there was no one there! The cabman said that he could not imagine what had become of him, for he had seen him get in with his own eyes. That was last Friday, Mr. Holmes, and I have never seen or heard anything since then to throw any light upon what became of him."

+

+

+

+"It seems to me that you have been very shamefully treated," said Holmes.

+

+

+

+"Oh, no, sir! He was too good and kind to leave me so. Why, all the morning he was saying to me that, whatever happened, I was to be true; and that even if something quite unforeseen occurred to separate us, I was always to remember that I was pledged to him, and that he would claim his pledge sooner or later. It seemed strange talk for a wedding-morning, but what has happened since gives a meaning to it."

+

+

+

+"Most certainly it does. Your own opinion is, then, that some unforeseen catastrophe has occurred to him?"

+

+

+

+"Yes, sir. I believe that he foresaw some danger, or else he would not have talked so. And then I think that what he foresaw happened."

+

+

+

+"But you have no notion as to what it could have been?"

+

+

+

+"None."

+

+

+

+"One more question. How did your mother take the matter?"

+

+

+

+"She was angry, and said that I was never to speak of the matter again."

+

+

+

+"And your father? Did you tell him?"

+

+

+

+"Yes; and he seemed to think, with me, that something had happened, and that I should hear of Hosmer again. As he said, what interest could anyone have in bringing me to the doors of the church, and then leaving me? Now, if he had borrowed my money, or if he had married me and got my money settled on him, there might be some reason, but Hosmer was very independent about money and never would look at a shilling of mine. And yet, what could have happened? And why could he not write? Oh, it drives me half-mad to think of it, and I can't sleep a wink at night." She pulled a little handkerchief out of her muff and began to sob heavily into it.

+

+

+

+"I shall glance into the case for you," said Holmes, rising, "and I have no doubt that we shall reach some definite result. Let the weight of the matter rest upon me now, and do not let your mind dwell upon it further. Above all, try to let Mr. Hosmer Angel vanish from your memory, as he has done from your life."

+

+

+

+"Then you don't think I'll see him again?"

+

+

+

+"I fear not."

+

+

+

+"Then what has happened to him?"

+

+

+

+"You will leave that question in my hands. I should like an accurate description of him and any letters of his which you can spare."

+

+

+

+"I advertised for him in last Saturday's Chronicle," said she. "Here is the slip and here are four letters from him."

+

+

+

+"Thank you. And your address?"

+

+

+

+"No. 31 Lyon Place, Camberwell."

+

+

+

+"Mr. Angel's address you never had, I understand. Where is your father's place of business?"

+

+

+

+"He travels for Westhouse & Marbank, the great claret importers of Fenchurch Street."

+

+

+

+"Thank you. You have made your statement very clearly. You will leave the papers here, and remember the advice which I have given you. Let the whole incident be a sealed book, and do not allow it to affect your life."

+

+

+

+"You are very kind, Mr. Holmes, but I cannot do that. I shall be true to Hosmer. He shall find me ready when he comes back."

+

+

+

+For all the preposterous hat and the vacuous face, there was something noble in the simple faith of our visitor which compelled our respect. She laid her little bundle of papers upon the table and went her way, with a promise to come again whenever she might be summoned.

+

+

+

+Sherlock Holmes sat silent for a few minutes with his fingertips still pressed together, his legs stretched out in front of him, and his gaze directed upward to the ceiling. Then he took down from the rack the old and oily clay pipe, which was to him as a counsellor, and, having lit it, he leaned back in his chair, with the thick blue cloud-wreaths spinning up from him, and a look of infinite languor in his face.

+

+

+

+"Quite an interesting study, that maiden," he observed. "I found her more interesting than her little problem, which, by the way, is rather a trite one. You will find parallel cases, if you consult my index, in Andover in '77, and there was something of the sort at The Hague last year. Old as is the idea, however, there were one or two details which were new to me. But the maiden herself was most instructive."

+

+

+

+"You appeared to read a good deal upon her which was quite invisible to me," I remarked.

+

+

+

+"Not invisible but unnoticed, Watson. You did not know where to look, and so you missed all that was important. I can never bring you to realise the importance of sleeves, the suggestiveness of thumb-nails, or the great issues that may hang from a boot-lace. Now, what did you gather from that woman's appearance? Describe it."

+

+

+

+"Well, she had a slate-coloured, broad-brimmed straw hat, with a feather of a brickish red. Her jacket was black, with black beads sewn upon it, and a fringe of little black jet ornaments. Her dress was brown, rather darker than coffee colour, with a little purple plush at the neck and sleeves. Her gloves were greyish and were worn through at the right forefinger. Her boots I didn't observe. She had small round, hanging gold earrings, and a general air of being fairly well-to-do in a vulgar, comfortable, easy-going way."

+

+

+

+Sherlock Holmes clapped his hands softly together and chuckled.

+

+

+

+" 'Pon my word, Watson, you are coming along wonderfully. You have really done very well indeed. It is true that you have missed everything of importance, but you have hit upon the method, and you have a quick eye for colour. Never trust to general impressions, my boy, but concentrate yourself upon details. My first glance is always at a woman's sleeve. In a man it is perhaps better first to take the knee of the trouser. As you observe, this woman had plush upon her sleeves, which is a most useful material for showing traces. The double line a little above the wrist, where the typewritist presses against the table, was beautifully defined. The sewing-machine, of the hand type, leaves a similar mark, but only on the left arm, and on the side of it farthest from the thumb, instead of being right across the broadest part, as this was. I then glanced at her face, and, observing the dint of a pince-nez at either side of her nose, I ventured a remark upon short sight and typewriting, which seemed to surprise her."

+

+

+

+"It surprised me."

+

+

+

+"But, surely, it was obvious. I was then much surprised and interested on glancing down to observe that, though the boots which she was wearing were not unlike each other, they were really odd ones; the one having a slightly decorated toe-cap, and the other a plain one. One was buttoned only in the two lower buttons out of five, and the other at the first, third, and fifth. Now, when you see that a young lady, otherwise neatly dressed, has come away from home with odd boots, half-buttoned, it is no great deduction to say that she came away in a hurry."

+

+

+

+"And what else?" I asked, keenly interested, as I always was, by my friend's incisive reasoning.

+

+

+

+"I noted, in passing, that she had written a note before leaving home but after being fully dressed. You observed that her right glove was torn at the forefinger, but you did not apparently see that both glove and finger were stained with violet ink. She had written in a hurry and dipped her pen too deep. It must have been this morning, or the mark would not remain clear upon the finger. All this is amusing, though rather elementary, but I must go back to business, Watson. Would you mind reading me the advertised description of Mr. Hosmer Angel?"

+

+

+

+I held the little printed slip to the light.

+

+

+

+"Missing," it said, "on the morning of the fourteenth, a gentleman named Hosmer Angel. About five ft. seven in. in height; strongly built, sallow complexion, black hair, a little bald in the centre, bushy, black side-whiskers and moustache; tinted glasses, slight infirmity of speech. Was dressed, when last seen, in black frock-coat faced with silk, black waistcoat, gold Albert chain, and grey Harris tweed trousers, with brown gaiters over elastic-sided boots. Known to have been employed in an office in Leadenhall Street. Anybody bringing--"

+

+

+

+"That will do," said Holmes. "As to the letters," he continued, glancing over them, "they are very commonplace. Absolutely no clue in them to Mr. Angel, save that he quotes Balzac once. There is one remarkable point, however, which will no doubt strike you."

+

+

+

+"They are typewritten," I remarked.

+

+

+

+"Not only that, but the signature is typewritten. Look at the neat little 'Hosmer Angel' at the bottom. There is a date, you see, but no superscription except Leadenhall Street, which is rather vague. The point about the signature is very suggestive--in fact, we may call it conclusive."

+

+

+

+"Of what?"

+

+

+

+"My dear fellow, is it possible you do not see how strongly it bears upon the case?"

+

+

+

+"I cannot say that I do unless it were that he wished to be able to deny his signature if an action for breach of promise were instituted."

+

+

+

+"No, that was not the point. However, I shall write two letters, which should settle the matter. One is to a firm in the City, the other is to the young lady's stepfather, Mr. Windibank, asking him whether he could meet us here at six o'clock to-morrow evening. It is just as well that we should do business with the male relatives. And now, Doctor, we can do nothing until the answers to those letters come, so we may put our little problem upon the shelf for the interim."

+

+

+

+I had had so many reasons to believe in my friend's subtle powers of reasoning and extraordinary energy in action that I felt that he must have some solid grounds for the assured and easy demeanour with which he treated the singular mystery which he had been called upon to fathom. Once only had I known him to fail, in the case of the King of Bohemia and of the Irene Adler photograph; but when I looked back to the weird business of the Sign of Four, and the extraordinary circumstances connected with the Study in Scarlet, I felt that it would be a strange tangle indeed which he could not unravel.

+

+

+

+I left him then, still puffing at his black clay pipe, with the conviction that when I came again on the next evening I would find that he held in his hands all the clues which would lead up to the identity of the disappearing bridegroom of Miss Mary Sutherland.

+

+

+

+A professional case of great gravity was engaging my own attention at the time, and the whole of next day I was busy at the bedside of the sufferer. It was not until close upon six o'clock that I found myself free and was able to spring into a hansom and drive to Baker Street, half afraid that I might be too late to assist at the denouement of the little mystery. I found Sherlock Holmes alone, however, half asleep, with his long, thin form curled up in the recesses of his armchair. A formidable array of bottles and test-tubes, with the pungent cleanly smell of hydrochloric acid, told me that he had spent his day in the chemical work which was so dear to him.

+

+

+

+"Well, have you solved it?" I asked as I entered.

+

+

+

+"Yes. It was the bisulphate of baryta."

+

+

+

+"No, no, the mystery!" I cried.

+

+

+

+"Oh, that! I thought of the salt that I have been working upon. There was never any mystery in the matter, though, as I said yesterday, some of the details are of interest. The only drawback is that there is no law, I fear, that can touch the scoundrel."

+

+

+

+"Who was he, then, and what was his object in deserting Miss Sutherland?"

+

+

+

+The question was hardly out of my mouth, and Holmes had not yet opened his lips to reply, when we heard a heavy footfall in the passage and a tap at the door.

+

+

+

+"This is the girl's stepfather, Mr. James Windibank," said Holmes. "He has written to me to say that he would be here at six. Come in!"

+

+

+

+The man who entered was a sturdy, middle-sized fellow, some thirty years of age, clean-shaven, and sallow-skinned, with a bland, insinuating manner, and a pair of wonderfully sharp and penetrating grey eyes. He shot a questioning glance at each of us, placed his shiny top-hat upon the sideboard, and with a slight bow sidled down into the nearest chair.

+

+

+

+"Good-evening, Mr. James Windibank," said Holmes. "I think that this typewritten letter is from you, in which you made an appointment with me for six o'clock?"

+

+

+

+"Yes, sir. I am afraid that I am a little late, but I am not quite my own master, you know. I am sorry that Miss Sutherland has troubled you about this little matter, for I think it is far better not to wash linen of the sort in public. It was quite against my wishes that she came, but she is a very excitable, impulsive girl, as you may have noticed, and she is not easily controlled when she has made up her mind on a point. Of course, I did not mind you so much, as you are not connected with the official police, but it is not pleasant to have a family misfortune like this noised abroad. Besides, it is a useless expense, for how could you possibly find this Hosmer Angel?"

+

+

+

+"On the contrary," said Holmes quietly; "I have every reason to believe that I will succeed in discovering Mr. Hosmer Angel."

+

+

+

+Mr. Windibank gave a violent start and dropped his gloves. "I am delighted to hear it," he said.

+

+

+

+"It is a curious thing," remarked Holmes, "that a typewriter has really quite as much individuality as a man's handwriting. Unless they are quite new, no two of them write exactly alike. Some letters get more worn than others, and some wear only on one side. Now, you remark in this note of yours, Mr. Windibank, that in every case there is some little slurring over of the 'e,' and a slight defect in the tail of the 'r.' There are fourteen other characteristics, but those are the more obvious."

+

+

+

+"We do all our correspondence with this machine at the office, and no doubt it is a little worn," our visitor answered, glancing keenly at Holmes with his bright little eyes.

+

+

+

+"And now I will show you what is really a very interesting study, Mr. Windibank," Holmes continued. "I think of writing another little monograph some of these days on the typewriter and its relation to crime. It is a subject to which I have devoted some little attention. I have here four letters which purport to come from the missing man. They are all typewritten. In each case, not only are the 'e's' slurred and the 'r's' tailless, but you will observe, if you care to use my magnifying lens, that the fourteen other characteristics to which I have alluded are there as well."

+

+

+

+Mr. Windibank sprang out of his chair and picked up his hat. "I cannot waste time over this sort of fantastic talk, Mr. Holmes," he said. "If you can catch the man, catch him, and let me know when you have done it."

+

+

+

+"Certainly," said Holmes, stepping over and turning the key in the door. "I let you know, then, that I have caught him!"

+

+

+

+"What! where?" shouted Mr. Windibank, turning white to his lips and glancing about him like a rat in a trap.

+

+

+

+"Oh, it won't do--really it won't," said Holmes suavely. "There is no possible getting out of it, Mr. Windibank. It is quite too transparent, and it was a very bad compliment when you said that it was impossible for me to solve so simple a question. That's right! Sit down and let us talk it over."

+

+

+

+Our visitor collapsed into a chair, with a ghastly face and a glitter of moisture on his brow. "It--it's not actionable," he stammered.

+

+

+

+"I am very much afraid that it is not. But between ourselves, Windibank, it was as cruel and selfish and heartless a trick in a petty way as ever came before me. Now, let me just run over the course of events, and you will contradict me if I go wrong."

+

+

+

+The man sat huddled up in his chair, with his head sunk upon his breast, like one who is utterly crushed. Holmes stuck his feet up on the corner of the mantelpiece and, leaning back with his hands in his pockets, began talking, rather to himself, as it seemed, than to us.

+

+

+

+"The man married a woman very much older than himself for her money," said he, "and he enjoyed the use of the money of the daughter as long as she lived with them. It was a considerable sum, for people in their position, and the loss of it would have made a serious difference. It was worth an effort to preserve it. The daughter was of a good, amiable disposition, but affectionate and warm-hearted in her ways, so that it was evident that with her fair personal advantages, and her little income, she would not be allowed to remain single long. Now her marriage would mean, of course, the loss of a hundred a year, so what does her stepfather do to prevent it? He takes the obvious course of keeping her at home and forbidding her to seek the company of people of her own age. But soon he found that that would not answer forever. She became restive, insisted upon her rights, and finally announced her positive intention of going to a certain ball. What does her clever stepfather do then? He conceives an idea more creditable to his head than to his heart. With the connivance and assistance of his wife he disguised himself, covered those keen eyes with tinted glasses, masked the face with a moustache and a pair of bushy whiskers, sunk that clear voice into an insinuating whisper, and doubly secure on account of the girl's short sight, he appears as Mr. Hosmer Angel, and keeps off other lovers by making love himself."

+

+

+

+"It was only a joke at first," groaned our visitor. "We never thought that she would have been so carried away."

+

+

+

+"Very likely not. However that may be, the young lady was very decidedly carried away, and, having quite made up her mind that her stepfather was in France, the suspicion of treachery never for an instant entered her mind. She was flattered by the gentleman's attentions, and the effect was increased by the loudly expressed admiration of her mother. Then Mr. Angel began to call, for it was obvious that the matter should be pushed as far as it would go if a real effect were to be produced. There were meetings, and an engagement, which would finally secure the girl's affections from turning towards anyone else. But the deception could not be kept up forever. These pretended journeys to France were rather cumbrous. The thing to do was clearly to bring the business to an end in such a dramatic manner that it would leave a permanent impression upon the young lady's mind and prevent her from looking upon any other suitor for some time to come. Hence those vows of fidelity exacted upon a Testament, and hence also the allusions to a possibility of something happening on the very morning of the wedding. James Windibank wished Miss Sutherland to be so bound to Hosmer Angel, and so uncertain as to his fate, that for ten years to come, at any rate, she would not listen to another man. As far as the church door he brought her, and then, as he could go no farther, he conveniently vanished away by the old trick of stepping in at one door of a four-wheeler and out at the other. I think that was the chain of events, Mr. Windibank!"

+

+

+

+Our visitor had recovered something of his assurance while Holmes had been talking, and he rose from his chair now with a cold sneer upon his pale face.

+

+

+

+"It may be so, or it may not, Mr. Holmes," said he, "but if you are so very sharp you ought to be sharp enough to know that it is you who are breaking the law now, and not me. I have done nothing actionable from the first, but as long as you keep that door locked you lay yourself open to an action for assault and illegal constraint."

+

+

+

+"The law cannot, as you say, touch you," said Holmes, unlocking and throwing open the door, "yet there never was a man who deserved punishment more. If the young lady has a brother or a friend, he ought to lay a whip across your shoulders. By Jove!" he continued, flushing up at the sight of the bitter sneer upon the man's face, "it is not part of my duties to my client, but here's a hunting crop handy, and I think I shall just treat myself to--" He took two swift steps to the whip, but before he could grasp it there was a wild clatter of steps upon the stairs, the heavy hall door banged, and from the window we could see Mr. James Windibank running at the top of his speed down the road.

+

+

+

+"There's a cold-blooded scoundrel!" said Holmes, laughing, as he threw himself down into his chair once more. "That fellow will rise from crime to crime until he does something very bad, and ends on a gallows. The case has, in some respects, been not entirely devoid of interest."

+

+

+

+"I cannot now entirely see all the steps of your reasoning," I remarked.

+

+

+

+"Well, of course it was obvious from the first that this Mr. Hosmer Angel must have some strong object for his curious conduct, and it was equally clear that the only man who really profited by the incident, as far as we could see, was the stepfather. Then the fact that the two men were never together, but that the one always appeared when the other was away, was suggestive. So were the tinted spectacles and the curious voice, which both hinted at a disguise, as did the bushy whiskers. My suspicions were all confirmed by his peculiar action in typewriting his signature, which, of course, inferred that his handwriting was so familiar to her that she would recognise even the smallest sample of it. You see all these isolated facts, together with many minor ones, all pointed in the same direction."

+

+

+

+"And how did you verify them?"

+

+

+

+"Having once spotted my man, it was easy to get corroboration. I knew the firm for which this man worked. Having taken the printed description. I eliminated everything from it which could be the result of a disguise--the whiskers, the glasses, the voice, and I sent it to the firm, with a request that they would inform me whether it answered to the description of any of their travellers. I had already noticed the peculiarities of the typewriter, and I wrote to the man himself at his business address asking him if he would come here. As I expected, his reply was typewritten and revealed the same trivial but characteristic defects. The same post brought me a letter from Westhouse & Marbank, of Fenchurch Street, to say that the description tallied in every respect with that of their employe, James Windibank. Voila tout!"

+

+

+

+"And Miss Sutherland?"

+

+

+

+"If I tell her she will not believe me. You may remember the old Persian saying, 'There is danger for him who taketh the tiger cub, and danger also for whoso snatches a delusion from a woman.' There is as much sense in Hafiz as in Horace, and as much knowledge of the world."

+

+

+

+ADVENTURE IV. THE BOSCOMBE VALLEY MYSTERY

+

+

+

+

+

+We were seated at breakfast one morning, my wife and I, when the maid brought in a telegram. It was from Sherlock Holmes and ran in this way:

+

+

+

+"Have you a couple of days to spare? Have just been wired for from the west of England in connection with Boscombe Valley tragedy. Shall be glad if you will come with me. Air and scenery perfect. Leave Paddington by the 11:15."

+

+

+

+"What do you say, dear?" said my wife, looking across at me. "Will you go?"

+

+

+

+"I really don't know what to say. I have a fairly long list at present."

+

+

+

+"Oh, Anstruther would do your work for you. You have been looking a little pale lately. I think that the change would do you good, and you are always so interested in Mr. Sherlock Holmes' cases."

+

+

+

+"I should be ungrateful if I were not, seeing what I gained through one of them," I answered. "But if I am to go, I must pack at once, for I have only half an hour."

+

+

+

+My experience of camp life in Afghanistan had at least had the effect of making me a prompt and ready traveller. My wants were few and simple, so that in less than the time stated I was in a cab with my valise, rattling away to Paddington Station. Sherlock Holmes was pacing up and down the platform, his tall, gaunt figure made even gaunter and taller by his long grey travelling-cloak and close-fitting cloth cap.

+

+

+

+"It is really very good of you to come, Watson," said he. "It makes a considerable difference to me, having someone with me on whom I can thoroughly rely. Local aid is always either worthless or else biassed. If you will keep the two corner seats I shall get the tickets."

+

+

+

+We had the carriage to ourselves save for an immense litter of papers which Holmes had brought with him. Among these he rummaged and read, with intervals of note-taking and of meditation, until we were past Reading. Then he suddenly rolled them all into a gigantic ball and tossed them up onto the rack.

+

+

+

+"Have you heard anything of the case?" he asked.

+

+

+

+"Not a word. I have not seen a paper for some days."

+

+

+

+"The London press has not had very full accounts. I have just been looking through all the recent papers in order to master the particulars. It seems, from what I gather, to be one of those simple cases which are so extremely difficult."

+

+

+

+"That sounds a little paradoxical."

+

+

+

+"But it is profoundly true. Singularity is almost invariably a clue. The more featureless and commonplace a crime is, the more difficult it is to bring it home. In this case, however, they have established a very serious case against the son of the murdered man."

+

+

+

+"It is a murder, then?"

+

+

+

+"Well, it is conjectured to be so. I shall take nothing for granted until I have the opportunity of looking personally into it. I will explain the state of things to you, as far as I have been able to understand it, in a very few words.

+

+

+

+"Boscombe Valley is a country district not very far from Ross, in Herefordshire. The largest landed proprietor in that part is a Mr. John Turner, who made his money in Australia and returned some years ago to the old country. One of the farms which he held, that of Hatherley, was let to Mr. Charles McCarthy, who was also an ex-Australian. The men had known each other in the colonies, so that it was not unnatural that when they came to settle down they should do so as near each other as possible. Turner was apparently the richer man, so McCarthy became his tenant but still remained, it seems, upon terms of perfect equality, as they were frequently together. McCarthy had one son, a lad of eighteen, and Turner had an only daughter of the same age, but neither of them had wives living. They appear to have avoided the society of the neighbouring English families and to have led retired lives, though both the McCarthys were fond of sport and were frequently seen at the race-meetings of the neighbourhood. McCarthy kept two servants--a man and a girl. Turner had a considerable household, some half-dozen at the least. That is as much as I have been able to gather about the families. Now for the facts.

+

+

+

+"On June 3rd, that is, on Monday last, McCarthy left his house at Hatherley about three in the afternoon and walked down to the Boscombe Pool, which is a small lake formed by the spreading out of the stream which runs down the Boscombe Valley. He had been out with his serving-man in the morning at Ross, and he had told the man that he must hurry, as he had an appointment of importance to keep at three. From that appointment he never came back alive.

+

+

+

+"From Hatherley Farmhouse to the Boscombe Pool is a quarter of a mile, and two people saw him as he passed over this ground. One was an old woman, whose name is not mentioned, and the other was William Crowder, a game-keeper in the employ of Mr. Turner. Both these witnesses depose that Mr. McCarthy was walking alone. The game-keeper adds that within a few minutes of his seeing Mr. McCarthy pass he had seen his son, Mr. James McCarthy, going the same way with a gun under his arm. To the best of his belief, the father was actually in sight at the time, and the son was following him. He thought no more of the matter until he heard in the evening of the tragedy that had occurred.

+

+

+

+"The two McCarthys were seen after the time when William Crowder, the game-keeper, lost sight of them. The Boscombe Pool is thickly wooded round, with just a fringe of grass and of reeds round the edge. A girl of fourteen, Patience Moran, who is the daughter of the lodge-keeper of the Boscombe Valley estate, was in one of the woods picking flowers. She states that while she was there she saw, at the border of the wood and close by the lake, Mr. McCarthy and his son, and that they appeared to be having a violent quarrel. She heard Mr. McCarthy the elder using very strong language to his son, and she saw the latter raise up his hand as if to strike his father. She was so frightened by their violence that she ran away and told her mother when she reached home that she had left the two McCarthys quarrelling near Boscombe Pool, and that she was afraid that they were going to fight. She had hardly said the words when young Mr. McCarthy came running up to the lodge to say that he had found his father dead in the wood, and to ask for the help of the lodge-keeper. He was much excited, without either his gun or his hat, and his right hand and sleeve were observed to be stained with fresh blood. On following him they found the dead body stretched out upon the grass beside the pool. The head had been beaten in by repeated blows of some heavy and blunt weapon. The injuries were such as might very well have been inflicted by the butt-end of his son's gun, which was found lying on the grass within a few paces of the body. Under these circumstances the young man was instantly arrested, and a verdict of 'wilful murder' having been returned at the inquest on Tuesday, he was on Wednesday brought before the magistrates at Ross, who have referred the case to the next Assizes. Those are the main facts of the case as they came out before the coroner and the police-court."

+

+

+

+"I could hardly imagine a more damning case," I remarked. "If ever circumstantial evidence pointed to a criminal it does so here."

+

+

+

+"Circumstantial evidence is a very tricky thing," answered Holmes thoughtfully. "It may seem to point very straight to one thing, but if you shift your own point of view a little, you may find it pointing in an equally uncompromising manner to something entirely different. It must be confessed, however, that the case looks exceedingly grave against the young man, and it is very possible that he is indeed the culprit. There are several people in the neighbourhood, however, and among them Miss Turner, the daughter of the neighbouring landowner, who believe in his innocence, and who have retained Lestrade, whom you may recollect in connection with the Study in Scarlet, to work out the case in his interest. Lestrade, being rather puzzled, has referred the case to me, and hence it is that two middle-aged gentlemen are flying westward at fifty miles an hour instead of quietly digesting their breakfasts at home."

+

+

+

+"I am afraid," said I, "that the facts are so obvious that you will find little credit to be gained out of this case."

+

+

+

+"There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact," he answered, laughing. "Besides, we may chance to hit upon some other obvious facts which may have been by no means obvious to Mr. Lestrade. You know me too well to think that I am boasting when I say that I shall either confirm or destroy his theory by means which he is quite incapable of employing, or even of understanding. To take the first example to hand, I very clearly perceive that in your bedroom the window is upon the right-hand side, and yet I question whether Mr. Lestrade would have noted even so self-evident a thing as that."

+

+

+

+"How on earth--"

+

+

+

+"My dear fellow, I know you well. I know the military neatness which characterises you. You shave every morning, and in this season you shave by the sunlight; but since your shaving is less and less complete as we get farther back on the left side, until it becomes positively slovenly as we get round the angle of the jaw, it is surely very clear that that side is less illuminated than the other. I could not imagine a man of your habits looking at himself in an equal light and being satisfied with such a result. I only quote this as a trivial example of observation and inference. Therein lies my metier, and it is just possible that it may be of some service in the investigation which lies before us. There are one or two minor points which were brought out in the inquest, and which are worth considering."

+

+

+

+"What are they?"

+

+

+

+"It appears that his arrest did not take place at once, but after the return to Hatherley Farm. On the inspector of constabulary informing him that he was a prisoner, he remarked that he was not surprised to hear it, and that it was no more than his deserts. This observation of his had the natural effect of removing any traces of doubt which might have remained in the minds of the coroner's jury."

+

+

+

+"It was a confession," I ejaculated.

+

+

+

+"No, for it was followed by a protestation of innocence."

+

+

+

+"Coming on the top of such a damning series of events, it was at least a most suspicious remark."

+

+

+

+"On the contrary," said Holmes, "it is the brightest rift which I can at present see in the clouds. However innocent he might be, he could not be such an absolute imbecile as not to see that the circumstances were very black against him. Had he appeared surprised at his own arrest, or feigned indignation at it, I should have looked upon it as highly suspicious, because such surprise or anger would not be natural under the circumstances, and yet might appear to be the best policy to a scheming man. His frank acceptance of the situation marks him as either an innocent man, or else as a man of considerable self-restraint and firmness. As to his remark about his deserts, it was also not unnatural if you consider that he stood beside the dead body of his father, and that there is no doubt that he had that very day so far forgotten his filial duty as to bandy words with him, and even, according to the little girl whose evidence is so important, to raise his hand as if to strike him. The self-reproach and contrition which are displayed in his remark appear to me to be the signs of a healthy mind rather than of a guilty one."

+

+

+

+I shook my head. "Many men have been hanged on far slighter evidence," I remarked.

+

+

+

+"So they have. And many men have been wrongfully hanged."

+

+

+

+"What is the young man's own account of the matter?"

+

+

+

+"It is, I am afraid, not very encouraging to his supporters, though there are one or two points in it which are suggestive. You will find it here, and may read it for yourself."

+

+

+

+He picked out from his bundle a copy of the local Herefordshire paper, and having turned down the sheet he pointed out the paragraph in which the unfortunate young man had given his own statement of what had occurred. I settled myself down in the corner of the carriage and read it very carefully. It ran in this way:

+

+

+

+"Mr. James McCarthy, the only son of the deceased, was then called and gave evidence as follows: 'I had been away from home for three days at Bristol, and had only just returned upon the morning of last Monday, the 3rd. My father was absent from home at the time of my arrival, and I was informed by the maid that he had driven over to Ross with John Cobb, the groom. Shortly after my return I heard the wheels of his trap in the yard, and, looking out of my window, I saw him get out and walk rapidly out of the yard, though I was not aware in which direction he was going. I then took my gun and strolled out in the direction of the Boscombe Pool, with the intention of visiting the rabbit warren which is upon the other side. On my way I saw William Crowder, the game-keeper, as he had stated in his evidence; but he is mistaken in thinking that I was following my father. I had no idea that he was in front of me. When about a hundred yards from the pool I heard a cry of "Cooee!" which was a usual signal between my father and myself. I then hurried forward, and found him standing by the pool. He appeared to be much surprised at seeing me and asked me rather roughly what I was doing there. A conversation ensued which led to high words and almost to blows, for my father was a man of a very violent temper. Seeing that his passion was becoming ungovernable, I left him and returned towards Hatherley Farm. I had not gone more than 150 yards, however, when I heard a hideous outcry behind me, which caused me to run back again. I found my father expiring upon the ground, with his head terribly injured. I dropped my gun and held him in my arms, but he almost instantly expired. I knelt beside him for some minutes, and then made my way to Mr. Turner's lodge-keeper, his house being the nearest, to ask for assistance. I saw no one near my father when I returned, and I have no idea how he came by his injuries. He was not a popular man, being somewhat cold and forbidding in his manners, but he had, as far as I know, no active enemies. I know nothing further of the matter.'

+

+

+

+"The Coroner: Did your father make any statement to you before he died?

+

+

+

+"Witness: He mumbled a few words, but I could only catch some allusion to a rat.

+

+

+

+"The Coroner: What did you understand by that?

+

+

+

+"Witness: It conveyed no meaning to me. I thought that he was delirious.

+

+

+

+"The Coroner: What was the point upon which you and your father had this final quarrel?

+

+

+

+"Witness: I should prefer not to answer.

+

+

+

+"The Coroner: I am afraid that I must press it.

+

+

+

+"Witness: It is really impossible for me to tell you. I can assure you that it has nothing to do with the sad tragedy which followed.

+

+

+

+"The Coroner: That is for the court to decide. I need not point out to you that your refusal to answer will prejudice your case considerably in any future proceedings which may arise.

+

+

+

+"Witness: I must still refuse.

+

+

+

+"The Coroner: I understand that the cry of 'Cooee' was a common signal between you and your father?

+

+

+

+"Witness: It was.

+

+

+

+"The Coroner: How was it, then, that he uttered it before he saw you, and before he even knew that you had returned from Bristol?

+

+

+

+"Witness (with considerable confusion): I do not know.

+

+

+

+"A Juryman: Did you see nothing which aroused your suspicions when you returned on hearing the cry and found your father fatally injured?

+

+

+

+"Witness: Nothing definite.

+

+

+

+"The Coroner: What do you mean?

+

+

+

+"Witness: I was so disturbed and excited as I rushed out into the open, that I could think of nothing except of my father. Yet I have a vague impression that as I ran forward something lay upon the ground to the left of me. It seemed to me to be something grey in colour, a coat of some sort, or a plaid perhaps. When I rose from my father I looked round for it, but it was gone.

+

+

+

+" 'Do you mean that it disappeared before you went for help?'

+

+

+

+" 'Yes, it was gone.'

+

+

+

+" 'You cannot say what it was?'

+

+

+

+" 'No, I had a feeling something was there.'

+

+

+

+" 'How far from the body?'

+

+

+

+" 'A dozen yards or so.'

+

+

+

+" 'And how far from the edge of the wood?'

+

+

+

+" 'About the same.'

+

+

+

+" 'Then if it was removed it was while you were within a dozen yards of it?'

+

+

+

+" 'Yes, but with my back towards it.'

+

+

+

+"This concluded the examination of the witness."

+

+

+

+"I see," said I as I glanced down the column, "that the coroner in his concluding remarks was rather severe upon young McCarthy. He calls attention, and with reason, to the discrepancy about his father having signalled to him before seeing him, also to his refusal to give details of his conversation with his father, and his singular account of his father's dying words. They are all, as he remarks, very much against the son."

+

+

+

+Holmes laughed softly to himself and stretched himself out upon the cushioned seat. "Both you and the coroner have been at some pains," said he, "to single out the very strongest points in the young man's favour. Don't you see that you alternately give him credit for having too much imagination and too little? Too little, if he could not invent a cause of quarrel which would give him the sympathy of the jury; too much, if he evolved from his own inner consciousness anything so outre as a dying reference to a rat, and the incident of the vanishing cloth. No, sir, I shall approach this case from the point of view that what this young man says is true, and we shall see whither that hypothesis will lead us. And now here is my pocket Petrarch, and not another word shall I say of this case until we are on the scene of action. We lunch at Swindon, and I see that we shall be there in twenty minutes."

+

+

+

+It was nearly four o'clock when we at last, after passing through the beautiful Stroud Valley, and over the broad gleaming Severn, found ourselves at the pretty little country-town of Ross. A lean, ferret-like man, furtive and sly-looking, was waiting for us upon the platform. In spite of the light brown dustcoat and leather-leggings which he wore in deference to his rustic surroundings, I had no difficulty in recognising Lestrade, of Scotland Yard. With him we drove to the Hereford Arms where a room had already been engaged for us.

+

+

+

+"I have ordered a carriage," said Lestrade as we sat over a cup of tea. "I knew your energetic nature, and that you would not be happy until you had been on the scene of the crime."

+

+

+

+"It was very nice and complimentary of you," Holmes answered. "It is entirely a question of barometric pressure."

+

+

+

+Lestrade looked startled. "I do not quite follow," he said.

+

+

+

+"How is the glass? Twenty-nine, I see. No wind, and not a cloud in the sky. I have a caseful of cigarettes here which need smoking, and the sofa is very much superior to the usual country hotel abomination. I do not think that it is probable that I shall use the carriage to-night."

+

+

+

+Lestrade laughed indulgently. "You have, no doubt, already formed your conclusions from the newspapers," he said. "The case is as plain as a pikestaff, and the more one goes into it the plainer it becomes. Still, of course, one can't refuse a lady, and such a very positive one, too. She has heard of you, and would have your opinion, though I repeatedly told her that there was nothing which you could do which I had not already done. Why, bless my soul! here is her carriage at the door."

+

+

+

+He had hardly spoken before there rushed into the room one of the most lovely young women that I have ever seen in my life. Her violet eyes shining, her lips parted, a pink flush upon her cheeks, all thought of her natural reserve lost in her overpowering excitement and concern.

+

+

+

+"Oh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes!" she cried, glancing from one to the other of us, and finally, with a woman's quick intuition, fastening upon my companion, "I am so glad that you have come. I have driven down to tell you so. I know that James didn't do it. I know it, and I want you to start upon your work knowing it, too. Never let yourself doubt upon that point. We have known each other since we were little children, and I know his faults as no one else does; but he is too tender-hearted to hurt a fly. Such a charge is absurd to anyone who really knows him."

+

+

+

+"I hope we may clear him, Miss Turner," said Sherlock Holmes. "You may rely upon my doing all that I can."

+

+

+

+"But you have read the evidence. You have formed some conclusion? Do you not see some loophole, some flaw? Do you not yourself think that he is innocent?"

+

+

+

+"I think that it is very probable."

+

+

+

+"There, now!" she cried, throwing back her head and looking defiantly at Lestrade. "You hear! He gives me hopes."

+

+

+

+Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. "I am afraid that my colleague has been a little quick in forming his conclusions," he said.

+

+

+

+"But he is right. Oh! I know that he is right. James never did it. And about his quarrel with his father, I am sure that the reason why he would not speak about it to the coroner was because I was concerned in it."

+

+

+

+"In what way?" asked Holmes.

+

+

+

+"It is no time for me to hide anything. James and his father had many disagreements about me. Mr. McCarthy was very anxious that there should be a marriage between us. James and I have always loved each other as brother and sister; but of course he is young and has seen very little of life yet, and--and--well, he naturally did not wish to do anything like that yet. So there were quarrels, and this, I am sure, was one of them."

+

+

+

+"And your father?" asked Holmes. "Was he in favour of such a union?"

+

+

+

+"No, he was averse to it also. No one but Mr. McCarthy was in favour of it." A quick blush passed over her fresh young face as Holmes shot one of his keen, questioning glances at her.

+

+

+

+"Thank you for this information," said he. "May I see your father if I call to-morrow?"

+

+

+

+"I am afraid the doctor won't allow it."

+

+

+

+"The doctor?"

+

+

+

+"Yes, have you not heard? Poor father has never been strong for years back, but this has broken him down completely. He has taken to his bed, and Dr. Willows says that he is a wreck and that his nervous system is shattered. Mr. McCarthy was the only man alive who had known dad in the old days in Victoria."

+

+

+

+"Ha! In Victoria! That is important."

+

+

+

+"Yes, at the mines."

+

+

+

+"Quite so; at the gold-mines, where, as I understand, Mr. Turner made his money."

+

+

+

+"Yes, certainly."

+

+

+

+"Thank you, Miss Turner. You have been of material assistance to me."

+

+

+

+"You will tell me if you have any news to-morrow. No doubt you will go to the prison to see James. Oh, if you do, Mr. Holmes, do tell him that I know him to be innocent."

+

+

+

+"I will, Miss Turner."

+

+

+

+"I must go home now, for dad is very ill, and he misses me so if I leave him. Good-bye, and God help you in your undertaking." She hurried from the room as impulsively as she had entered, and we heard the wheels of her carriage rattle off down the street.

+

+

+

+"I am ashamed of you, Holmes," said Lestrade with dignity after a few minutes' silence. "Why should you raise up hopes which you are bound to disappoint? I am not over-tender of heart, but I call it cruel."

+

+

+

+"I think that I see my way to clearing James McCarthy," said Holmes. "Have you an order to see him in prison?"

+

+

+

+"Yes, but only for you and me."

+

+

+

+"Then I shall reconsider my resolution about going out. We have still time to take a train to Hereford and see him to-night?"

+

+

+

+"Ample."

+

+

+

+"Then let us do so. Watson, I fear that you will find it very slow, but I shall only be away a couple of hours."

+

+

+

+I walked down to the station with them, and then wandered through the streets of the little town, finally returning to the hotel, where I lay upon the sofa and tried to interest myself in a yellow-backed novel. The puny plot of the story was so thin, however, when compared to the deep mystery through which we were groping, and I found my attention wander so continually from the action to the fact, that I at last flung it across the room and gave myself up entirely to a consideration of the events of the day. Supposing that this unhappy young man's story were absolutely true, then what hellish thing, what absolutely unforeseen and extraordinary calamity could have occurred between the time when he parted from his father, and the moment when, drawn back by his screams, he rushed into the glade? It was something terrible and deadly. What could it be? Might not the nature of the injuries reveal something to my medical instincts? I rang the bell and called for the weekly county paper, which contained a verbatim account of the inquest. In the surgeon's deposition it was stated that the posterior third of the left parietal bone and the left half of the occipital bone had been shattered by a heavy blow from a blunt weapon. I marked the spot upon my own head. Clearly such a blow must have been struck from behind. That was to some extent in favour of the accused, as when seen quarrelling he was face to face with his father. Still, it did not go for very much, for the older man might have turned his back before the blow fell. Still, it might be worth while to call Holmes' attention to it. Then there was the peculiar dying reference to a rat. What could that mean? It could not be delirium. A man dying from a sudden blow does not commonly become delirious. No, it was more likely to be an attempt to explain how he met his fate. But what could it indicate? I cudgelled my brains to find some possible explanation. And then the incident of the grey cloth seen by young McCarthy. If that were true the murderer must have dropped some part of his dress, presumably his overcoat, in his flight, and must have had the hardihood to return and to carry it away at the instant when the son was kneeling with his back turned not a dozen paces off. What a tissue of mysteries and improbabilities the whole thing was! I did not wonder at Lestrade's opinion, and yet I had so much faith in Sherlock Holmes' insight that I could not lose hope as long as every fresh fact seemed to strengthen his conviction of young McCarthy's innocence.

+

+

+

+It was late before Sherlock Holmes returned. He came back alone, for Lestrade was staying in lodgings in the town.

+

+

+

+"The glass still keeps very high," he remarked as he sat down. "It is of importance that it should not rain before we are able to go over the ground. On the other hand, a man should be at his very best and keenest for such nice work as that, and I did not wish to do it when fagged by a long journey. I have seen young McCarthy."

+

+

+

+"And what did you learn from him?"

+

+

+

+"Nothing."

+

+

+

+"Could he throw no light?"

+

+

+

+"None at all. I was inclined to think at one time that he knew who had done it and was screening him or her, but I am convinced now that he is as puzzled as everyone else. He is not a very quick-witted youth, though comely to look at and, I should think, sound at heart."

+

+

+

+"I cannot admire his taste," I remarked, "if it is indeed a fact that he was averse to a marriage with so charming a young lady as this Miss Turner."

+

+

+

+"Ah, thereby hangs a rather painful tale. This fellow is madly, insanely, in love with her, but some two years ago, when he was only a lad, and before he really knew her, for she had been away five years at a boarding-school, what does the idiot do but get into the clutches of a barmaid in Bristol and marry her at a registry office? No one knows a word of the matter, but you can imagine how maddening it must be to him to be upbraided for not doing what he would give his very eyes to do, but what he knows to be absolutely impossible. It was sheer frenzy of this sort which made him throw his hands up into the air when his father, at their last interview, was goading him on to propose to Miss Turner. On the other hand, he had no means of supporting himself, and his father, who was by all accounts a very hard man, would have thrown him over utterly had he known the truth. It was with his barmaid wife that he had spent the last three days in Bristol, and his father did not know where he was. Mark that point. It is of importance. Good has come out of evil, however, for the barmaid, finding from the papers that he is in serious trouble and likely to be hanged, has thrown him over utterly and has written to him to say that she has a husband already in the Bermuda Dockyard, so that there is really no tie between them. I think that that bit of news has consoled young McCarthy for all that he has suffered."

+

+

+

+"But if he is innocent, who has done it?"

+

+

+

+"Ah! who? I would call your attention very particularly to two points. One is that the murdered man had an appointment with someone at the pool, and that the someone could not have been his son, for his son was away, and he did not know when he would return. The second is that the murdered man was heard to cry 'Cooee!' before he knew that his son had returned. Those are the crucial points upon which the case depends. And now let us talk about George Meredith, if you please, and we shall leave all minor matters until to-morrow."

+

+

+

+There was no rain, as Holmes had foretold, and the morning broke bright and cloudless. At nine o'clock Lestrade called for us with the carriage, and we set off for Hatherley Farm and the Boscombe Pool.

+

+

+

+"There is serious news this morning," Lestrade observed. "It is said that Mr. Turner, of the Hall, is so ill that his life is despaired of."

+

+

+

+"An elderly man, I presume?" said Holmes.

+

+

+

+"About sixty; but his constitution has been shattered by his life abroad, and he has been in failing health for some time. This business has had a very bad effect upon him. He was an old friend of McCarthy's, and, I may add, a great benefactor to him, for I have learned that he gave him Hatherley Farm rent free."

+

+

+

+"Indeed! That is interesting," said Holmes.

+

+

+

+"Oh, yes! In a hundred other ways he has helped him. Everybody about here speaks of his kindness to him."

+

+

+

+"Really! Does it not strike you as a little singular that this McCarthy, who appears to have had little of his own, and to have been under such obligations to Turner, should still talk of marrying his son to Turner's daughter, who is, presumably, heiress to the estate, and that in such a very cocksure manner, as if it were merely a case of a proposal and all else would follow? It is the more strange, since we know that Turner himself was averse to the idea. The daughter told us as much. Do you not deduce something from that?"

+

+

+

+"We have got to the deductions and the inferences," said Lestrade, winking at me. "I find it hard enough to tackle facts, Holmes, without flying away after theories and fancies."

+

+

+

+"You are right," said Holmes demurely; "you do find it very hard to tackle the facts."

+

+

+

+"Anyhow, I have grasped one fact which you seem to find it difficult to get hold of," replied Lestrade with some warmth.

+

+

+

+"And that is--"

+

+

+

+"That McCarthy senior met his death from McCarthy junior and that all theories to the contrary are the merest moonshine."

+

+

+

+"Well, moonshine is a brighter thing than fog," said Holmes, laughing. "But I am very much mistaken if this is not Hatherley Farm upon the left."

+

+

+

+"Yes, that is it." It was a widespread, comfortable-looking building, two-storied, slate-roofed, with great yellow blotches of lichen upon the grey walls. The drawn blinds and the smokeless chimneys, however, gave it a stricken look, as though the weight of this horror still lay heavy upon it. We called at the door, when the maid, at Holmes' request, showed us the boots which her master wore at the time of his death, and also a pair of the son's, though not the pair which he had then had. Having measured these very carefully from seven or eight different points, Holmes desired to be led to the court-yard, from which we all followed the winding track which led to Boscombe Pool.

+

+

+

+Sherlock Holmes was transformed when he was hot upon such a scent as this. Men who had only known the quiet thinker and logician of Baker Street would have failed to recognise him. His face flushed and darkened. His brows were drawn into two hard black lines, while his eyes shone out from beneath them with a steely glitter. His face was bent downward, his shoulders bowed, his lips compressed, and the veins stood out like whipcord in his long, sinewy neck. His nostrils seemed to dilate with a purely animal lust for the chase, and his mind was so absolutely concentrated upon the matter before him that a question or remark fell unheeded upon his ears, or, at the most, only provoked a quick, impatient snarl in reply. Swiftly and silently he made his way along the track which ran through the meadows, and so by way of the woods to the Boscombe Pool. It was damp, marshy ground, as is all that district, and there were marks of many feet, both upon the path and amid the short grass which bounded it on either side. Sometimes Holmes would hurry on, sometimes stop dead, and once he made quite a little detour into the meadow. Lestrade and I walked behind him, the detective indifferent and contemptuous, while I watched my friend with the interest which sprang from the conviction that every one of his actions was directed towards a definite end.

+

+

+

+The Boscombe Pool, which is a little reed-girt sheet of water some fifty yards across, is situated at the boundary between the Hatherley Farm and the private park of the wealthy Mr. Turner. Above the woods which lined it upon the farther side we could see the red, jutting pinnacles which marked the site of the rich landowner's dwelling. On the Hatherley side of the pool the woods grew very thick, and there was a narrow belt of sodden grass twenty paces across between the edge of the trees and the reeds which lined the lake. Lestrade showed us the exact spot at which the body had been found, and, indeed, so moist was the ground, that I could plainly see the traces which had been left by the fall of the stricken man. To Holmes, as I could see by his eager face and peering eyes, very many other things were to be read upon the trampled grass. He ran round, like a dog who is picking up a scent, and then turned upon my companion.

+

+

+

+"What did you go into the pool for?" he asked.

+

+

+

+"I fished about with a rake. I thought there might be some weapon or other trace. But how on earth--"

+

+

+

+"Oh, tut, tut! I have no time! That left foot of yours with its inward twist is all over the place. A mole could trace it, and there it vanishes among the reeds. Oh, how simple it would all have been had I been here before they came like a herd of buffalo and wallowed all over it. Here is where the party with the lodge-keeper came, and they have covered all tracks for six or eight feet round the body. But here are three separate tracks of the same feet." He drew out a lens and lay down upon his waterproof to have a better view, talking all the time rather to himself than to us. "These are young McCarthy's feet. Twice he was walking, and once he ran swiftly, so that the soles are deeply marked and the heels hardly visible. That bears out his story. He ran when he saw his father on the ground. Then here are the father's feet as he paced up and down. What is this, then? It is the butt-end of the gun as the son stood listening. And this? Ha, ha! What have we here? Tiptoes! tiptoes! Square, too, quite unusual boots! They come, they go, they come again--of course that was for the cloak. Now where did they come from?" He ran up and down, sometimes losing, sometimes finding the track until we were well within the edge of the wood and under the shadow of a great beech, the largest tree in the neighbourhood. Holmes traced his way to the farther side of this and lay down once more upon his face with a little cry of satisfaction. For a long time he remained there, turning over the leaves and dried sticks, gathering up what seemed to me to be dust into an envelope and examining with his lens not only the ground but even the bark of the tree as far as he could reach. A jagged stone was lying among the moss, and this also he carefully examined and retained. Then he followed a pathway through the wood until he came to the highroad, where all traces were lost.

+

+

+

+"It has been a case of considerable interest," he remarked, returning to his natural manner. "I fancy that this grey house on the right must be the lodge. I think that I will go in and have a word with Moran, and perhaps write a little note. Having done that, we may drive back to our luncheon. You may walk to the cab, and I shall be with you presently."

+

+

+

+It was about ten minutes before we regained our cab and drove back into Ross, Holmes still carrying with him the stone which he had picked up in the wood.

+

+

+

+"This may interest you, Lestrade," he remarked, holding it out. "The murder was done with it."

+

+

+

+"I see no marks."

+

+

+

+"There are none."

+

+

+

+"How do you know, then?"

+

+

+

+"The grass was growing under it. It had only lain there a few days. There was no sign of a place whence it had been taken. It corresponds with the injuries. There is no sign of any other weapon."

+

+

+

+"And the murderer?"

+

+

+

+"Is a tall man, left-handed, limps with the right leg, wears thick-soled shooting-boots and a grey cloak, smokes Indian cigars, uses a cigar-holder, and carries a blunt pen-knife in his pocket. There are several other indications, but these may be enough to aid us in our search."

+

+

+

+Lestrade laughed. "I am afraid that I am still a sceptic," he said. "Theories are all very well, but we have to deal with a hard-headed British jury."

+

+

+

+"Nous verrons," answered Holmes calmly. "You work your own method, and I shall work mine. I shall be busy this afternoon, and shall probably return to London by the evening train."

+

+

+

+"And leave your case unfinished?"

+

+

+

+"No, finished."

+

+

+

+"But the mystery?"

+

+

+

+"It is solved."

+

+

+

+"Who was the criminal, then?"

+

+

+

+"The gentleman I describe."

+

+

+

+"But who is he?"

+

+

+

+"Surely it would not be difficult to find out. This is not such a populous neighbourhood."

+

+

+

+Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. "I am a practical man," he said, "and I really cannot undertake to go about the country looking for a left-handed gentleman with a game leg. I should become the laughing-stock of Scotland Yard."

+

+

+

+"All right," said Holmes quietly. "I have given you the chance. Here are your lodgings. Good-bye. I shall drop you a line before I leave."

+

+

+

+Having left Lestrade at his rooms, we drove to our hotel, where we found lunch upon the table. Holmes was silent and buried in thought with a pained expression upon his face, as one who finds himself in a perplexing position.

+

+

+

+"Look here, Watson," he said when the cloth was cleared "just sit down in this chair and let me preach to you for a little. I don't know quite what to do, and I should value your advice. Light a cigar and let me expound."

+

+

+

+"Pray do so."

+

+

+

+"Well, now, in considering this case there are two points about young McCarthy's narrative which struck us both instantly, although they impressed me in his favour and you against him. One was the fact that his father should, according to his account, cry 'Cooee!' before seeing him. The other was his singular dying reference to a rat. He mumbled several words, you understand, but that was all that caught the son's ear. Now from this double point our research must commence, and we will begin it by presuming that what the lad says is absolutely true."

+

+

+

+"What of this 'Cooee!' then?"

+

+

+

+"Well, obviously it could not have been meant for the son. The son, as far as he knew, was in Bristol. It was mere chance that he was within earshot. The 'Cooee!' was meant to attract the attention of whoever it was that he had the appointment with. But 'Cooee' is a distinctly Australian cry, and one which is used between Australians. There is a strong presumption that the person whom McCarthy expected to meet him at Boscombe Pool was someone who had been in Australia."

+

+

+

+"What of the rat, then?"

+

+

+

+Sherlock Holmes took a folded paper from his pocket and flattened it out on the table. "This is a map of the Colony of Victoria," he said. "I wired to Bristol for it last night." He put his hand over part of the map. "What do you read?"

+

+

+

+"ARAT," I read.

+

+

+

+"And now?" He raised his hand.

+

+

+

+"BALLARAT."

+

+

+

+"Quite so. That was the word the man uttered, and of which his son only caught the last two syllables. He was trying to utter the name of his murderer. So and so, of Ballarat."

+

+

+

+"It is wonderful!" I exclaimed.

+

+

+

+"It is obvious. And now, you see, I had narrowed the field down considerably. The possession of a grey garment was a third point which, granting the son's statement to be correct, was a certainty. We have come now out of mere vagueness to the definite conception of an Australian from Ballarat with a grey cloak."

+

+

+

+"Certainly."

+

+

+

+"And one who was at home in the district, for the pool can only be approached by the farm or by the estate, where strangers could hardly wander."

+

+

+

+"Quite so."

+

+

+

+"Then comes our expedition of to-day. By an examination of the ground I gained the trifling details which I gave to that imbecile Lestrade, as to the personality of the criminal."

+

+

+

+"But how did you gain them?"

+

+

+

+"You know my method. It is founded upon the observation of trifles."

+

+

+

+"His height I know that you might roughly judge from the length of his stride. His boots, too, might be told from their traces."

+

+

+

+"Yes, they were peculiar boots."

+

+

+

+"But his lameness?"

+

+

+

+"The impression of his right foot was always less distinct than his left. He put less weight upon it. Why? Because he limped--he was lame."

+

+

+

+"But his left-handedness."

+

+

+

+"You were yourself struck by the nature of the injury as recorded by the surgeon at the inquest. The blow was struck from immediately behind, and yet was upon the left side. Now, how can that be unless it were by a left-handed man? He had stood behind that tree during the interview between the father and son. He had even smoked there. I found the ash of a cigar, which my special knowledge of tobacco ashes enables me to pronounce as an Indian cigar. I have, as you know, devoted some attention to this, and written a little monograph on the ashes of 140 different varieties of pipe, cigar, and cigarette tobacco. Having found the ash, I then looked round and discovered the stump among the moss where he had tossed it. It was an Indian cigar, of the variety which are rolled in Rotterdam."

+

+

+

+"And the cigar-holder?"

+

+

+

+"I could see that the end had not been in his mouth. Therefore he used a holder. The tip had been cut off, not bitten off, but the cut was not a clean one, so I deduced a blunt pen-knife."

+

+

+

+"Holmes," I said, "you have drawn a net round this man from which he cannot escape, and you have saved an innocent human life as truly as if you had cut the cord which was hanging him. I see the direction in which all this points. The culprit is--"

+

+

+

+"Mr. John Turner," cried the hotel waiter, opening the door of our sitting-room, and ushering in a visitor.

+

+

+

+The man who entered was a strange and impressive figure. His slow, limping step and bowed shoulders gave the appearance of decrepitude, and yet his hard, deep-lined, craggy features, and his enormous limbs showed that he was possessed of unusual strength of body and of character. His tangled beard, grizzled hair, and outstanding, drooping eyebrows combined to give an air of dignity and power to his appearance, but his face was of an ashen white, while his lips and the corners of his nostrils were tinged with a shade of blue. It was clear to me at a glance that he was in the grip of some deadly and chronic disease.

+

+

+

+"Pray sit down on the sofa," said Holmes gently. "You had my note?"

+

+

+

+"Yes, the lodge-keeper brought it up. You said that you wished to see me here to avoid scandal."

+

+

+

+"I thought people would talk if I went to the Hall."

+

+

+

+"And why did you wish to see me?" He looked across at my companion with despair in his weary eyes, as though his question was already answered.

+

+

+

+"Yes," said Holmes, answering the look rather than the words. "It is so. I know all about McCarthy."

+

+

+

+The old man sank his face in his hands. "God help me!" he cried. "But I would not have let the young man come to harm. I give you my word that I would have spoken out if it went against him at the Assizes."

+

+

+

+"I am glad to hear you say so," said Holmes gravely.

+

+

+

+"I would have spoken now had it not been for my dear girl. It would break her heart--it will break her heart when she hears that I am arrested."

+

+

+

+"It may not come to that," said Holmes.

+

+

+

+"What?"

+

+

+

+"I am no official agent. I understand that it was your daughter who required my presence here, and I am acting in her interests. Young McCarthy must be got off, however."

+

+

+

+"I am a dying man," said old Turner. "I have had diabetes for years. My doctor says it is a question whether I shall live a month. Yet I would rather die under my own roof than in a gaol."

+

+

+

+Holmes rose and sat down at the table with his pen in his hand and a bundle of paper before him. "Just tell us the truth," he said. "I shall jot down the facts. You will sign it, and Watson here can witness it. Then I could produce your confession at the last extremity to save young McCarthy. I promise you that I shall not use it unless it is absolutely needed."

+

+

+

+"It's as well," said the old man; "it's a question whether I shall live to the Assizes, so it matters little to me, but I should wish to spare Alice the shock. And now I will make the thing clear to you; it has been a long time in the acting, but will not take me long to tell.

+

+

+

+"You didn't know this dead man, McCarthy. He was a devil incarnate. I tell you that. God keep you out of the clutches of such a man as he. His grip has been upon me these twenty years, and he has blasted my life. I'll tell you first how I came to be in his power.

+

+

+

+"It was in the early '60's at the diggings. I was a young chap then, hot-blooded and reckless, ready to turn my hand at anything; I got among bad companions, took to drink, had no luck with my claim, took to the bush, and in a word became what you would call over here a highway robber. There were six of us, and we had a wild, free life of it, sticking up a station from time to time, or stopping the wagons on the road to the diggings. Black Jack of Ballarat was the name I went under, and our party is still remembered in the colony as the Ballarat Gang.

+

+

+

+"One day a gold convoy came down from Ballarat to Melbourne, and we lay in wait for it and attacked it. There were six troopers and six of us, so it was a close thing, but we emptied four of their saddles at the first volley. Three of our boys were killed, however, before we got the swag. I put my pistol to the head of the wagon-driver, who was this very man McCarthy. I wish to the Lord that I had shot him then, but I spared him, though I saw his wicked little eyes fixed on my face, as though to remember every feature. We got away with the gold, became wealthy men, and made our way over to England without being suspected. There I parted from my old pals and determined to settle down to a quiet and respectable life. I bought this estate, which chanced to be in the market, and I set myself to do a little good with my money, to make up for the way in which I had earned it. I married, too, and though my wife died young she left me my dear little Alice. Even when she was just a baby her wee hand seemed to lead me down the right path as nothing else had ever done. In a word, I turned over a new leaf and did my best to make up for the past. All was going well when McCarthy laid his grip upon me.

+

+

+

+"I had gone up to town about an investment, and I met him in Regent Street with hardly a coat to his back or a boot to his foot.

+

+

+

+" 'Here we are, Jack,' says he, touching me on the arm; 'we'll be as good as a family to you. There's two of us, me and my son, and you can have the keeping of us. If you don't--it's a fine, law-abiding country is England, and there's always a policeman within hail.'

+

+

+

+"Well, down they came to the west country, there was no shaking them off, and there they have lived rent free on my best land ever since. There was no rest for me, no peace, no forgetfulness; turn where I would, there was his cunning, grinning face at my elbow. It grew worse as Alice grew up, for he soon saw I was more afraid of her knowing my past than of the police. Whatever he wanted he must have, and whatever it was I gave him without question, land, money, houses, until at last he asked a thing which I could not give. He asked for Alice.

+

+

+

+"His son, you see, had grown up, and so had my girl, and as I was known to be in weak health, it seemed a fine stroke to him that his lad should step into the whole property. But there I was firm. I would not have his cursed stock mixed with mine; not that I had any dislike to the lad, but his blood was in him, and that was enough. I stood firm. McCarthy threatened. I braved him to do his worst. We were to meet at the pool midway between our houses to talk it over.

+

+

+

+"When I went down there I found him talking with his son, so I smoked a cigar and waited behind a tree until he should be alone. But as I listened to his talk all that was black and bitter in me seemed to come uppermost. He was urging his son to marry my daughter with as little regard for what she might think as if she were a slut from off the streets. It drove me mad to think that I and all that I held most dear should be in the power of such a man as this. Could I not snap the bond? I was already a dying and a desperate man. Though clear of mind and fairly strong of limb, I knew that my own fate was sealed. But my memory and my girl! Both could be saved if I could but silence that foul tongue. I did it, Mr. Holmes. I would do it again. Deeply as I have sinned, I have led a life of martyrdom to atone for it. But that my girl should be entangled in the same meshes which held me was more than I could suffer. I struck him down with no more compunction than if he had been some foul and venomous beast. His cry brought back his son; but I had gained the cover of the wood, though I was forced to go back to fetch the cloak which I had dropped in my flight. That is the true story, gentlemen, of all that occurred."

+

+

+

+"Well, it is not for me to judge you," said Holmes as the old man signed the statement which had been drawn out. "I pray that we may never be exposed to such a temptation."

+

+

+

+"I pray not, sir. And what do you intend to do?"

+

+

+

+"In view of your health, nothing. You are yourself aware that you will soon have to answer for your deed at a higher court than the Assizes. I will keep your confession, and if McCarthy is condemned I shall be forced to use it. If not, it shall never be seen by mortal eye; and your secret, whether you be alive or dead, shall be safe with us."

+

+

+

+"Farewell, then," said the old man solemnly. "Your own deathbeds, when they come, will be the easier for the thought of the peace which you have given to mine." Tottering and shaking in all his giant frame, he stumbled slowly from the room.

+

+

+

+"God help us!" said Holmes after a long silence. "Why does fate play such tricks with poor, helpless worms? I never hear of such a case as this that I do not think of Baxter's words, and say, 'There, but for the grace of God, goes Sherlock Holmes.' "

+

+

+

+James McCarthy was acquitted at the Assizes on the strength of a number of objections which had been drawn out by Holmes and submitted to the defending counsel. Old Turner lived for seven months after our interview, but he is now dead; and there is every prospect that the son and daughter may come to live happily together in ignorance of the black cloud which rests upon their past.

+

+

+

+ADVENTURE  V.  THE FIVE ORANGE PIPS

+

+

+

+

+

+When I glance over my notes and records of the Sherlock Holmes cases between the years '82 and '90, I am faced by so many which present strange and interesting features that it is no easy matter to know which to choose and which to leave. Some, however, have already gained publicity through the papers, and others have not offered a field for those peculiar qualities which my friend possessed in so high a degree, and which it is the object of these papers to illustrate. Some, too, have baffled his analytical skill, and would be, as narratives, beginnings without an ending, while others have been but partially cleared up, and have their explanations founded rather upon conjecture and surmise than on that absolute logical proof which was so dear to him. There is, however, one of these last which was so remarkable in its details and so startling in its results that I am tempted to give some account of it in spite of the fact that there are points in connection with it which never have been, and probably never will be, entirely cleared up.

+

+

+

+The year '87 furnished us with a long series of cases of greater or less interest, of which I retain the records. Among my headings under this one twelve months I find an account of the adventure of the Paradol Chamber, of the Amateur Mendicant Society, who held a luxurious club in the lower vault of a furniture warehouse, of the facts connected with the loss of the British barque Sophy Anderson, of the singular adventures of the Grice Patersons in the island of Uffa, and finally of the Camberwell poisoning case. In the latter, as may be remembered, Sherlock Holmes was able, by winding up the dead man's watch, to prove that it had been wound up two hours before, and that therefore the deceased had gone to bed within that time--a deduction which was of the greatest importance in clearing up the case. All these I may sketch out at some future date, but none of them present such singular features as the strange train of circumstances which I have now taken up my pen to describe.

+

+

+

+It was in the latter days of September, and the equinoctial gales had set in with exceptional violence. All day the wind had screamed and the rain had beaten against the windows, so that even here in the heart of great, hand-made London we were forced to raise our minds for the instant from the routine of life and to recognise the presence of those great elemental forces which shriek at mankind through the bars of his civilisation, like untamed beasts in a cage. As evening drew in, the storm grew higher and louder, and the wind cried and sobbed like a child in the chimney. Sherlock Holmes sat moodily at one side of the fireplace cross-indexing his records of crime, while I at the other was deep in one of Clark Russell's fine sea-stories until the howl of the gale from without seemed to blend with the text, and the splash of the rain to lengthen out into the long swash of the sea waves. My wife was on a visit to her mother's, and for a few days I was a dweller once more in my old quarters at Baker Street.

+

+

+

+"Why," said I, glancing up at my companion, "that was surely the bell. Who could come to-night? Some friend of yours, perhaps?"

+

+

+

+"Except yourself I have none," he answered. "I do not encourage visitors."

+

+

+

+"A client, then?"

+

+

+

+"If so, it is a serious case. Nothing less would bring a man out on such a day and at such an hour. But I take it that it is more likely to be some crony of the landlady's."

+

+

+

+Sherlock Holmes was wrong in his conjecture, however, for there came a step in the passage and a tapping at the door. He stretched out his long arm to turn the lamp away from himself and towards the vacant chair upon which a newcomer must sit.

+

+

+

+"Come in!" said he.

+

+

+

+The man who entered was young, some two-and-twenty at the outside, well-groomed and trimly clad, with something of refinement and delicacy in his bearing. The streaming umbrella which he held in his hand, and his long shining waterproof told of the fierce weather through which he had come. He looked about him anxiously in the glare of the lamp, and I could see that his face was pale and his eyes heavy, like those of a man who is weighed down with some great anxiety.

+

+

+

+"I owe you an apology," he said, raising his golden pince-nez to his eyes. "I trust that I am not intruding. I fear that I have brought some traces of the storm and rain into your snug chamber."

+

+

+

+"Give me your coat and umbrella," said Holmes. "They may rest here on the hook and will be dry presently. You have come up from the south-west, I see."

+

+

+

+"Yes, from Horsham."

+

+

+

+"That clay and chalk mixture which I see upon your toe caps is quite distinctive."

+

+

+

+"I have come for advice."

+

+

+

+"That is easily got."

+

+

+

+"And help."

+

+

+

+"That is not always so easy."

+

+

+

+"I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes. I heard from Major Prendergast how you saved him in the Tankerville Club scandal."

+

+

+

+"Ah, of course. He was wrongfully accused of cheating at cards."

+

+

+

+"He said that you could solve anything."

+

+

+

+"He said too much."

+

+

+

+"That you are never beaten."

+

+

+

+"I have been beaten four times--three times by men, and once by a woman."

+

+

+

+"But what is that compared with the number of your successes?"

+

+

+

+"It is true that I have been generally successful."

+

+

+

+"Then you may be so with me."

+

+

+

+"I beg that you will draw your chair up to the fire and favour me with some details as to your case."

+

+

+

+"It is no ordinary one."

+

+

+

+"None of those which come to me are. I am the last court of appeal."

+

+

+

+"And yet I question, sir, whether, in all your experience, you have ever listened to a more mysterious and inexplicable chain of events than those which have happened in my own family."

+

+

+

+"You fill me with interest," said Holmes. "Pray give us the essential facts from the commencement, and I can afterwards question you as to those details which seem to me to be most important."

+

+

+

+The young man pulled his chair up and pushed his wet feet out towards the blaze.

+

+

+

+"My name," said he, "is John Openshaw, but my own affairs have, as far as I can understand, little to do with this awful business. It is a hereditary matter; so in order to give you an idea of the facts, I must go back to the commencement of the affair.

+

+

+

+"You must know that my grandfather had two sons--my uncle Elias and my father Joseph. My father had a small factory at Coventry, which he enlarged at the time of the invention of bicycling. He was a patentee of the Openshaw unbreakable tire, and his business met with such success that he was able to sell it and to retire upon a handsome competence.

+

+

+

+"My uncle Elias emigrated to America when he was a young man and became a planter in Florida, where he was reported to have done very well. At the time of the war he fought in Jackson's army, and afterwards under Hood, where he rose to be a colonel. When Lee laid down his arms my uncle returned to his plantation, where he remained for three or four years. About 1869 or 1870 he came back to Europe and took a small estate in Sussex, near Horsham. He had made a very considerable fortune in the States, and his reason for leaving them was his aversion to the negroes, and his dislike of the Republican policy in extending the franchise to them. He was a singular man, fierce and quick-tempered, very foul-mouthed when he was angry, and of a most retiring disposition. During all the years that he lived at Horsham, I doubt if ever he set foot in the town. He had a garden and two or three fields round his house, and there he would take his exercise, though very often for weeks on end he would never leave his room. He drank a great deal of brandy and smoked very heavily, but he would see no society and did not want any friends, not even his own brother.

+

+

+

+"He didn't mind me; in fact, he took a fancy to me, for at the time when he saw me first I was a youngster of twelve or so. This would be in the year 1878, after he had been eight or nine years in England. He begged my father to let me live with him and he was very kind to me in his way. When he was sober he used to be fond of playing backgammon and draughts with me, and he would make me his representative both with the servants and with the tradespeople, so that by the time that I was sixteen I was quite master of the house. I kept all the keys and could go where I liked and do what I liked, so long as I did not disturb him in his privacy. There was one singular exception, however, for he had a single room, a lumber-room up among the attics, which was invariably locked, and which he would never permit either me or anyone else to enter. With a boy's curiosity I have peeped through the keyhole, but I was never able to see more than such a collection of old trunks and bundles as would be expected in such a room.

+

+

+

+"One day--it was in March, 1883--a letter with a foreign stamp lay upon the table in front of the colonel's plate. It was not a common thing for him to receive letters, for his bills were all paid in ready money, and he had no friends of any sort. 'From India!' said he as he took it up, 'Pondicherry postmark! What can this be?' Opening it hurriedly, out there jumped five little dried orange pips, which pattered down upon his plate. I began to laugh at this, but the laugh was struck from my lips at the sight of his face. His lip had fallen, his eyes were protruding, his skin the colour of putty, and he glared at the envelope which he still held in his trembling hand, 'K. K. K.!' he shrieked, and then, 'My God, my God, my sins have overtaken me!'

+

+

+

+" 'What is it, uncle?' I cried.

+

+

+

+" 'Death,' said he, and rising from the table he retired to his room, leaving me palpitating with horror. I took up the envelope and saw scrawled in red ink upon the inner flap, just above the gum, the letter K three times repeated. There was nothing else save the five dried pips. What could be the reason of his overpowering terror? I left the breakfast-table, and as I ascended the stair I met him coming down with an old rusty key, which must have belonged to the attic, in one hand, and a small brass box, like a cashbox, in the other.

+

+

+

+" 'They may do what they like, but I'll checkmate them still,' said he with an oath. 'Tell Mary that I shall want a fire in my room to-day, and send down to Fordham, the Horsham lawyer.'

+

+

+

+"I did as he ordered, and when the lawyer arrived I was asked to step up to the room. The fire was burning brightly, and in the grate there was a mass of black, fluffy ashes, as of burned paper, while the brass box stood open and empty beside it. As I glanced at the box I noticed, with a start, that upon the lid was printed the treble K which I had read in the morning upon the envelope.

+

+

+

+" 'I wish you, John,' said my uncle, 'to witness my will. I leave my estate, with all its advantages and all its disadvantages, to my brother, your father, whence it will, no doubt, descend to you. If you can enjoy it in peace, well and good! If you find you cannot, take my advice, my boy, and leave it to your deadliest enemy. I am sorry to give you such a two-edged thing, but I can't say what turn things are going to take. Kindly sign the paper where Mr. Fordham shows you.'

+

+

+

+"I signed the paper as directed, and the lawyer took it away with him. The singular incident made, as you may think, the deepest impression upon me, and I pondered over it and turned it every way in my mind without being able to make anything of it. Yet I could not shake off the vague feeling of dread which it left behind, though the sensation grew less keen as the weeks passed and nothing happened to disturb the usual routine of our lives. I could see a change in my uncle, however. He drank more than ever, and he was less inclined for any sort of society. Most of his time he would spend in his room, with the door locked upon the inside, but sometimes he would emerge in a sort of drunken frenzy and would burst out of the house and tear about the garden with a revolver in his hand, screaming out that he was afraid of no man, and that he was not to be cooped up, like a sheep in a pen, by man or devil. When these hot fits were over, however, he would rush tumultuously in at the door and lock and bar it behind him, like a man who can brazen it out no longer against the terror which lies at the roots of his soul. At such times I have seen his face, even on a cold day, glisten with moisture, as though it were new raised from a basin.

+

+

+

+"Well, to come to an end of the matter, Mr. Holmes, and not to abuse your patience, there came a night when he made one of those drunken sallies from which he never came back. We found him, when we went to search for him, face downward in a little green-scummed pool, which lay at the foot of the garden. There was no sign of any violence, and the water was but two feet deep, so that the jury, having regard to his known eccentricity, brought in a verdict of 'suicide.' But I, who knew how he winced from the very thought of death, had much ado to persuade myself that he had gone out of his way to meet it. The matter passed, however, and my father entered into possession of the estate, and of some $14,000, which lay to his credit at the bank."

+

+

+

+"One moment," Holmes interposed, "your statement is, I foresee, one of the most remarkable to which I have ever listened. Let me have the date of the reception by your uncle of the letter, and the date of his supposed suicide."

+

+

+

+"The letter arrived on March 10, 1883. His death was seven weeks later, upon the night of May 2nd."

+

+

+

+"Thank you. Pray proceed."

+

+

+

+"When my father took over the Horsham property, he, at my request, made a careful examination of the attic, which had been always locked up. We found the brass box there, although its contents had been destroyed. On the inside of the cover was a paper label, with the initials of K. K. K. repeated upon it, and 'Letters, memoranda, receipts, and a register' written beneath. These, we presume, indicated the nature of the papers which had been destroyed by Colonel Openshaw. For the rest, there was nothing of much importance in the attic save a great many scattered papers and note-books bearing upon my uncle's life in America. Some of them were of the war time and showed that he had done his duty well and had borne the repute of a brave soldier. Others were of a date during the reconstruction of the Southern states, and were mostly concerned with politics, for he had evidently taken a strong part in opposing the carpet-bag politicians who had been sent down from the North.

+

+

+

+"Well, it was the beginning of '84 when my father came to live at Horsham, and all went as well as possible with us until the January of '85. On the fourth day after the new year I heard my father give a sharp cry of surprise as we sat together at the breakfast-table. There he was, sitting with a newly opened envelope in one hand and five dried orange pips in the outstretched palm of the other one. He had always laughed at what he called my cock-and-bull story about the colonel, but he looked very scared and puzzled now that the same thing had come upon himself.

+

+

+

+" 'Why, what on earth does this mean, John?' he stammered.

+

+

+

+"My heart had turned to lead. 'It is K. K. K.,' said I.

+

+

+

+"He looked inside the envelope. 'So it is,' he cried. 'Here are the very letters. But what is this written above them?'

+

+

+

+" 'Put the papers on the sundial,' I read, peeping over his shoulder.

+

+

+

+" 'What papers? What sundial?' he asked.

+

+

+

+" 'The sundial in the garden. There is no other,' said I; 'but the papers must be those that are destroyed.'

+

+

+

+" 'Pooh!' said he, gripping hard at his courage. 'We are in a civilised land here, and we can't have tomfoolery of this kind. Where does the thing come from?'

+

+

+

+" 'From Dundee,' I answered, glancing at the postmark.

+

+

+

+" 'Some preposterous practical joke,' said he. 'What have I to do with sundials and papers? I shall take no notice of such nonsense.'

+

+

+

+" 'I should certainly speak to the police,' I said.

+

+

+

+" 'And be laughed at for my pains. Nothing of the sort.'

+

+

+

+" 'Then let me do so?'

+

+

+

+" 'No, I forbid you. I won't have a fuss made about such nonsense.'

+

+

+

+"It was in vain to argue with him, for he was a very obstinate man. I went about, however, with a heart which was full of forebodings.

+

+

+

+"On the third day after the coming of the letter my father went from home to visit an old friend of his, Major Freebody, who is in command of one of the forts upon Portsdown Hill. I was glad that he should go, for it seemed to me that he was farther from danger when he was away from home. In that, however, I was in error. Upon the second day of his absence I received a telegram from the major, imploring me to come at once. My father had fallen over one of the deep chalk-pits which abound in the neighbourhood, and was lying senseless, with a shattered skull. I hurried to him, but he passed away without having ever recovered his consciousness. He had, as it appears, been returning from Fareham in the twilight, and as the country was unknown to him, and the chalk-pit unfenced, the jury had no hesitation in bringing in a verdict of 'death from accidental causes.' Carefully as I examined every fact connected with his death, I was unable to find anything which could suggest the idea of murder. There were no signs of violence, no footmarks, no robbery, no record of strangers having been seen upon the roads. And yet I need not tell you that my mind was far from at ease, and that I was well-nigh certain that some foul plot had been woven round him.

+

+

+

+"In this sinister way I came into my inheritance. You will ask me why I did not dispose of it? I answer, because I was well convinced that our troubles were in some way dependent upon an incident in my uncle's life, and that the danger would be as pressing in one house as in another.

+

+

+

+"It was in January, '85, that my poor father met his end, and two years and eight months have elapsed since then. During that time I have lived happily at Horsham, and I had begun to hope that this curse had passed away from the family, and that it had ended with the last generation. I had begun to take comfort too soon, however; yesterday morning the blow fell in the very shape in which it had come upon my father."

+

+

+

+The young man took from his waistcoat a crumpled envelope, and turning to the table he shook out upon it five little dried orange pips.

+

+

+

+"This is the envelope," he continued. "The postmark is London--eastern division. Within are the very words which were upon my father's last message: 'K. K. K.'; and then 'Put the papers on the sundial.' "

+

+

+

+"What have you done?" asked Holmes.

+

+

+

+"Nothing."

+

+

+

+"Nothing?"

+

+

+

+"To tell the truth"--he sank his face into his thin, white hands--"I have felt helpless. I have felt like one of those poor rabbits when the snake is writhing towards it. I seem to be in the grasp of some resistless, inexorable evil, which no foresight and no precautions can guard against."

+

+

+

+"Tut! tut!" cried Sherlock Holmes. "You must act, man, or you are lost. Nothing but energy can save you. This is no time for despair."

+

+

+

+"I have seen the police."

+

+

+

+"Ah!"

+

+

+

+"But they listened to my story with a smile. I am convinced that the inspector has formed the opinion that the letters are all practical jokes, and that the deaths of my relations were really accidents, as the jury stated, and were not to be connected with the warnings."

+

+

+

+Holmes shook his clenched hands in the air. "Incredible imbecility!" he cried.

+

+

+

+"They have, however, allowed me a policeman, who may remain in the house with me."

+

+

+

+"Has he come with you to-night?"

+

+

+

+"No. His orders were to stay in the house."

+

+

+

+Again Holmes raved in the air.

+

+

+

+"Why did you come to me," he cried, "and, above all, why did you not come at once?"

+

+

+

+"I did not know. It was only to-day that I spoke to Major Prendergast about my troubles and was advised by him to come to you."

+

+

+

+"It is really two days since you had the letter. We should have acted before this. You have no further evidence, I suppose, than that which you have placed before us--no suggestive detail which might help us?"

+

+

+

+"There is one thing," said John Openshaw. He rummaged in his coat pocket, and, drawing out a piece of discoloured, blue-tinted paper, he laid it out upon the table. "I have some remembrance," said he, "that on the day when my uncle burned the papers I observed that the small, unburned margins which lay amid the ashes were of this particular colour. I found this single sheet upon the floor of his room, and I am inclined to think that it may be one of the papers which has, perhaps, fluttered out from among the others, and in that way has escaped destruction. Beyond the mention of pips, I do not see that it helps us much. I think myself that it is a page from some private diary. The writing is undoubtedly my uncle's."

+

+

+

+Holmes moved the lamp, and we both bent over the sheet of paper, which showed by its ragged edge that it had indeed been torn from a book. It was headed, "March, 1869," and beneath were the following enigmatical notices:

+

+

+

+"4th. Hudson came. Same old platform.

+

+

+

+"7th. Set the pips on McCauley, Paramore, and

+

+

+

+        John Swain, of St. Augustine.

+

+

+

+"9th. McCauley cleared.

+

+

+

+"10th. John Swain cleared.

+

+

+

+"12th. Visited Paramore. All well."

+

+

+

+"Thank you!" said Holmes, folding up the paper and returning it to our visitor. "And now you must on no account lose another instant. We cannot spare time even to discuss what you have told me. You must get home instantly and act."

+

+

+

+"What shall I do?"

+

+

+

+"There is but one thing to do. It must be done at once. You must put this piece of paper which you have shown us into the brass box which you have described. You must also put in a note to say that all the other papers were burned by your uncle, and that this is the only one which remains. You must assert that in such words as will carry conviction with them. Having done this, you must at once put the box out upon the sundial, as directed. Do you understand?"

+

+

+

+"Entirely."

+

+

+

+"Do not think of revenge, or anything of the sort, at present. I think that we may gain that by means of the law; but we have our web to weave, while theirs is already woven. The first consideration is to remove the pressing danger which threatens you. The second is to clear up the mystery and to punish the guilty parties."

+

+

+

+"I thank you," said the young man, rising and pulling on his overcoat. "You have given me fresh life and hope. I shall certainly do as you advise."

+

+

+

+"Do not lose an instant. And, above all, take care of yourself in the meanwhile, for I do not think that there can be a doubt that you are threatened by a very real and imminent danger. How do you go back?"

+

+

+

+"By train from Waterloo."

+

+

+

+"It is not yet nine. The streets will be crowded, so I trust that you may be in safety. And yet you cannot guard yourself too closely."

+

+

+

+"I am armed."

+

+

+

+"That is well. To-morrow I shall set to work upon your case."

+

+

+

+"I shall see you at Horsham, then?"

+

+

+

+"No, your secret lies in London. It is there that I shall seek it."

+

+

+

+"Then I shall call upon you in a day, or in two days, with news as to the box and the papers. I shall take your advice in every particular." He shook hands with us and took his leave. Outside the wind still screamed and the rain splashed and pattered against the windows. This strange, wild story seemed to have come to us from amid the mad elements--blown in upon us like a sheet of sea-weed in a gale--and now to have been reabsorbed by them once more.

+

+

+

+Sherlock Holmes sat for some time in silence, with his head sunk forward and his eyes bent upon the red glow of the fire. Then he lit his pipe, and leaning back in his chair he watched the blue smoke-rings as they chased each other up to the ceiling.

+

+

+

+"I think, Watson," he remarked at last, "that of all our cases we have had none more fantastic than this."

+

+

+

+"Save, perhaps, the Sign of Four."

+

+

+

+"Well, yes. Save, perhaps, that. And yet this John Openshaw seems to me to be walking amid even greater perils than did the Sholtos."

+

+

+

+"But have you," I asked, "formed any definite conception as to what these perils are?"

+

+

+

+"There can be no question as to their nature," he answered.

+

+

+

+"Then what are they? Who is this K. K. K., and why does he pursue this unhappy family?"

+

+

+

+Sherlock Holmes closed his eyes and placed his elbows upon the arms of his chair, with his finger-tips together. "The ideal reasoner," he remarked, "would, when he had once been shown a single fact in all its bearings, deduce from it not only all the chain of events which led up to it but also all the results which would follow from it. As Cuvier could correctly describe a whole animal by the contemplation of a single bone, so the observer who has thoroughly understood one link in a series of incidents should be able to accurately state all the other ones, both before and after. We have not yet grasped the results which the reason alone can attain to. Problems may be solved in the study which have baffled all those who have sought a solution by the aid of their senses. To carry the art, however, to its highest pitch, it is necessary that the reasoner should be able to utilise all the facts which have come to his knowledge; and this in itself implies, as you will readily see, a possession of all knowledge, which, even in these days of free education and encyclopaedias, is a somewhat rare accomplishment. It is not so impossible, however, that a man should possess all knowledge which is likely to be useful to him in his work, and this I have endeavoured in my case to do. If I remember rightly, you on one occasion, in the early days of our friendship, defined my limits in a very precise fashion."

+

+

+

+"Yes," I answered, laughing. "It was a singular document. Philosophy, astronomy, and politics were marked at zero, I remember. Botany variable, geology profound as regards the mud-stains from any region within fifty miles of town, chemistry eccentric, anatomy unsystematic, sensational literature and crime records unique, violin-player, boxer, swordsman, lawyer, and self-poisoner by cocaine and tobacco. Those, I think, were the main points of my analysis."

+

+

+

+Holmes grinned at the last item. "Well," he said, "I say now, as I said then, that a man should keep his little brain-attic stocked with all the furniture that he is likely to use, and the rest he can put away in the lumber-room of his library, where he can get it if he wants it. Now, for such a case as the one which has been submitted to us to-night, we need certainly to muster all our resources. Kindly hand me down the letter K of the American Encyclopaedia which stands upon the shelf beside you. Thank you. Now let us consider the situation and see what may be deduced from it. In the first place, we may start with a strong presumption that Colonel Openshaw had some very strong reason for leaving America. Men at his time of life do not change all their habits and exchange willingly the charming climate of Florida for the lonely life of an English provincial town. His extreme love of solitude in England suggests the idea that he was in fear of someone or something, so we may assume as a working hypothesis that it was fear of someone or something which drove him from America. As to what it was he feared, we can only deduce that by considering the formidable letters which were received by himself and his successors. Did you remark the postmarks of those letters?"

+

+

+

+"The first was from Pondicherry, the second from Dundee, and the third from London."

+

+

+

+"From East London. What do you deduce from that?"

+

+

+

+"They are all seaports. That the writer was on board of a ship."

+

+

+

+"Excellent. We have already a clue. There can be no doubt that the probability--the strong probability--is that the writer was on board of a ship. And now let us consider another point. In the case of Pondicherry, seven weeks elapsed between the threat and its fulfilment, in Dundee it was only some three or four days. Does that suggest anything?"

+

+

+

+"A greater distance to travel."

+

+

+

+"But the letter had also a greater distance to come."

+

+

+

+"Then I do not see the point."

+

+

+

+"There is at least a presumption that the vessel in which the man or men are is a sailing-ship. It looks as if they always send their singular warning or token before them when starting upon their mission. You see how quickly the deed followed the sign when it came from Dundee. If they had come from Pondicherry in a steamer they would have arrived almost as soon as their letter. But, as a matter of fact, seven weeks elapsed. I think that those seven weeks represented the difference between the mail-boat which brought the letter and the sailing vessel which brought the writer."

+

+

+

+"It is possible."

+

+

+

+"More than that. It is probable. And now you see the deadly urgency of this new case, and why I urged young Openshaw to caution. The blow has always fallen at the end of the time which it would take the senders to travel the distance. But this one comes from London, and therefore we cannot count upon delay."

+

+

+

+"Good God!" I cried. "What can it mean, this relentless persecution?"

+

+

+

+"The papers which Openshaw carried are obviously of vital importance to the person or persons in the sailing-ship. I think that it is quite clear that there must be more than one of them. A single man could not have carried out two deaths in such a way as to deceive a coroner's jury. There must have been several in it, and they must have been men of resource and determination. Their papers they mean to have, be the holder of them who it may. In this way you see K. K. K. ceases to be the initials of an individual and becomes the badge of a society."

+

+

+

+"But of what society?"

+

+

+

+"Have you never--" said Sherlock Holmes, bending forward and sinking his voice--"have you never heard of the Ku Klux Klan?"

+

+

+

+"I never have."

+

+

+

+Holmes turned over the leaves of the book upon his knee. "Here it is," said he presently:

+

+

+

+" 'Ku Klux Klan. A name derived from the fanciful resemblance to the sound produced by cocking a rifle. This terrible secret society was formed by some ex-Confederate soldiers in the Southern states after the Civil War, and it rapidly formed local branches in different parts of the country, notably in Tennessee, Louisiana, the Carolinas, Georgia, and Florida. Its power was used for political purposes, principally for the terrorising of the negro voters and the murdering and driving from the country of those who were opposed to its views. Its outrages were usually preceded by a warning sent to the marked man in some fantastic but generally recognised shape--a sprig of oak-leaves in some parts, melon seeds or orange pips in others. On receiving this the victim might either openly abjure his former ways, or might fly from the country. If he braved the matter out, death would unfailingly come upon him, and usually in some strange and unforeseen manner. So perfect was the organisation of the society, and so systematic its methods, that there is hardly a case upon record where any man succeeded in braving it with impunity, or in which any of its outrages were traced home to the perpetrators. For some years the organisation flourished in spite of the efforts of the United States government and of the better classes of the community in the South. Eventually, in the year 1869, the movement rather suddenly collapsed, although there have been sporadic outbreaks of the same sort since that date.'

+

+

+

+"You will observe," said Holmes, laying down the volume, "that the sudden breaking up of the society was coincident with the disappearance of Openshaw from America with their papers. It may well have been cause and effect. It is no wonder that he and his family have some of the more implacable spirits upon their track. You can understand that this register and diary may implicate some of the first men in the South, and that there may be many who will not sleep easy at night until it is recovered."

+

+

+

+"Then the page we have seen--"

+

+

+

+"Is such as we might expect. It ran, if I remember right, 'sent the pips to A, B, and C'--that is, sent the society's warning to them. Then there are successive entries that A and B cleared, or left the country, and finally that C was visited, with, I fear, a sinister result for C. Well, I think, Doctor, that we may let some light into this dark place, and I believe that the only chance young Openshaw has in the meantime is to do what I have told him. There is nothing more to be said or to be done to-night, so hand me over my violin and let us try to forget for half an hour the miserable weather and the still more miserable ways of our fellow men."

+

+

+

+It had cleared in the morning, and the sun was shining with a subdued brightness through the dim veil which hangs over the great city. Sherlock Holmes was already at breakfast when I came down.

+

+

+

+"You will excuse me for not waiting for you," said he; "I have, I foresee, a very busy day before me in looking into this case of young Openshaw's."

+

+

+

+"What steps will you take?" I asked.

+

+

+

+"It will very much depend upon the results of my first inquiries. I may have to go down to Horsham, after all."

+

+

+

+"You will not go there first?"

+

+

+

+"No, I shall commence with the City. Just ring the bell and the maid will bring up your coffee."

+

+

+

+As I waited, I lifted the unopened newspaper from the table and glanced my eye over it. It rested upon a heading which sent a chill to my heart.

+

+

+

+"Holmes," I cried, "you are too late."

+

+

+

+"Ah!" said he, laying down his cup, "I feared as much. How was it done?" He spoke calmly, but I could see that he was deeply moved.

+

+

+

+"My eye caught the name of Openshaw, and the heading 'Tragedy Near Waterloo Bridge.' Here is the account:

+

+

+

+" 'Between nine and ten last night Police-Constable Cook, of the H Division, on duty near Waterloo Bridge, heard a cry for help and a splash in the water. The night, however, was extremely dark and stormy, so that, in spite of the help of several passers-by, it was quite impossible to effect a rescue. The alarm, however, was given, and, by the aid of the water-police, the body was eventually recovered. It proved to be that of a young gentleman whose name, as it appears from an envelope which was found in his pocket, was John Openshaw, and whose residence is near Horsham. It is conjectured that he may have been hurrying down to catch the last train from Waterloo Station, and that in his haste and the extreme darkness he missed his path and walked over the edge of one of the small landing-places for river steamboats. The body exhibited no traces of violence, and there can be no doubt that the deceased had been the victim of an unfortunate accident, which should have the effect of calling the attention of the authorities to the condition of the riverside landing-stages.' "

+

+

+

+We sat in silence for some minutes, Holmes more depressed and shaken than I had ever seen him.

+

+

+

+"That hurts my pride, Watson," he said at last. "It is a petty feeling, no doubt, but it hurts my pride. It becomes a personal matter with me now, and, if God sends me health, I shall set my hand upon this gang. That he should come to me for help, and that I should send him away to his death--!" He sprang from his chair and paced about the room in uncontrollable agitation, with a flush upon his sallow cheeks and a nervous clasping and unclasping of his long thin hands.

+

+

+

+"They must be cunning devils," he exclaimed at last. "How could they have decoyed him down there? The Embankment is not on the direct line to the station. The bridge, no doubt, was too crowded, even on such a night, for their purpose. Well, Watson, we shall see who will win in the long run. I am going out now!"

+

+

+

+"To the police?"

+

+

+

+"No; I shall be my own police. When I have spun the web they may take the flies, but not before."

+

+

+

+All day I was engaged in my professional work, and it was late in the evening before I returned to Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes had not come back yet. It was nearly ten o'clock before he entered, looking pale and worn. He walked up to the sideboard, and tearing a piece from the loaf he devoured it voraciously, washing it down with a long draught of water.

+

+

+

+"You are hungry," I remarked.

+

+

+

+"Starving. It had escaped my memory. I have had nothing since breakfast."

+

+

+

+"Nothing?"

+

+

+

+"Not a bite. I had no time to think of it."

+

+

+

+"And how have you succeeded?"

+

+

+

+"Well."

+

+

+

+"You have a clue?"

+

+

+

+"I have them in the hollow of my hand. Young Openshaw shall not long remain unavenged. Why, Watson, let us put their own devilish trade-mark upon them. It is well thought of!"

+

+

+

+"What do you mean?"

+

+

+

+He took an orange from the cupboard, and tearing it to pieces he squeezed out the pips upon the table. Of these he took five and thrust them into an envelope. On the inside of the flap he wrote "S. H. for J. O." Then he sealed it and addressed it to "Captain James Calhoun, Barque Lone Star, Savannah, Georgia."

+

+

+

+"That will await him when he enters port," said he, chuckling. "It may give him a sleepless night. He will find it as sure a precursor of his fate as Openshaw did before him."

+

+

+

+"And who is this Captain Calhoun?"

+

+

+

+"The leader of the gang. I shall have the others, but he first."

+

+

+

+"How did you trace it, then?"

+

+

+

+He took a large sheet of paper from his pocket, all covered with dates and names.

+

+

+

+"I have spent the whole day," said he, "over Lloyd's registers and files of the old papers, following the future career of every vessel which touched at Pondicherry in January and February in '83. There were thirty-six ships of fair tonnage which were reported there during those months. Of these, one, the Lone Star, instantly attracted my attention, since, although it was reported as having cleared from London, the name is that which is given to one of the states of the Union."

+

+

+

+"Texas, I think."

+

+

+

+"I was not and am not sure which; but I knew that the ship must have an American origin."

+

+

+

+"What then?"

+

+

+

+"I searched the Dundee records, and when I found that the barque Lone Star was there in January, '85, my suspicion became a certainty. I then inquired as to the vessels which lay at present in the port of London."

+

+

+

+"Yes?"

+

+

+

+"The Lone Star had arrived here last week. I went down to the Albert Dock and found that she had been taken down the river by the early tide this morning, homeward bound to Savannah. I wired to Gravesend and learned that she had passed some time ago, and as the wind is easterly I have no doubt that she is now past the Goodwins and not very far from the Isle of Wight."

+

+

+

+"What will you do, then?"

+

+

+

+"Oh, I have my hand upon him. He and the two mates, are as I learn, the only native-born Americans in the ship. The others are Finns and Germans. I know, also, that they were all three away from the ship last night. I had it from the stevedore who has been loading their cargo. By the time that their sailing-ship reaches Savannah the mail-boat will have carried this letter, and the cable will have informed the police of Savannah that these three gentlemen are badly wanted here upon a charge of murder."

+

+

+

+There is ever a flaw, however, in the best laid of human plans, and the murderers of John Openshaw were never to receive the orange pips which would show them that another, as cunning and as resolute as themselves, was upon their track. Very long and very severe were the equinoctial gales that year. We waited long for news of the Lone Star of Savannah, but none ever reached us. We did at last hear that somewhere far out in the Atlantic a shattered stern-post of a boat was seen swinging in the trough of a wave, with the letters "L. S." carved upon it, and that is all which we shall ever know of the fate of the Lone Star.

+

+

+

+ADVENTURE  VI.  THE MAN WITH THE TWISTED LIP

+

+

+

+

+

+Isa Whitney, brother of the late Elias Whitney, D.D., Principal of the Theological College of St. George's, was much addicted to opium. The habit grew upon him, as I understand, from some foolish freak when he was at college; for having read De Quincey's description of his dreams and sensations, he had drenched his tobacco with laudanum in an attempt to produce the same effects. He found, as so many more have done, that the practice is easier to attain than to get rid of, and for many years he continued to be a slave to the drug, an object of mingled horror and pity to his friends and relatives. I can see him now, with yellow, pasty face, drooping lids, and pin-point pupils, all huddled in a chair, the wreck and ruin of a noble man.

+

+

+

+One night--it was in June, '89--there came a ring to my bell, about the hour when a man gives his first yawn and glances at the clock. I sat up in my chair, and my wife laid her needle-work down in her lap and made a little face of disappointment.

+

+

+

+"A patient!" said she. "You'll have to go out."

+

+

+

+I groaned, for I was newly come back from a weary day.

+

+

+

+We heard the door open, a few hurried words, and then quick steps upon the linoleum. Our own door flew open, and a lady, clad in some dark-coloured stuff, with a black veil, entered the room.

+

+

+

+"You will excuse my calling so late," she began, and then, suddenly losing her self-control, she ran forward, threw her arms about my wife's neck, and sobbed upon her shoulder. "Oh, I'm in such trouble!" she cried; "I do so want a little help."

+

+

+

+"Why," said my wife, pulling up her veil, "it is Kate Whitney. How you startled me, Kate! I had not an idea who you were when you came in."

+

+

+

+"I didn't know what to do, so I came straight to you." That was always the way. Folk who were in grief came to my wife like birds to a light-house.

+

+

+

+"It was very sweet of you to come. Now, you must have some wine and water, and sit here comfortably and tell us all about it. Or should you rather that I sent James off to bed?"

+

+

+

+"Oh, no, no! I want the doctor's advice and help, too. It's about Isa. He has not been home for two days. I am so frightened about him!"

+

+

+

+It was not the first time that she had spoken to us of her husband's trouble, to me as a doctor, to my wife as an old friend and school companion. We soothed and comforted her by such words as we could find. Did she know where her husband was? Was it possible that we could bring him back to her?

+

+

+

+It seems that it was. She had the surest information that of late he had, when the fit was on him, made use of an opium den in the farthest east of the City. Hitherto his orgies had always been confined to one day, and he had come back, twitching and shattered, in the evening. But now the spell had been upon him eight-and-forty hours, and he lay there, doubtless among the dregs of the docks, breathing in the poison or sleeping off the effects. There he was to be found, she was sure of it, at the Bar of Gold, in Upper Swandam Lane. But what was she to do? How could she, a young and timid woman, make her way into such a place and pluck her husband out from among the ruffians who surrounded him?

+

+

+

+There was the case, and of course there was but one way out of it. Might I not escort her to this place? And then, as a second thought, why should she come at all? I was Isa Whitney's medical adviser, and as such I had influence over him. I could manage it better if I were alone. I promised her on my word that I would send him home in a cab within two hours if he were indeed at the address which she had given me. And so in ten minutes I had left my armchair and cheery sitting-room behind me, and was speeding eastward in a hansom on a strange errand, as it seemed to me at the time, though the future only could show how strange it was to be.

+

+

+

+But there was no great difficulty in the first stage of my adventure. Upper Swandam Lane is a vile alley lurking behind the high wharves which line the north side of the river to the east of London Bridge. Between a slop-shop and a gin-shop, approached by a steep flight of steps leading down to a black gap like the mouth of a cave, I found the den of which I was in search. Ordering my cab to wait, I passed down the steps, worn hollow in the centre by the ceaseless tread of drunken feet; and by the light of a flickering oil-lamp above the door I found the latch and made my way into a long, low room, thick and heavy with the brown opium smoke, and terraced with wooden berths, like the forecastle of an emigrant ship.

+

+

+

+Through the gloom one could dimly catch a glimpse of bodies lying in strange fantastic poses, bowed shoulders, bent knees, heads thrown back, and chins pointing upward, with here and there a dark, lack-lustre eye turned upon the newcomer. Out of the black shadows there glimmered little red circles of light, now bright, now faint, as the burning poison waxed or waned in the bowls of the metal pipes. The most lay silent, but some muttered to themselves, and others talked together in a strange, low, monotonous voice, their conversation coming in gushes, and then suddenly tailing off into silence, each mumbling out his own thoughts and paying little heed to the words of his neighbour. At the farther end was a small brazier of burning charcoal, beside which on a three-legged wooden stool there sat a tall, thin old man, with his jaw resting upon his two fists, and his elbows upon his knees, staring into the fire.

+

+

+

+As I entered, a sallow Malay attendant had hurried up with a pipe for me and a supply of the drug, beckoning me to an empty berth.

+

+

+

+"Thank you. I have not come to stay," said I. "There is a friend of mine here, Mr. Isa Whitney, and I wish to speak with him."

+

+

+

+There was a movement and an exclamation from my right, and peering through the gloom, I saw Whitney, pale, haggard, and unkempt, staring out at me.

+

+

+

+"My God! It's Watson," said he. He was in a pitiable state of reaction, with every nerve in a twitter. "I say, Watson, what o'clock is it?"

+

+

+

+"Nearly eleven."

+

+

+

+"Of what day?"

+

+

+

+"Of Friday, June 19th."

+

+

+

+"Good heavens! I thought it was Wednesday. It is Wednesday. What d'you want to frighten a chap for?" He sank his face onto his arms and began to sob in a high treble key.

+

+

+

+"I tell you that it is Friday, man. Your wife has been waiting this two days for you. You should be ashamed of yourself!"

+

+

+

+"So I am. But you've got mixed, Watson, for I have only been here a few hours, three pipes, four pipes--I forget how many. But I'll go home with you. I wouldn't frighten Kate--poor little Kate. Give me your hand! Have you a cab?"

+

+

+

+"Yes, I have one waiting."

+

+

+

+"Then I shall go in it. But I must owe something. Find what I owe, Watson. I am all off colour. I can do nothing for myself."

+

+

+

+I walked down the narrow passage between the double row of sleepers, holding my breath to keep out the vile, stupefying fumes of the drug, and looking about for the manager. As I passed the tall man who sat by the brazier I felt a sudden pluck at my skirt, and a low voice whispered, "Walk past me, and then look back at me." The words fell quite distinctly upon my ear. I glanced down. They could only have come from the old man at my side, and yet he sat now as absorbed as ever, very thin, very wrinkled, bent with age, an opium pipe dangling down from between his knees, as though it had dropped in sheer lassitude from his fingers. I took two steps forward and looked back. It took all my self-control to prevent me from breaking out into a cry of astonishment. He had turned his back so that none could see him but I. His form had filled out, his wrinkles were gone, the dull eyes had regained their fire, and there, sitting by the fire and grinning at my surprise, was none other than Sherlock Holmes. He made a slight motion to me to approach him, and instantly, as he turned his face half round to the company once more, subsided into a doddering, loose-lipped senility.

+

+

+

+"Holmes!" I whispered, "what on earth are you doing in this den?"

+

+

+

+"As low as you can," he answered; "I have excellent ears. If you would have the great kindness to get rid of that sottish friend of yours I should be exceedingly glad to have a little talk with you."

+

+

+

+"I have a cab outside."

+

+

+

+"Then pray send him home in it. You may safely trust him, for he appears to be too limp to get into any mischief. I should recommend you also to send a note by the cabman to your wife to say that you have thrown in your lot with me. If you will wait outside, I shall be with you in five minutes."

+

+

+

+It was difficult to refuse any of Sherlock Holmes' requests, for they were always so exceedingly definite, and put forward with such a quiet air of mastery. I felt, however, that when Whitney was once confined in the cab my mission was practically accomplished; and for the rest, I could not wish anything better than to be associated with my friend in one of those singular adventures which were the normal condition of his existence. In a few minutes I had written my note, paid Whitney's bill, led him out to the cab, and seen him driven through the darkness. In a very short time a decrepit figure had emerged from the opium den, and I was walking down the street with Sherlock Holmes. For two streets he shuffled along with a bent back and an uncertain foot. Then, glancing quickly round, he straightened himself out and burst into a hearty fit of laughter.

+

+

+

+"I suppose, Watson," said he, "that you imagine that I have added opium-smoking to cocaine injections, and all the other little weaknesses on which you have favoured me with your medical views."

+

+

+

+"I was certainly surprised to find you there."

+

+

+

+"But not more so than I to find you."

+

+

+

+"I came to find a friend."

+

+

+

+"And I to find an enemy."

+

+

+

+"An enemy?"

+

+

+

+"Yes; one of my natural enemies, or, shall I say, my natural prey. Briefly, Watson, I am in the midst of a very remarkable inquiry, and I have hoped to find a clue in the incoherent ramblings of these sots, as I have done before now. Had I been recognised in that den my life would not have been worth an hour's purchase; for I have used it before now for my own purposes, and the rascally Lascar who runs it has sworn to have vengeance upon me. There is a trap-door at the back of that building, near the corner of Paul's Wharf, which could tell some strange tales of what has passed through it upon the moonless nights."

+

+

+

+"What! You do not mean bodies?"

+

+

+

+"Ay, bodies, Watson. We should be rich men if we had $1000 for every poor devil who has been done to death in that den. It is the vilest murder-trap on the whole riverside, and I fear that Neville St. Clair has entered it never to leave it more. But our trap should be here." He put his two forefingers between his teeth and whistled shrilly--a signal which was answered by a similar whistle from the distance, followed shortly by the rattle of wheels and the clink of horses' hoofs.

+

+

+

+"Now, Watson," said Holmes, as a tall dog-cart dashed up through the gloom, throwing out two golden tunnels of yellow light from its side lanterns. "You'll come with me, won't you?"

+

+

+

+"If I can be of use."

+

+

+

+"Oh, a trusty comrade is always of use; and a chronicler still more so. My room at The Cedars is a double-bedded one."

+

+

+

+"The Cedars?"

+

+

+

+"Yes; that is Mr. St. Clair's house. I am staying there while I conduct the inquiry."

+

+

+

+"Where is it, then?"

+

+

+

+"Near Lee, in Kent. We have a seven-mile drive before us."

+

+

+

+"But I am all in the dark."

+

+

+

+"Of course you are. You'll know all about it presently. Jump up here. All right, John; we shall not need you. Here's half a crown. Look out for me to-morrow, about eleven. Give her her head. So long, then!"

+

+

+

+He flicked the horse with his whip, and we dashed away through the endless succession of sombre and deserted streets, which widened gradually, until we were flying across a broad balustraded bridge, with the murky river flowing sluggishly beneath us. Beyond lay another dull wilderness of bricks and mortar, its silence broken only by the heavy, regular footfall of the policeman, or the songs and shouts of some belated party of revellers. A dull wrack was drifting slowly across the sky, and a star or two twinkled dimly here and there through the rifts of the clouds. Holmes drove in silence, with his head sunk upon his breast, and the air of a man who is lost in thought, while I sat beside him, curious to learn what this new quest might be which seemed to tax his powers so sorely, and yet afraid to break in upon the current of his thoughts. We had driven several miles, and were beginning to get to the fringe of the belt of suburban villas, when he shook himself, shrugged his shoulders, and lit up his pipe with the air of a man who has satisfied himself that he is acting for the best.

+

+

+

+"You have a grand gift of silence, Watson," said he. "It makes you quite invaluable as a companion. 'Pon my word, it is a great thing for me to have someone to talk to, for my own thoughts are not over-pleasant. I was wondering what I should say to this dear little woman to-night when she meets me at the door."

+

+

+

+"You forget that I know nothing about it."

+

+

+

+"I shall just have time to tell you the facts of the case before we get to Lee. It seems absurdly simple, and yet, somehow I can get nothing to go upon. There's plenty of thread, no doubt, but I can't get the end of it into my hand. Now, I'll state the case clearly and concisely to you, Watson, and maybe you can see a spark where all is dark to me."

+

+

+

+"Proceed, then."

+

+

+

+"Some years ago--to be definite, in May, 1884--there came to Lee a gentleman, Neville St. Clair by name, who appeared to have plenty of money. He took a large villa, laid out the grounds very nicely, and lived generally in good style. By degrees he made friends in the neighbourhood, and in 1887 he married the daughter of a local brewer, by whom he now has two children. He had no occupation, but was interested in several companies and went into town as a rule in the morning, returning by the 5:14 from Cannon Street every night. Mr. St. Clair is now thirty-seven years of age, is a man of temperate habits, a good husband, a very affectionate father, and a man who is popular with all who know him. I may add that his whole debts at the present moment, as far as we have been able to ascertain, amount to $88 10s., while he has $220 standing to his credit in the Capital and Counties Bank. There is no reason, therefore, to think that money troubles have been weighing upon his mind.

+

+

+

+"Last Monday Mr. Neville St. Clair went into town rather earlier than usual, remarking before he started that he had two important commissions to perform, and that he would bring his little boy home a box of bricks. Now, by the merest chance, his wife received a telegram upon this same Monday, very shortly after his departure, to the effect that a small parcel of considerable value which she had been expecting was waiting for her at the offices of the Aberdeen Shipping Company. Now, if you are well up in your London, you will know that the office of the company is in Fresno Street, which branches out of Upper Swandam Lane, where you found me to-night. Mrs. St. Clair had her lunch, started for the City, did some shopping, proceeded to the company's office, got her packet, and found herself at exactly 4:35 walking through Swandam Lane on her way back to the station. Have you followed me so far?"

+

+

+

+"It is very clear."

+

+

+

+"If you remember, Monday was an exceedingly hot day, and Mrs. St. Clair walked slowly, glancing about in the hope of seeing a cab, as she did not like the neighbourhood in which she found herself. While she was walking in this way down Swandam Lane, she suddenly heard an ejaculation or cry, and was struck cold to see her husband looking down at her and, as it seemed to her, beckoning to her from a second-floor window. The window was open, and she distinctly saw his face, which she describes as being terribly agitated. He waved his hands frantically to her, and then vanished from the window so suddenly that it seemed to her that he had been plucked back by some irresistible force from behind. One singular point which struck her quick feminine eye was that although he wore some dark coat, such as he had started to town in, he had on neither collar nor necktie.

+

+

+

+"Convinced that something was amiss with him, she rushed down the steps--for the house was none other than the opium den in which you found me to-night--and running through the front room she attempted to ascend the stairs which led to the first floor. At the foot of the stairs, however, she met this Lascar scoundrel of whom I have spoken, who thrust her back and, aided by a Dane, who acts as assistant there, pushed her out into the street. Filled with the most maddening doubts and fears, she rushed down the lane and, by rare good-fortune, met in Fresno Street a number of constables with an inspector, all on their way to their beat. The inspector and two men accompanied her back, and in spite of the continued resistance of the proprietor, they made their way to the room in which Mr. St. Clair had last been seen. There was no sign of him there. In fact, in the whole of that floor there was no one to be found save a crippled wretch of hideous aspect, who, it seems, made his home there. Both he and the Lascar stoutly swore that no one else had been in the front room during the afternoon. So determined was their denial that the inspector was staggered, and had almost come to believe that Mrs. St. Clair had been deluded when, with a cry, she sprang at a small deal box which lay upon the table and tore the lid from it. Out there fell a cascade of children's bricks. It was the toy which he had promised to bring home.

+

+

+

+"This discovery, and the evident confusion which the cripple showed, made the inspector realise that the matter was serious. The rooms were carefully examined, and results all pointed to an abominable crime. The front room was plainly furnished as a sitting-room and led into a small bedroom, which looked out upon the back of one of the wharves. Between the wharf and the bedroom window is a narrow strip, which is dry at low tide but is covered at high tide with at least four and a half feet of water. The bedroom window was a broad one and opened from below. On examination traces of blood were to be seen upon the windowsill, and several scattered drops were visible upon the wooden floor of the bedroom. Thrust away behind a curtain in the front room were all the clothes of Mr. Neville St. Clair, with the exception of his coat. His boots, his socks, his hat, and his watch--all were there. There were no signs of violence upon any of these garments, and there were no other traces of Mr. Neville St. Clair. Out of the window he must apparently have gone for no other exit could be discovered, and the ominous bloodstains upon the sill gave little promise that he could save himself by swimming, for the tide was at its very highest at the moment of the tragedy.

+

+

+

+"And now as to the villains who seemed to be immediately implicated in the matter. The Lascar was known to be a man of the vilest antecedents, but as, by Mrs. St. Clair's story, he was known to have been at the foot of the stair within a very few seconds of her husband's appearance at the window, he could hardly have been more than an accessory to the crime. His defence was one of absolute ignorance, and he protested that he had no knowledge as to the doings of Hugh Boone, his lodger, and that he could not account in any way for the presence of the missing gentleman's clothes.

+

+

+

+"So much for the Lascar manager. Now for the sinister cripple who lives upon the second floor of the opium den, and who was certainly the last human being whose eyes rested upon Neville St. Clair. His name is Hugh Boone, and his hideous face is one which is familiar to every man who goes much to the City. He is a professional beggar, though in order to avoid the police regulations he pretends to a small trade in wax vestas. Some little distance down Threadneedle Street, upon the left-hand side, there is, as you may have remarked, a small angle in the wall. Here it is that this creature takes his daily seat, cross-legged with his tiny stock of matches on his lap, and as he is a piteous spectacle a small rain of charity descends into the greasy leather cap which lies upon the pavement beside him. I have watched the fellow more than once before ever I thought of making his professional acquaintance, and I have been surprised at the harvest which he has reaped in a short time. His appearance, you see, is so remarkable that no one can pass him without observing him. A shock of orange hair, a pale face disfigured by a horrible scar, which, by its contraction, has turned up the outer edge of his upper lip, a bulldog chin, and a pair of very penetrating dark eyes, which present a singular contrast to the colour of his hair, all mark him out from amid the common crowd of mendicants and so, too, does his wit, for he is ever ready with a reply to any piece of chaff which may be thrown at him by the passers-by. This is the man whom we now learn to have been the lodger at the opium den, and to have been the last man to see the gentleman of whom we are in quest."

+

+

+

+"But a cripple!" said I. "What could he have done single-handed against a man in the prime of life?"

+

+

+

+"He is a cripple in the sense that he walks with a limp; but in other respects he appears to be a powerful and well-nurtured man. Surely your medical experience would tell you, Watson, that weakness in one limb is often compensated for by exceptional strength in the others."

+

+

+

+"Pray continue your narrative."

+

+

+

+"Mrs. St. Clair had fainted at the sight of the blood upon the window, and she was escorted home in a cab by the police, as her presence could be of no help to them in their investigations. Inspector Barton, who had charge of the case, made a very careful examination of the premises, but without finding anything which threw any light upon the matter. One mistake had been made in not arresting Boone instantly, as he was allowed some few minutes during which he might have communicated with his friend the Lascar, but this fault was soon remedied, and he was seized and searched, without anything being found which could incriminate him. There were, it is true, some blood-stains upon his right shirt-sleeve, but he pointed to his ring-finger, which had been cut near the nail, and explained that the bleeding came from there, adding that he had been to the window not long before, and that the stains which had been observed there came doubtless from the same source. He denied strenuously having ever seen Mr. Neville St. Clair and swore that the presence of the clothes in his room was as much a mystery to him as to the police. As to Mrs. St. Clair's assertion that she had actually seen her husband at the window, he declared that she must have been either mad or dreaming. He was removed, loudly protesting, to the police-station, while the inspector remained upon the premises in the hope that the ebbing tide might afford some fresh clue.

+

+

+

+"And it did, though they hardly found upon the mud-bank what they had feared to find. It was Neville St. Clair's coat, and not Neville St. Clair, which lay uncovered as the tide receded. And what do you think they found in the pockets?"

+

+

+

+"I cannot imagine."

+

+

+

+"No, I don't think you would guess. Every pocket stuffed with pennies and half-pennies--421 pennies and 270 half-pennies. It was no wonder that it had not been swept away by the tide. But a human body is a different matter. There is a fierce eddy between the wharf and the house. It seemed likely enough that the weighted coat had remained when the stripped body had been sucked away into the river."

+

+

+

+"But I understand that all the other clothes were found in the room. Would the body be dressed in a coat alone?"

+

+

+

+"No, sir, but the facts might be met speciously enough. Suppose that this man Boone had thrust Neville St. Clair through the window, there is no human eye which could have seen the deed. What would he do then? It would of course instantly strike him that he must get rid of the tell-tale garments. He would seize the coat, then, and be in the act of throwing it out, when it would occur to him that it would swim and not sink. He has little time, for he has heard the scuffle downstairs when the wife tried to force her way up, and perhaps he has already heard from his Lascar confederate that the police are hurrying up the street. There is not an instant to be lost. He rushes to some secret hoard, where he has accumulated the fruits of his beggary, and he stuffs all the coins upon which he can lay his hands into the pockets to make sure of the coat's sinking. He throws it out, and would have done the same with the other garments had not he heard the rush of steps below, and only just had time to close the window when the police appeared."

+

+

+

+"It certainly sounds feasible."

+

+

+

+"Well, we will take it as a working hypothesis for want of a better. Boone, as I have told you, was arrested and taken to the station, but it could not be shown that there had ever before been anything against him. He had for years been known as a professional beggar, but his life appeared to have been a very quiet and innocent one. There the matter stands at present, and the questions which have to be solved--what Neville St. Clair was doing in the opium den, what happened to him when there, where is he now, and what Hugh Boone had to do with his disappearance--are all as far from a solution as ever. I confess that I cannot recall any case within my experience which looked at the first glance so simple and yet which presented such difficulties."

+

+

+

+While Sherlock Holmes had been detailing this singular series of events, we had been whirling through the outskirts of the great town until the last straggling houses had been left behind, and we rattled along with a country hedge upon either side of us. Just as he finished, however, we drove through two scattered villages, where a few lights still glimmered in the windows.

+

+

+

+"We are on the outskirts of Lee," said my companion. "We have touched on three English counties in our short drive, starting in Middlesex, passing over an angle of Surrey, and ending in Kent. See that light among the trees? That is The Cedars, and beside that lamp sits a woman whose anxious ears have already, I have little doubt, caught the clink of our horse's feet."

+

+

+

+"But why are you not conducting the case from Baker Street?" I asked.

+

+

+

+"Because there are many inquiries which must be made out here. Mrs. St. Clair has most kindly put two rooms at my disposal, and you may rest assured that she will have nothing but a welcome for my friend and colleague. I hate to meet her, Watson, when I have no news of her husband. Here we are. Whoa, there, whoa!"

+

+

+

+We had pulled up in front of a large villa which stood within its own grounds. A stable-boy had run out to the horse's head, and springing down, I followed Holmes up the small, winding gravel-drive which led to the house. As we approached, the door flew open, and a little blonde woman stood in the opening, clad in some sort of light mousseline de soie, with a touch of fluffy pink chiffon at her neck and wrists. She stood with her figure outlined against the flood of light, one hand upon the door, one half-raised in her eagerness, her body slightly bent, her head and face protruded, with eager eyes and parted lips, a standing question.

+

+

+

+"Well?" she cried, "well?" And then, seeing that there were two of us, she gave a cry of hope which sank into a groan as she saw that my companion shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.

+

+

+

+"No good news?"

+

+

+

+"None."

+

+

+

+"No bad?"

+

+

+

+"No."

+

+

+

+"Thank God for that. But come in. You must be weary, for you have had a long day."

+

+

+

+"This is my friend, Dr. Watson. He has been of most vital use to me in several of my cases, and a lucky chance has made it possible for me to bring him out and associate him with this investigation."

+

+

+

+"I am delighted to see you," said she, pressing my hand warmly. "You will, I am sure, forgive anything that may be wanting in our arrangements, when you consider the blow which has come so suddenly upon us."

+

+

+

+"My dear madam," said I, "I am an old campaigner, and if I were not I can very well see that no apology is needed. If I can be of any assistance, either to you or to my friend here, I shall be indeed happy."

+

+

+

+"Now, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said the lady as we entered a well-lit dining-room, upon the table of which a cold supper had been laid out, "I should very much like to ask you one or two plain questions, to which I beg that you will give a plain answer."

+

+

+

+"Certainly, madam."

+

+

+

+"Do not trouble about my feelings. I am not hysterical, nor given to fainting. I simply wish to hear your real, real opinion."

+

+

+

+"Upon what point?"

+

+

+

+"In your heart of hearts, do you think that Neville is alive?"

+

+

+

+Sherlock Holmes seemed to be embarrassed by the question. "Frankly, now!" she repeated, standing upon the rug and looking keenly down at him as he leaned back in a basket-chair.

+

+

+

+"Frankly, then, madam, I do not."

+

+

+

+"You think that he is dead?"

+

+

+

+"I do."

+

+

+

+"Murdered?"

+

+

+

+"I don't say that. Perhaps."

+

+

+

+"And on what day did he meet his death?"

+

+

+

+"On Monday."

+

+

+

+"Then perhaps, Mr. Holmes, you will be good enough to explain how it is that I have received a letter from him to-day."

+

+

+

+Sherlock Holmes sprang out of his chair as if he had been galvanised.

+

+

+

+"What!" he roared.

+

+

+

+"Yes, to-day." She stood smiling, holding up a little slip of paper in the air.

+

+

+

+"May I see it?"

+

+

+

+"Certainly."

+

+

+

+He snatched it from her in his eagerness, and smoothing it out upon the table he drew over the lamp and examined it intently. I had left my chair and was gazing at it over his shoulder. The envelope was a very coarse one and was stamped with the Gravesend postmark and with the date of that very day, or rather of the day before, for it was considerably after midnight.

+

+

+

+"Coarse writing," murmured Holmes. "Surely this is not your husband's writing, madam."

+

+

+

+"No, but the enclosure is."

+

+

+

+"I perceive also that whoever addressed the envelope had to go and inquire as to the address."

+

+

+

+"How can you tell that?"

+

+

+

+"The name, you see, is in perfectly black ink, which has dried itself. The rest is of the greyish colour, which shows that blotting-paper has been used. If it had been written straight off, and then blotted, none would be of a deep black shade. This man has written the name, and there has then been a pause before he wrote the address, which can only mean that he was not familiar with it. It is, of course, a trifle, but there is nothing so important as trifles. Let us now see the letter. Ha! there has been an enclosure here!"

+

+

+

+"Yes, there was a ring. His signet-ring."

+

+

+

+"And you are sure that this is your husband's hand?"

+

+

+

+"One of his hands."

+

+

+

+"One?"

+

+

+

+"His hand when he wrote hurriedly. It is very unlike his usual writing, and yet I know it well."

+

+

+

+" 'Dearest do not be frightened. All will come well. There is a huge error which it may take some little time to rectify. Wait in patience.--NEVILLE.' Written in pencil upon the fly-leaf of a book, octavo size, no water-mark. Hum! Posted to-day in Gravesend by a man with a dirty thumb. Ha! And the flap has been gummed, if I am not very much in error, by a person who had been chewing tobacco. And you have no doubt that it is your husband's hand, madam?"

+

+

+

+"None. Neville wrote those words."

+

+

+

+"And they were posted to-day at Gravesend. Well, Mrs. St. Clair, the clouds lighten, though I should not venture to say that the danger is over."

+

+

+

+"But he must be alive, Mr. Holmes."

+

+

+

+"Unless this is a clever forgery to put us on the wrong scent. The ring, after all, proves nothing. It may have been taken from him."

+

+

+

+"No, no; it is, it is his very own writing!"

+

+

+

+"Very well. It may, however, have been written on Monday and only posted to-day."

+

+

+

+"That is possible."

+

+

+

+"If so, much may have happened between."

+

+

+

+"Oh, you must not discourage me, Mr. Holmes. I know that all is well with him. There is so keen a sympathy between us that I should know if evil came upon him. On the very day that I saw him last he cut himself in the bedroom, and yet I in the dining-room rushed upstairs instantly with the utmost certainty that something had happened. Do you think that I would respond to such a trifle and yet be ignorant of his death?"

+

+

+

+"I have seen too much not to know that the impression of a woman may be more valuable than the conclusion of an analytical reasoner. And in this letter you certainly have a very strong piece of evidence to corroborate your view. But if your husband is alive and able to write letters, why should he remain away from you?"

+

+

+

+"I cannot imagine. It is unthinkable."

+

+

+

+"And on Monday he made no remarks before leaving you?"

+

+

+

+"No."

+

+

+

+"And you were surprised to see him in Swandam Lane?"

+

+

+

+"Very much so."

+

+

+

+"Was the window open?"

+

+

+

+"Yes."

+

+

+

+"Then he might have called to you?"

+

+

+

+"He might."

+

+

+

+"He only, as I understand, gave an inarticulate cry?"

+

+

+

+"Yes."

+

+

+

+"A call for help, you thought?"

+

+

+

+"Yes. He waved his hands."

+

+

+

+"But it might have been a cry of surprise. Astonishment at the unexpected sight of you might cause him to throw up his hands?"

+

+

+

+"It is possible."

+

+

+

+"And you thought he was pulled back?"

+

+

+

+"He disappeared so suddenly."

+

+

+

+"He might have leaped back. You did not see anyone else in the room?"

+

+

+

+"No, but this horrible man confessed to having been there, and the Lascar was at the foot of the stairs."

+

+

+

+"Quite so. Your husband, as far as you could see, had his ordinary clothes on?"

+

+

+

+"But without his collar or tie. I distinctly saw his bare throat."

+

+

+

+"Had he ever spoken of Swandam Lane?"

+

+

+

+"Never."

+

+

+

+"Had he ever showed any signs of having taken opium?"

+

+

+

+"Never."

+

+

+

+"Thank you, Mrs. St. Clair. Those are the principal points about which I wished to be absolutely clear. We shall now have a little supper and then retire, for we may have a very busy day to-morrow."

+

+

+

+A large and comfortable double-bedded room had been placed at our disposal, and I was quickly between the sheets, for I was weary after my night of adventure. Sherlock Holmes was a man, however, who, when he had an unsolved problem upon his mind, would go for days, and even for a week, without rest, turning it over, rearranging his facts, looking at it from every point of view until he had either fathomed it or convinced himself that his data were insufficient. It was soon evident to me that he was now preparing for an all-night sitting. He took off his coat and waistcoat, put on a large blue dressing-gown, and then wandered about the room collecting pillows from his bed and cushions from the sofa and armchairs. With these he constructed a sort of Eastern divan, upon which he perched himself cross-legged, with an ounce of shag tobacco and a box of matches laid out in front of him. In the dim light of the lamp I saw him sitting there, an old briar pipe between his lips, his eyes fixed vacantly upon the corner of the ceiling, the blue smoke curling up from him, silent, motionless, with the light shining upon his strong-set aquiline features. So he sat as I dropped off to sleep, and so he sat when a sudden ejaculation caused me to wake up, and I found the summer sun shining into the apartment. The pipe was still between his lips, the smoke still curled upward, and the room was full of a dense tobacco haze, but nothing remained of the heap of shag which I had seen upon the previous night.

+

+

+

+"Awake, Watson?" he asked.

+

+

+

+"Yes."

+

+

+

+"Game for a morning drive?"

+

+

+

+"Certainly."

+

+

+

+"Then dress. No one is stirring yet, but I know where the stable-boy sleeps, and we shall soon have the trap out." He chuckled to himself as he spoke, his eyes twinkled, and he seemed a different man to the sombre thinker of the previous night.

+

+

+

+As I dressed I glanced at my watch. It was no wonder that no one was stirring. It was twenty-five minutes past four. I had hardly finished when Holmes returned with the news that the boy was putting in the horse.

+

+

+

+"I want to test a little theory of mine," said he, pulling on his boots. "I think, Watson, that you are now standing in the presence of one of the most absolute fools in Europe. I deserve to be kicked from here to Charing Cross. But I think I have the key of the affair now."

+

+

+

+"And where is it?" I asked, smiling.

+

+

+

+"In the bathroom," he answered. "Oh, yes, I am not joking," he continued, seeing my look of incredulity. "I have just been there, and I have taken it out, and I have got it in this Gladstone bag. Come on, my boy, and we shall see whether it will not fit the lock."

+

+

+

+We made our way downstairs as quietly as possible, and out into the bright morning sunshine. In the road stood our horse and trap, with the half-clad stable-boy waiting at the head. We both sprang in, and away we dashed down the London Road. A few country carts were stirring, bearing in vegetables to the metropolis, but the lines of villas on either side were as silent and lifeless as some city in a dream.

+

+

+

+"It has been in some points a singular case," said Holmes, flicking the horse on into a gallop. "I confess that I have been as blind as a mole, but it is better to learn wisdom late than never to learn it at all."

+

+

+

+In town the earliest risers were just beginning to look sleepily from their windows as we drove through the streets of the Surrey side. Passing down the Waterloo Bridge Road we crossed over the river, and dashing up Wellington Street wheeled sharply to the right and found ourselves in Bow Street. Sherlock Holmes was well known to the force, and the two constables at the door saluted him. One of them held the horse's head while the other led us in.

+

+

+

+"Who is on duty?" asked Holmes.

+

+

+

+"Inspector Bradstreet, sir."

+

+

+

+"Ah, Bradstreet, how are you?" A tall, stout official had come down the stone-flagged passage, in a peaked cap and frogged jacket. "I wish to have a quiet word with you, Bradstreet." "Certainly, Mr. Holmes. Step into my room here." It was a small, office-like room, with a huge ledger upon the table, and a telephone projecting from the wall. The inspector sat down at his desk.

+

+

+

+"What can I do for you, Mr. Holmes?"

+

+

+

+"I called about that beggarman, Boone--the one who was charged with being concerned in the disappearance of Mr. Neville St. Clair, of Lee."

+

+

+

+"Yes. He was brought up and remanded for further inquiries."

+

+

+

+"So I heard. You have him here?"

+

+

+

+"In the cells."

+

+

+

+"Is he quiet?"

+

+

+

+"Oh, he gives no trouble. But he is a dirty scoundrel."

+

+

+

+"Dirty?"

+

+

+

+"Yes, it is all we can do to make him wash his hands, and his face is as black as a tinker's. Well, when once his case has been settled, he will have a regular prison bath; and I think, if you saw him, you would agree with me that he needed it."

+

+

+

+"I should like to see him very much."

+

+

+

+"Would you? That is easily done. Come this way. You can leave your bag."

+

+

+

+"No, I think that I'll take it."

+

+

+

+"Very good. Come this way, if you please." He led us down a passage, opened a barred door, passed down a winding stair, and brought us to a whitewashed corridor with a line of doors on each side.

+

+

+

+"The third on the right is his," said the inspector. "Here it is!" He quietly shot back a panel in the upper part of the door and glanced through.

+

+

+

+"He is asleep," said he. "You can see him very well."

+

+

+

+We both put our eyes to the grating. The prisoner lay with his face towards us, in a very deep sleep, breathing slowly and heavily. He was a middle-sized man, coarsely clad as became his calling, with a coloured shirt protruding through the rent in his tattered coat. He was, as the inspector had said, extremely dirty, but the grime which covered his face could not conceal its repulsive ugliness. A broad wheal from an old scar ran right across it from eye to chin, and by its contraction had turned up one side of the upper lip, so that three teeth were exposed in a perpetual snarl. A shock of very bright red hair grew low over his eyes and forehead.

+

+

+

+"He's a beauty, isn't he?" said the inspector.

+

+

+

+"He certainly needs a wash," remarked Holmes. "I had an idea that he might, and I took the liberty of bringing the tools with me." He opened the Gladstone bag as he spoke, and took out, to my astonishment, a very large bath-sponge.

+

+

+

+"He! he! You are a funny one," chuckled the inspector.

+

+

+

+"Now, if you will have the great goodness to open that door very quietly, we will soon make him cut a much more respectable figure."

+

+

+

+"Well, I don't know why not," said the inspector. "He doesn't look a credit to the Bow Street cells, does he?" He slipped his key into the lock, and we all very quietly entered the cell. The sleeper half turned, and then settled down once more into a deep slumber. Holmes stooped to the water-jug, moistened his sponge, and then rubbed it twice vigorously across and down the prisoner's face.

+

+

+

+"Let me introduce you," he shouted, "to Mr. Neville St. Clair, of Lee, in the county of Kent."

+

+

+

+Never in my life have I seen such a sight. The man's face peeled off under the sponge like the bark from a tree. Gone was the coarse brown tint! Gone, too, was the horrid scar which had seamed it across, and the twisted lip which had given the repulsive sneer to the face! A twitch brought away the tangled red hair, and there, sitting up in his bed, was a pale, sad-faced, refined-looking man, black-haired and smooth-skinned, rubbing his eyes and staring about him with sleepy bewilderment. Then suddenly realising the exposure, he broke into a scream and threw himself down with his face to the pillow.

+

+

+

+"Great heavens!" cried the inspector, "it is, indeed, the missing man. I know him from the photograph."

+

+

+

+The prisoner turned with the reckless air of a man who abandons himself to his destiny. "Be it so," said he. "And pray what am I charged with?"

+

+

+

+"With making away with Mr. Neville St.-- Oh, come, you can't be charged with that unless they make a case of attempted suicide of it," said the inspector with a grin. "Well, I have been twenty-seven years in the force, but this really takes the cake."

+

+

+

+"If I am Mr. Neville St. Clair, then it is obvious that no crime has been committed, and that, therefore, I am illegally detained."

+

+

+

+"No crime, but a very great error has been committed," said Holmes. "You would have done better to have trusted you wife."

+

+

+

+"It was not the wife; it was the children," groaned the prisoner. "God help me, I would not have them ashamed of their father. My God! What an exposure! What can I do?"

+

+

+

+Sherlock Holmes sat down beside him on the couch and patted him kindly on the shoulder.

+

+

+

+"If you leave it to a court of law to clear the matter up," said he, "of course you can hardly avoid publicity. On the other hand, if you convince the police authorities that there is no possible case against you, I do not know that there is any reason that the details should find their way into the papers. Inspector Bradstreet would, I am sure, make notes upon anything which you might tell us and submit it to the proper authorities. The case would then never go into court at all."

+

+

+

+"God bless you!" cried the prisoner passionately. "I would have endured imprisonment, ay, even execution, rather than have left my miserable secret as a family blot to my children.

+

+

+

+"You are the first who have ever heard my story. My father was a schoolmaster in Chesterfield, where I received an excellent education. I travelled in my youth, took to the stage, and finally became a reporter on an evening paper in London. One day my editor wished to have a series of articles upon begging in the metropolis, and I volunteered to supply them. There was the point from which all my adventures started. It was only by trying begging as an amateur that I could get the facts upon which to base my articles. When an actor I had, of course, learned all the secrets of making up, and had been famous in the green-room for my skill. I took advantage now of my attainments. I painted my face, and to make myself as pitiable as possible I made a good scar and fixed one side of my lip in a twist by the aid of a small slip of flesh-coloured plaster. Then with a red head of hair, and an appropriate dress, I took my station in the business part of the city, ostensibly as a match-seller but really as a beggar. For seven hours I plied my trade, and when I returned home in the evening I found to my surprise that I had received no less than 26s. 4d.

+

+

+

+"I wrote my articles and thought little more of the matter until, some time later, I backed a bill for a friend and had a writ served upon me for $25. I was at my wit's end where to get the money, but a sudden idea came to me. I begged a fortnight's grace from the creditor, asked for a holiday from my employers, and spent the time in begging in the City under my disguise. In ten days I had the money and had paid the debt.

+

+

+

+"Well, you can imagine how hard it was to settle down to arduous work at $2 a week when I knew that I could earn as much in a day by smearing my face with a little paint, laying my cap on the ground, and sitting still. It was a long fight between my pride and the money, but the dollars won at last, and I threw up reporting and sat day after day in the corner which I had first chosen, inspiring pity by my ghastly face and filling my pockets with coppers. Only one man knew my secret. He was the keeper of a low den in which I used to lodge in Swandam Lane, where I could every morning emerge as a squalid beggar and in the evenings transform myself into a well-dressed man about town. This fellow, a Lascar, was well paid by me for his rooms, so that I knew that my secret was safe in his possession.

+

+

+

+"Well, very soon I found that I was saving considerable sums of money. I do not mean that any beggar in the streets of London could earn $700 a year--which is less than my average takings--but I had exceptional advantages in my power of making up, and also in a facility of repartee, which improved by practice and made me quite a recognised character in the City. All day a stream of pennies, varied by silver, poured in upon me, and it was a very bad day in which I failed to take $2.

+

+

+

+"As I grew richer I grew more ambitious, took a house in the country, and eventually married, without anyone having a suspicion as to my real occupation. My dear wife knew that I had business in the City. She little knew what.

+

+

+

+"Last Monday I had finished for the day and was dressing in my room above the opium den when I looked out of my window and saw, to my horror and astonishment, that my wife was standing in the street, with her eyes fixed full upon me. I gave a cry of surprise, threw up my arms to cover my face, and, rushing to my confidant, the Lascar, entreated him to prevent anyone from coming up to me. I heard her voice downstairs, but I knew that she could not ascend. Swiftly I threw off my clothes, pulled on those of a beggar, and put on my pigments and wig. Even a wife's eyes could not pierce so complete a disguise. But then it occurred to me that there might be a search in the room, and that the clothes might betray me. I threw open the window, reopening by my violence a small cut which I had inflicted upon myself in the bedroom that morning. Then I seized my coat, which was weighted by the coppers which I had just transferred to it from the leather bag in which I carried my takings. I hurled it out of the window, and it disappeared into the Thames. The other clothes would have followed, but at that moment there was a rush of constables up the stair, and a few minutes after I found, rather, I confess, to my relief, that instead of being identified as Mr. Neville St. Clair, I was arrested as his murderer.

+

+

+

+"I do not know that there is anything else for me to explain. I was determined to preserve my disguise as long as possible, and hence my preference for a dirty face. Knowing that my wife would be terribly anxious, I slipped off my ring and confided it to the Lascar at a moment when no constable was watching me, together with a hurried scrawl, telling her that she had no cause to fear."

+

+

+

+"That note only reached her yesterday," said Holmes.

+

+

+

+"Good God! What a week she must have spent!"

+

+

+

+"The police have watched this Lascar," said Inspector Bradstreet, "and I can quite understand that he might find it difficult to post a letter unobserved. Probably he handed it to some sailor customer of his, who forgot all about it for some days."

+

+

+

+"That was it," said Holmes, nodding approvingly; "I have no doubt of it. But have you never been prosecuted for begging?"

+

+

+

+"Many times; but what was a fine to me?"

+

+

+

+"It must stop here, however," said Bradstreet. "If the police are to hush this thing up, there must be no more of Hugh Boone."

+

+

+

+"I have sworn it by the most solemn oaths which a man can take."

+

+

+

+"In that case I think that it is probable that no further steps may be taken. But if you are found again, then all must come out. I am sure, Mr. Holmes, that we are very much indebted to you for having cleared the matter up. I wish I knew how you reach your results."

+

+

+

+"I reached this one," said my friend, "by sitting upon five pillows and consuming an ounce of shag. I think, Watson, that if we drive to Baker Street we shall just be in time for breakfast."

+

+

+

+VII.  THE ADVENTURE OF THE BLUE CARBUNCLE

+

+

+

+

+

+I had called upon my friend Sherlock Holmes upon the second morning after Christmas, with the intention of wishing him the compliments of the season. He was lounging upon the sofa in a purple dressing-gown, a pipe-rack within his reach upon the right, and a pile of crumpled morning papers, evidently newly studied, near at hand. Beside the couch was a wooden chair, and on the angle of the back hung a very seedy and disreputable hard-felt hat, much the worse for wear, and cracked in several places. A lens and a forceps lying upon the seat of the chair suggested that the hat had been suspended in this manner for the purpose of examination.

+

+

+

+"You are engaged," said I; "perhaps I interrupt you."

+

+

+

+"Not at all. I am glad to have a friend with whom I can discuss my results. The matter is a perfectly trivial one"--he jerked his thumb in the direction of the old hat--"but there are points in connection with it which are not entirely devoid of interest and even of instruction."

+

+

+

+I seated myself in his armchair and warmed my hands before his crackling fire, for a sharp frost had set in, and the windows were thick with the ice crystals. "I suppose," I remarked, "that, homely as it looks, this thing has some deadly story linked on to it--that it is the clue which will guide you in the solution of some mystery and the punishment of some crime."

+

+

+

+"No, no. No crime," said Sherlock Holmes, laughing. "Only one of those whimsical little incidents which will happen when you have four million human beings all jostling each other within the space of a few square miles. Amid the action and reaction of so dense a swarm of humanity, every possible combination of events may be expected to take place, and many a little problem will be presented which may be striking and bizarre without being criminal. We have already had experience of such."

+

+

+

+"So much so," I remarked, "that of the last six cases which I have added to my notes, three have been entirely free of any legal crime."

+

+

+

+"Precisely. You allude to my attempt to recover the Irene Adler papers, to the singular case of Miss Mary Sutherland, and to the adventure of the man with the twisted lip. Well, I have no doubt that this small matter will fall into the same innocent category. You know Peterson, the commissionaire?"

+

+

+

+"Yes."

+

+

+

+"It is to him that this trophy belongs."

+

+

+

+"It is his hat."

+

+

+

+"No, no, he found it. Its owner is unknown. I beg that you will look upon it not as a battered billycock but as an intellectual problem. And, first, as to how it came here. It arrived upon Christmas morning, in company with a good fat goose, which is, I have no doubt, roasting at this moment in front of Peterson's fire. The facts are these: about four o'clock on Christmas morning, Peterson, who, as you know, is a very honest fellow, was returning from some small jollification and was making his way homeward down Tottenham Court Road. In front of him he saw, in the gaslight, a tallish man, walking with a slight stagger, and carrying a white goose slung over his shoulder. As he reached the corner of Goodge Street, a row broke out between this stranger and a little knot of roughs. One of the latter knocked off the man's hat, on which he raised his stick to defend himself and, swinging it over his head, smashed the shop window behind him. Peterson had rushed forward to protect the stranger from his assailants; but the man, shocked at having broken the window, and seeing an official-looking person in uniform rushing towards him, dropped his goose, took to his heels, and vanished amid the labyrinth of small streets which lie at the back of Tottenham Court Road. The roughs had also fled at the appearance of Peterson, so that he was left in possession of the field of battle, and also of the spoils of victory in the shape of this battered hat and a most unimpeachable Christmas goose."

+

+

+

+"Which surely he restored to their owner?"

+

+

+

+"My dear fellow, there lies the problem. It is true that 'For Mrs. Henry Baker' was printed upon a small card which was tied to the bird's left leg, and it is also true that the initials 'H. B.' are legible upon the lining of this hat, but as there are some thousands of Bakers, and some hundreds of Henry Bakers in this city of ours, it is not easy to restore lost property to any one of them."

+

+

+

+"What, then, did Peterson do?"

+

+

+

+"He brought round both hat and goose to me on Christmas morning, knowing that even the smallest problems are of interest to me. The goose we retained until this morning, when there were signs that, in spite of the slight frost, it would be well that it should be eaten without unnecessary delay. Its finder has carried it off, therefore, to fulfil the ultimate destiny of a goose, while I continue to retain the hat of the unknown gentleman who lost his Christmas dinner."

+

+

+

+"Did he not advertise?"

+

+

+

+"No."

+

+

+

+"Then, what clue could you have as to his identity?"

+

+

+

+"Only as much as we can deduce."

+

+

+

+"From his hat?"

+

+

+

+"Precisely."

+

+

+

+"But you are joking. What can you gather from this old battered felt?"

+

+

+

+"Here is my lens. You know my methods. What can you gather yourself as to the individuality of the man who has worn this article?"

+

+

+

+I took the tattered object in my hands and turned it over rather ruefully. It was a very ordinary black hat of the usual round shape, hard and much the worse for wear. The lining had been of red silk, but was a good deal discoloured. There was no maker's name; but, as Holmes had remarked, the initials "H. B." were scrawled upon one side. It was pierced in the brim for a hat-securer, but the elastic was missing. For the rest, it was cracked, exceedingly dusty, and spotted in several places, although there seemed to have been some attempt to hide the discoloured patches by smearing them with ink.

+

+

+

+"I can see nothing," said I, handing it back to my friend.

+

+

+

+"On the contrary, Watson, you can see everything. You fail, however, to reason from what you see. You are too timid in drawing your inferences."

+

+

+

+"Then, pray tell me what it is that you can infer from this hat?"

+

+

+

+He picked it up and gazed at it in the peculiar introspective fashion which was characteristic of him. "It is perhaps less suggestive than it might have been," he remarked, "and yet there are a few inferences which are very distinct, and a few others which represent at least a strong balance of probability. That the man was highly intellectual is of course obvious upon the face of it, and also that he was fairly well-to-do within the last three years, although he has now fallen upon evil days. He had foresight, but has less now than formerly, pointing to a moral retrogression, which, when taken with the decline of his fortunes, seems to indicate some evil influence, probably drink, at work upon him. This may account also for the obvious fact that his wife has ceased to love him."

+

+

+

+"My dear Holmes!"

+

+

+

+"He has, however, retained some degree of self-respect," he continued, disregarding my remonstrance. "He is a man who leads a sedentary life, goes out little, is out of training entirely, is middle-aged, has grizzled hair which he has had cut within the last few days, and which he anoints with lime-cream. These are the more patent facts which are to be deduced from his hat. Also, by the way, that it is extremely improbable that he has gas laid on in his house."

+

+

+

+"You are certainly joking, Holmes."

+

+

+

+"Not in the least. Is it possible that even now, when I give you these results, you are unable to see how they are attained?"

+

+

+

+"I have no doubt that I am very stupid, but I must confess that I am unable to follow you. For example, how did you deduce that this man was intellectual?"

+

+

+

+For answer Holmes clapped the hat upon his head. It came right over the forehead and settled upon the bridge of his nose. "It is a question of cubic capacity," said he; "a man with so large a brain must have something in it."

+

+

+

+"The decline of his fortunes, then?"

+

+

+

+"This hat is three years old. These flat brims curled at the edge came in then. It is a hat of the very best quality. Look at the band of ribbed silk and the excellent lining. If this man could afford to buy so expensive a hat three years ago, and has had no hat since, then he has assuredly gone down in the world."

+

+

+

+"Well, that is clear enough, certainly. But how about the foresight and the moral retrogression?"

+

+

+

+Sherlock Holmes laughed. "Here is the foresight," said he putting his finger upon the little disc and loop of the hat-securer. "They are never sold upon hats. If this man ordered one, it is a sign of a certain amount of foresight, since he went out of his way to take this precaution against the wind. But since we see that he has broken the elastic and has not troubled to replace it, it is obvious that he has less foresight now than formerly, which is a distinct proof of a weakening nature. On the other hand, he has endeavoured to conceal some of these stains upon the felt by daubing them with ink, which is a sign that he has not entirely lost his self-respect."

+

+

+

+"Your reasoning is certainly plausible."

+

+

+

+"The further points, that he is middle-aged, that his hair is grizzled, that it has been recently cut, and that he uses lime-cream, are all to be gathered from a close examination of the lower part of the lining. The lens discloses a large number of hair-ends, clean cut by the scissors of the barber. They all appear to be adhesive, and there is a distinct odour of lime-cream. This dust, you will observe, is not the gritty, grey dust of the street but the fluffy brown dust of the house, showing that it has been hung up indoors most of the time, while the marks of moisture upon the inside are proof positive that the wearer perspired very freely, and could therefore, hardly be in the best of training."

+

+

+

+"But his wife--you said that she had ceased to love him."

+

+

+

+"This hat has not been brushed for weeks. When I see you, my dear Watson, with a week's accumulation of dust upon your hat, and when your wife allows you to go out in such a state, I shall fear that you also have been unfortunate enough to lose your wife's affection."

+

+

+

+"But he might be a bachelor."

+

+

+

+"Nay, he was bringing home the goose as a peace-offering to his wife. Remember the card upon the bird's leg."

+

+

+

+"You have an answer to everything. But how on earth do you deduce that the gas is not laid on in his house?"

+

+

+

+"One tallow stain, or even two, might come by chance; but when I see no less than five, I think that there can be little doubt that the individual must be brought into frequent contact with burning tallow--walks upstairs at night probably with his hat in one hand and a guttering candle in the other. Anyhow, he never got tallow-stains from a gas-jet. Are you satisfied?"

+

+

+

+"Well, it is very ingenious," said I, laughing; "but since, as you said just now, there has been no crime committed, and no harm done save the loss of a goose, all this seems to be rather a waste of energy."

+

+

+

+Sherlock Holmes had opened his mouth to reply, when the door flew open, and Peterson, the commissionaire, rushed into the apartment with flushed cheeks and the face of a man who is dazed with astonishment.

+

+

+

+"The goose, Mr. Holmes! The goose, sir!" he gasped.

+

+

+

+"Eh? What of it, then? Has it returned to life and flapped off through the kitchen window?" Holmes twisted himself round upon the sofa to get a fairer view of the man's excited face.

+

+

+

+"See here, sir! See what my wife found in its crop!" He held out his hand and displayed upon the centre of the palm a brilliantly scintillating blue stone, rather smaller than a bean in size, but of such purity and radiance that it twinkled like an electric point in the dark hollow of his hand.

+

+

+

+Sherlock Holmes sat up with a whistle. "By Jove, Peterson!" said he, "this is treasure trove indeed. I suppose you know what you have got?"

+

+

+

+"A diamond, sir? A precious stone. It cuts into glass as though it were putty."

+

+

+

+"It's more than a precious stone. It is the precious stone."

+

+

+

+"Not the Countess of Morcar's blue carbuncle!" I ejaculated.

+

+

+

+"Precisely so. I ought to know its size and shape, seeing that I have read the advertisement about it in The Times every day lately. It is absolutely unique, and its value can only be conjectured, but the reward offered of $1000 is certainly not within a twentieth part of the market price."

+

+

+

+"A thousand pounds! Great Lord of mercy!" The commissionaire plumped down into a chair and stared from one to the other of us.

+

+

+

+"That is the reward, and I have reason to know that there are sentimental considerations in the background which would induce the Countess to part with half her fortune if she could but recover the gem."

+

+

+

+"It was lost, if I remember aright, at the Hotel Cosmopolitan," I remarked.

+

+

+

+"Precisely so, on December 22nd, just five days ago. John Horner, a plumber, was accused of having abstracted it from the lady's jewel-case. The evidence against him was so strong that the case has been referred to the Assizes. I have some account of the matter here, I believe." He rummaged amid his newspapers, glancing over the dates, until at last he smoothed one out, doubled it over, and read the following paragraph:

+

+

+

+"Hotel Cosmopolitan Jewel Robbery. John Horner, 26, plumber, was brought up upon the charge of having upon the 22nd inst., abstracted from the jewel-case of the Countess of Morcar the valuable gem known as the blue carbuncle. James Ryder, upper-attendant at the hotel, gave his evidence to the effect that he had shown Horner up to the dressing-room of the Countess of Morcar upon the day of the robbery in order that he might solder the second bar of the grate, which was loose. He had remained with Horner some little time, but had finally been called away. On returning, he found that Horner had disappeared, that the bureau had been forced open, and that the small morocco casket in which, as it afterwards transpired, the Countess was accustomed to keep her jewel, was lying empty upon the dressing-table. Ryder instantly gave the alarm, and Horner was arrested the same evening; but the stone could not be found either upon his person or in his rooms. Catherine Cusack, maid to the Countess, deposed to having heard Ryder's cry of dismay on discovering the robbery, and to having rushed into the room, where she found matters as described by the last witness. Inspector Bradstreet, B division, gave evidence as to the arrest of Horner, who struggled frantically, and protested his innocence in the strongest terms. Evidence of a previous conviction for robbery having been given against the prisoner, the magistrate refused to deal summarily with the offence, but referred it to the Assizes. Horner, who had shown signs of intense emotion during the proceedings, fainted away at the conclusion and was carried out of court."

+

+

+

+"Hum! So much for the police-court," said Holmes thoughtfully, tossing aside the paper. "The question for us now to solve is the sequence of events leading from a rifled jewel-case at one end to the crop of a goose in Tottenham Court Road at the other. You see, Watson, our little deductions have suddenly assumed a much more important and less innocent aspect. Here is the stone; the stone came from the goose, and the goose came from Mr. Henry Baker, the gentleman with the bad hat and all the other characteristics with which I have bored you. So now we must set ourselves very seriously to finding this gentleman and ascertaining what part he has played in this little mystery. To do this, we must try the simplest means first, and these lie undoubtedly in an advertisement in all the evening papers. If this fail, I shall have recourse to other methods."

+

+

+

+"What will you say?"

+

+

+

+"Give me a pencil and that slip of paper. Now, then: 'Found at the corner of Goodge Street, a goose and a black felt hat. Mr. Henry Baker can have the same by applying at 6:30 this evening at 221B, Baker Street.' That is clear and concise."

+

+

+

+"Very. But will he see it?"

+

+

+

+"Well, he is sure to keep an eye on the papers, since, to a poor man, the loss was a heavy one. He was clearly so scared by his mischance in breaking the window and by the approach of Peterson that he thought of nothing but flight, but since then he must have bitterly regretted the impulse which caused him to drop his bird. Then, again, the introduction of his name will cause him to see it, for everyone who knows him will direct his attention to it. Here you are, Peterson, run down to the advertising agency and have this put in the evening papers."

+

+

+

+"In which, sir?"

+

+

+

+"Oh, in the Globe, Star, Pall Mall, St. James's, Evening News, Standard, Echo, and any others that occur to you."

+

+

+

+"Very well, sir. And this stone?"

+

+

+

+"Ah, yes, I shall keep the stone. Thank you. And, I say, Peterson, just buy a goose on your way back and leave it here with me, for we must have one to give to this gentleman in place of the one which your family is now devouring."

+

+

+

+When the commissionaire had gone, Holmes took up the stone and held it against the light. "It's a bonny thing," said he. "Just see how it glints and sparkles. Of course it is a nucleus and focus of crime. Every good stone is. They are the devil's pet baits. In the larger and older jewels every facet may stand for a bloody deed. This stone is not yet twenty years old. It was found in the banks of the Amoy River in southern China and is remarkable in having every characteristic of the carbuncle, save that it is blue in shade instead of ruby red. In spite of its youth, it has already a sinister history. There have been two murders, a vitriol-throwing, a suicide, and several robberies brought about for the sake of this forty-grain weight of crystallised charcoal. Who would think that so pretty a toy would be a purveyor to the gallows and the prison? I'll lock it up in my strong box now and drop a line to the Countess to say that we have it."

+

+

+

+"Do you think that this man Horner is innocent?"

+

+

+

+"I cannot tell."

+

+

+

+"Well, then, do you imagine that this other one, Henry Baker, had anything to do with the matter?"

+

+

+

+"It is, I think, much more likely that Henry Baker is an absolutely innocent man, who had no idea that the bird which he was carrying was of considerably more value than if it were made of solid gold. That, however, I shall determine by a very simple test if we have an answer to our advertisement."

+

+

+

+"And you can do nothing until then?"

+

+

+

+"Nothing."

+

+

+

+"In that case I shall continue my professional round. But I shall come back in the evening at the hour you have mentioned, for I should like to see the solution of so tangled a business."

+

+

+

+"Very glad to see you. I dine at seven. There is a woodcock, I believe. By the way, in view of recent occurrences, perhaps I ought to ask Mrs. Hudson to examine its crop."

+

+

+

+I had been delayed at a case, and it was a little after half-past six when I found myself in Baker Street once more. As I approached the house I saw a tall man in a Scotch bonnet with a coat which was buttoned up to his chin waiting outside in the bright semicircle which was thrown from the fanlight. Just as I arrived the door was opened, and we were shown up together to Holmes' room.

+

+

+

+"Mr. Henry Baker, I believe," said he, rising from his armchair and greeting his visitor with the easy air of geniality which he could so readily assume. "Pray take this chair by the fire, Mr. Baker. It is a cold night, and I observe that your circulation is more adapted for summer than for winter. Ah, Watson, you have just come at the right time. Is that your hat, Mr. Baker?"

+

+

+

+"Yes, sir, that is undoubtedly my hat."

+

+

+

+He was a large man with rounded shoulders, a massive head, and a broad, intelligent face, sloping down to a pointed beard of grizzled brown. A touch of red in nose and cheeks, with a slight tremor of his extended hand, recalled Holmes' surmise as to his habits. His rusty black frock-coat was buttoned right up in front, with the collar turned up, and his lank wrists protruded from his sleeves without a sign of cuff or shirt. He spoke in a slow staccato fashion, choosing his words with care, and gave the impression generally of a man of learning and letters who had had ill-usage at the hands of fortune.

+

+

+

+"We have retained these things for some days," said Holmes, "because we expected to see an advertisement from you giving your address. I am at a loss to know now why you did not advertise."

+

+

+

+Our visitor gave a rather shamefaced laugh. "Shillings have not been so plentiful with me as they once were," he remarked. "I had no doubt that the gang of roughs who assaulted me had carried off both my hat and the bird. I did not care to spend more money in a hopeless attempt at recovering them."

+

+

+

+"Very naturally. By the way, about the bird, we were compelled to eat it."

+

+

+

+"To eat it!" Our visitor half rose from his chair in his excitement.

+

+

+

+"Yes, it would have been of no use to anyone had we not done so. But I presume that this other goose upon the sideboard, which is about the same weight and perfectly fresh, will answer your purpose equally well?"

+

+

+

+"Oh, certainly, certainly," answered Mr. Baker with a sigh of relief.

+

+

+

+"Of course, we still have the feathers, legs, crop, and so on of your own bird, so if you wish--"

+

+

+

+The man burst into a hearty laugh. "They might be useful to me as relics of my adventure," said he, "but beyond that I can hardly see what use the disjecta membra of my late acquaintance are going to be to me. No, sir, I think that, with your permission, I will confine my attentions to the excellent bird which I perceive upon the sideboard."

+

+

+

+Sherlock Holmes glanced sharply across at me with a slight shrug of his shoulders.

+

+

+

+"There is your hat, then, and there your bird," said he. "By the way, would it bore you to tell me where you got the other one from? I am somewhat of a fowl fancier, and I have seldom seen a better grown goose."

+

+

+

+"Certainly, sir," said Baker, who had risen and tucked his newly gained property under his arm. "There are a few of us who frequent the Alpha Inn, near the Museum--we are to be found in the Museum itself during the day, you understand. This year our good host, Windigate by name, instituted a goose club, by which, on consideration of some few pence every week, we were each to receive a bird at Christmas. My pence were duly paid, and the rest is familiar to you. I am much indebted to you, sir, for a Scotch bonnet is fitted neither to my years nor my gravity." With a comical pomposity of manner he bowed solemnly to both of us and strode off upon his way.

+

+

+

+"So much for Mr. Henry Baker," said Holmes when he had closed the door behind him. "It is quite certain that he knows nothing whatever about the matter. Are you hungry, Watson?"

+

+

+

+"Not particularly."

+

+

+

+"Then I suggest that we turn our dinner into a supper and follow up this clue while it is still hot."

+

+

+

+"By all means."

+

+

+

+It was a bitter night, so we drew on our ulsters and wrapped cravats about our throats. Outside, the stars were shining coldly in a cloudless sky, and the breath of the passers-by blew out into smoke like so many pistol shots. Our footfalls rang out crisply and loudly as we swung through the doctors' quarter, Wimpole Street, Harley Street, and so through Wigmore Street into Oxford Street. In a quarter of an hour we were in Bloomsbury at the Alpha Inn, which is a small public-house at the corner of one of the streets which runs down into Holborn. Holmes pushed open the door of the private bar and ordered two glasses of beer from the ruddy-faced, white-aproned landlord.

+

+

+

+"Your beer should be excellent if it is as good as your geese," said he.

+

+

+

+"My geese!" The man seemed surprised.

+

+

+

+"Yes. I was speaking only half an hour ago to Mr. Henry Baker, who was a member of your goose club."

+

+

+

+"Ah! yes, I see. But you see, sir, them's not our geese."

+

+

+

+"Indeed! Whose, then?"

+

+

+

+"Well, I got the two dozen from a salesman in Covent Garden."

+

+

+

+"Indeed? I know some of them. Which was it?"

+

+

+

+"Breckinridge is his name."

+

+

+

+"Ah! I don't know him. Well, here's your good health landlord, and prosperity to your house. Good-night."

+

+

+

+"Now for Mr. Breckinridge," he continued, buttoning up his coat as we came out into the frosty air. "Remember, Watson that though we have so homely a thing as a goose at one end of this chain, we have at the other a man who will certainly get seven years' penal servitude unless we can establish his innocence. It is possible that our inquiry may but confirm his guilt; but, in any case, we have a line of investigation which has been missed by the police, and which a singular chance has placed in our hands. Let us follow it out to the bitter end. Faces to the south, then, and quick march!"

+

+

+

+We passed across Holborn, down Endell Street, and so through a zigzag of slums to Covent Garden Market. One of the largest stalls bore the name of Breckinridge upon it, and the proprietor a horsey-looking man, with a sharp face and trim side-whiskers was helping a boy to put up the shutters.

+

+

+

+"Good-evening. It's a cold night," said Holmes.

+

+

+

+The salesman nodded and shot a questioning glance at my companion.

+

+

+

+"Sold out of geese, I see," continued Holmes, pointing at the bare slabs of marble.

+

+

+

+"Let you have five hundred to-morrow morning."

+

+

+

+"That's no good."

+

+

+

+"Well, there are some on the stall with the gas-flare."

+

+

+

+"Ah, but I was recommended to you."

+

+

+

+"Who by?"

+

+

+

+"The landlord of the Alpha."

+

+

+

+"Oh, yes; I sent him a couple of dozen."

+

+

+

+"Fine birds they were, too. Now where did you get them from?"

+

+

+

+To my surprise the question provoked a burst of anger from the salesman.

+

+

+

+"Now, then, mister," said he, with his head cocked and his arms akimbo, "what are you driving at? Let's have it straight, now."

+

+

+

+"It is straight enough. I should like to know who sold you the geese which you supplied to the Alpha."

+

+

+

+"Well then, I shan't tell you. So now!"

+

+

+

+"Oh, it is a matter of no importance; but I don't know why you should be so warm over such a trifle."

+

+

+

+"Warm! You'd be as warm, maybe, if you were as pestered as I am. When I pay good money for a good article there should be an end of the business; but it's 'Where are the geese?' and 'Who did you sell the geese to?' and 'What will you take for the geese?' One would think they were the only geese in the world, to hear the fuss that is made over them."

+

+

+

+"Well, I have no connection with any other people who have been making inquiries," said Holmes carelessly. "If you won't tell us the bet is off, that is all. But I'm always ready to back my opinion on a matter of fowls, and I have a fiver on it that the bird I ate is country bred."

+

+

+

+"Well, then, you've lost your fiver, for it's town bred," snapped the salesman.

+

+

+

+"It's nothing of the kind."

+

+

+

+"I say it is."

+

+

+

+"I don't believe it."

+

+

+

+"D'you think you know more about fowls than I, who have handled them ever since I was a nipper? I tell you, all those birds that went to the Alpha were town bred."

+

+

+

+"You'll never persuade me to believe that."

+

+

+

+"Will you bet, then?"

+

+

+

+"It's merely taking your money, for I know that I am right. But I'll have a sovereign on with you, just to teach you not to be obstinate."

+

+

+

+The salesman chuckled grimly. "Bring me the books, Bill," said he.

+

+

+

+The small boy brought round a small thin volume and a great greasy-backed one, laying them out together beneath the hanging lamp.

+

+

+

+"Now then, Mr. Cocksure," said the salesman, "I thought that I was out of geese, but before I finish you'll find that there is still one left in my shop. You see this little book?"

+

+

+

+"Well?"

+

+

+

+"That's the list of the folk from whom I buy. D'you see? Well, then, here on this page are the country folk, and the numbers after their names are where their accounts are in the big ledger. Now, then! You see this other page in red ink? Well, that is a list of my town suppliers. Now, look at that third name. Just read it out to me."

+

+

+

+"Mrs. Oakshott, 117, Brixton Road--249," read Holmes.

+

+

+

+"Quite so. Now turn that up in the ledger."

+

+

+

+Holmes turned to the page indicated. "Here you are, 'Mrs. Oakshott, 117, Brixton Road, egg and poultry supplier.' "

+

+

+

+"Now, then, what's the last entry?"

+

+

+

+" 'December 22nd. Twenty-four geese at 7s. 6d.' "

+

+

+

+"Quite so. There you are. And underneath?"

+

+

+

+" 'Sold to Mr. Windigate of the Alpha, at 12s.' "

+

+

+

+"What have you to say now?"

+

+

+

+Sherlock Holmes looked deeply chagrined. He drew a sovereign from his pocket and threw it down upon the slab, turning away with the air of a man whose disgust is too deep for words. A few yards off he stopped under a lamp-post and laughed in the hearty, noiseless fashion which was peculiar to him.

+

+

+

+"When you see a man with whiskers of that cut and the 'Pink 'un' protruding out of his pocket, you can always draw him by a bet," said he. "I daresay that if I had put $100 down in front of him, that man would not have given me such complete information as was drawn from him by the idea that he was doing me on a wager. Well, Watson, we are, I fancy, nearing the end of our quest, and the only point which remains to be determined is whether we should go on to this Mrs. Oakshott to-night, or whether we should reserve it for to-morrow. It is clear from what that surly fellow said that there are others besides ourselves who are anxious about the matter, and I should--"

+

+

+

+His remarks were suddenly cut short by a loud hubbub which broke out from the stall which we had just left. Turning round we saw a little rat-faced fellow standing in the centre of the circle of yellow light which was thrown by the swinging lamp, while Breckinridge, the salesman, framed in the door of his stall, was shaking his fists fiercely at the cringing figure.

+

+

+

+"I've had enough of you and your geese," he shouted. "I wish you were all at the devil together. If you come pestering me any more with your silly talk I'll set the dog at you. You bring Mrs. Oakshott here and I'll answer her, but what have you to do with it? Did I buy the geese off you?"

+

+

+

+"No; but one of them was mine all the same," whined the little man.

+

+

+

+"Well, then, ask Mrs. Oakshott for it."

+

+

+

+"She told me to ask you."

+

+

+

+"Well, you can ask the King of Proosia, for all I care. I've had enough of it. Get out of this!" He rushed fiercely forward, and the inquirer flitted away into the darkness.

+

+

+

+"Ha! this may save us a visit to Brixton Road," whispered Holmes. "Come with me, and we will see what is to be made of this fellow." Striding through the scattered knots of people who lounged round the flaring stalls, my companion speedily overtook the little man and touched him upon the shoulder. He sprang round, and I could see in the gas-light that every vestige of colour had been driven from his face.

+

+

+

+"Who are you, then? What do you want?" he asked in a quavering voice.

+

+

+

+"You will excuse me," said Holmes blandly, "but I could not help overhearing the questions which you put to the salesman just now. I think that I could be of assistance to you."

+

+

+

+"You? Who are you? How could you know anything of the matter?"

+

+

+

+"My name is Sherlock Holmes. It is my business to know what other people don't know."

+

+

+

+"But you can know nothing of this?"

+

+

+

+"Excuse me, I know everything of it. You are endeavouring to trace some geese which were sold by Mrs. Oakshott, of Brixton Road, to a salesman named Breckinridge, by him in turn to Mr. Windigate, of the Alpha, and by him to his club, of which Mr. Henry Baker is a member."

+

+

+

+"Oh, sir, you are the very man whom I have longed to meet," cried the little fellow with outstretched hands and quivering fingers. "I can hardly explain to you how interested I am in this matter."

+

+

+

+Sherlock Holmes hailed a four-wheeler which was passing. "In that case we had better discuss it in a cosy room rather than in this wind-swept market-place," said he. "But pray tell me, before we go farther, who it is that I have the pleasure of assisting."

+

+

+

+The man hesitated for an instant. "My name is John Robinson," he answered with a sidelong glance.

+

+

+

+"No, no; the real name," said Holmes sweetly. "It is always awkward doing business with an alias."

+

+

+

+A flush sprang to the white cheeks of the stranger. "Well then," said he, "my real name is James Ryder."

+

+

+

+"Precisely so. Head attendant at the Hotel Cosmopolitan. Pray step into the cab, and I shall soon be able to tell you everything which you would wish to know."

+

+

+

+The little man stood glancing from one to the other of us with half-frightened, half-hopeful eyes, as one who is not sure whether he is on the verge of a windfall or of a catastrophe. Then he stepped into the cab, and in half an hour we were back in the sitting-room at Baker Street. Nothing had been said during our drive, but the high, thin breathing of our new companion, and the claspings and unclaspings of his hands, spoke of the nervous tension within him.

+

+

+

+"Here we are!" said Holmes cheerily as we filed into the room. "The fire looks very seasonable in this weather. You look cold, Mr. Ryder. Pray take the basket-chair. I will just put on my slippers before we settle this little matter of yours. Now, then! You want to know what became of those geese?"

+

+

+

+"Yes, sir."

+

+

+

+"Or rather, I fancy, of that goose. It was one bird, I imagine in which you were interested--white, with a black bar across the tail."

+

+

+

+Ryder quivered with emotion. "Oh, sir," he cried, "can you tell me where it went to?"

+

+

+

+"It came here."

+

+

+

+"Here?"

+

+

+

+"Yes, and a most remarkable bird it proved. I don't wonder that you should take an interest in it. It laid an egg after it was dead--the bonniest, brightest little blue egg that ever was seen. I have it here in my museum."

+

+

+

+Our visitor staggered to his feet and clutched the mantelpiece with his right hand. Holmes unlocked his strong-box and held up the blue carbuncle, which shone out like a star, with a cold, brilliant, many-pointed radiance. Ryder stood glaring with a drawn face, uncertain whether to claim or to disown it.

+

+

+

+"The game's up, Ryder," said Holmes quietly. "Hold up, man, or you'll be into the fire! Give him an arm back into his chair, Watson. He's not got blood enough to go in for felony with impunity. Give him a dash of brandy. So! Now he looks a little more human. What a shrimp it is, to be sure!"

+

+

+

+For a moment he had staggered and nearly fallen, but the brandy brought a tinge of colour into his cheeks, and he sat staring with frightened eyes at his accuser.

+

+

+

+"I have almost every link in my hands, and all the proofs which I could possibly need, so there is little which you need tell me. Still, that little may as well be cleared up to make the case complete. You had heard, Ryder, of this blue stone of the Countess of Morcar's?"

+

+

+

+"It was Catherine Cusack who told me of it," said he in a crackling voice.

+

+

+

+"I see--her ladyship's waiting-maid. Well, the temptation of sudden wealth so easily acquired was too much for you, as it has been for better men before you; but you were not very scrupulous in the means you used. It seems to me, Ryder, that there is the making of a very pretty villain in you. You knew that this man Horner, the plumber, had been concerned in some such matter before, and that suspicion would rest the more readily upon him. What did you do, then? You made some small job in my lady's room--you and your confederate Cusack--and you managed that he should be the man sent for. Then, when he had left, you rifled the jewel-case, raised the alarm, and had this unfortunate man arrested. You then--"

+

+

+

+Ryder threw himself down suddenly upon the rug and clutched at my companion's knees. "For God's sake, have mercy!" he shrieked. "Think of my father! Of my mother! It would break their hearts. I never went wrong before! I never will again. I swear it. I'll swear it on a Bible. Oh, don't bring it into court! For Christ's sake, don't!"

+

+

+

+"Get back into your chair!" said Holmes sternly. "It is very well to cringe and crawl now, but you thought little enough of this poor Horner in the dock for a crime of which he knew nothing."

+

+

+

+"I will fly, Mr. Holmes. I will leave the country, sir. Then the charge against him will break down."

+

+

+

+"Hum! We will talk about that. And now let us hear a true account of the next act. How came the stone into the goose, and how came the goose into the open market? Tell us the truth, for there lies your only hope of safety."

+

+

+

+Ryder passed his tongue over his parched lips. "I will tell you it just as it happened, sir," said he. "When Horner had been arrested, it seemed to me that it would be best for me to get away with the stone at once, for I did not know at what moment the police might not take it into their heads to search me and my room. There was no place about the hotel where it would be safe. I went out, as if on some commission, and I made for my sister's house. She had married a man named Oakshott, and lived in Brixton Road, where she fattened fowls for the market. All the way there every man I met seemed to me to be a policeman or a detective; and, for all that it was a cold night, the sweat was pouring down my face before I came to the Brixton Road. My sister asked me what was the matter, and why I was so pale; but I told her that I had been upset by the jewel robbery at the hotel. Then I went into the back yard and smoked a pipe and wondered what it would be best to do.

+

+

+

+"I had a friend once called Maudsley, who went to the bad, and has just been serving his time in Pentonville. One day he had met me, and fell into talk about the ways of thieves, and how they could get rid of what they stole. I knew that he would be true to me, for I knew one or two things about him; so I made up my mind to go right on to Kilburn, where he lived, and take him into my confidence. He would show me how to turn the stone into money. But how to get to him in safety? I thought of the agonies I had gone through in coming from the hotel. I might at any moment be seized and searched, and there would be the stone in my waistcoat pocket. I was leaning against the wall at the time and looking at the geese which were waddling about round my feet, and suddenly an idea came into my head which showed me how I could beat the best detective that ever lived.

+

+

+

+"My sister had told me some weeks before that I might have the pick of her geese for a Christmas present, and I knew that she was always as good as her word. I would take my goose now, and in it I would carry my stone to Kilburn. There was a little shed in the yard, and behind this I drove one of the birds--a fine big one, white, with a barred tail. I caught it, and prying its bill open, I thrust the stone down its throat as far as my finger could reach. The bird gave a gulp, and I felt the stone pass along its gullet and down into its crop. But the creature flapped and struggled, and out came my sister to know what was the matter. As I turned to speak to her the brute broke loose and fluttered off among the others.

+

+

+

+" 'Whatever were you doing with that bird, Jem?' says she.

+

+

+

+" 'Well,' said I, 'you said you'd give me one for Christmas, and I was feeling which was the fattest.'

+

+

+

+" 'Oh,' says she, 'we've set yours aside for you--Jem's bird, we call it. It's the big white one over yonder. There's twenty-six of them, which makes one for you, and one for us, and two dozen for the market.'

+

+

+

+" 'Thank you, Maggie,' says I; 'but if it is all the same to you, I'd rather have that one I was handling just now.'

+

+

+

+" 'The other is a good three pound heavier,' said she, 'and we fattened it expressly for you.'

+

+

+

+" 'Never mind. I'll have the other, and I'll take it now,' said I.

+

+

+

+" 'Oh, just as you like,' said she, a little huffed. 'Which is it you want, then?'

+

+

+

+" 'That white one with the barred tail, right in the middle of the flock.'

+

+

+

+" 'Oh, very well. Kill it and take it with you.'

+

+

+

+"Well, I did what she said, Mr. Holmes, and I carried the bird all the way to Kilburn. I told my pal what I had done, for he was a man that it was easy to tell a thing like that to. He laughed until he choked, and we got a knife and opened the goose. My heart turned to water, for there was no sign of the stone, and I knew that some terrible mistake had occurred. I left the bird, rushed back to my sister's, and hurried into the back yard. There was not a bird to be seen there.

+

+

+

+" 'Where are they all, Maggie?' I cried.

+

+

+

+" 'Gone to the dealer's, Jem.'

+

+

+

+" 'Which dealer's?'

+

+

+

+" 'Breckinridge, of Covent Garden.'

+

+

+

+" 'But was there another with a barred tail?' I asked, 'the same as the one I chose?'

+

+

+

+" 'Yes, Jem; there were two barred-tailed ones, and I could never tell them apart.'

+

+

+

+"Well, then, of course I saw it all, and I ran off as hard as my feet would carry me to this man Breckinridge; but he had sold the lot at once, and not one word would he tell me as to where they had gone. You heard him yourselves to-night. Well, he has always answered me like that. My sister thinks that I am going mad. Sometimes I think that I am myself. And now--and now I am myself a branded thief, without ever having touched the wealth for which I sold my character. God help me! God help me!" He burst into convulsive sobbing, with his face buried in his hands.

+

+

+

+There was a long silence, broken only by his heavy breathing and by the measured tapping of Sherlock Holmes' finger-tips upon the edge of the table. Then my friend rose and threw open the door.

+

+

+

+"Get out!" said he.

+

+

+

+"What, sir! Oh, Heaven bless you!"

+

+

+

+"No more words. Get out!"

+

+

+

+And no more words were needed. There was a rush, a clatter upon the stairs, the bang of a door, and the crisp rattle of running footfalls from the street.

+

+

+

+"After all, Watson," said Holmes, reaching up his hand for his clay pipe, "I am not retained by the police to supply their deficiencies. If Horner were in danger it would be another thing; but this fellow will not appear against him, and the case must collapse. I suppose that I am commuting a felony, but it is just possible that I am saving a soul. This fellow will not go wrong again; he is too terribly frightened. Send him to gaol now, and you make him a gaol-bird for life. Besides, it is the season of forgiveness. Chance has put in our way a most singular and whimsical problem, and its solution is its own reward. If you will have the goodness to touch the bell, Doctor, we will begin another investigation, in which, also a bird will be the chief feature."

+

+

+

+VIII.  THE ADVENTURE OF THE SPECKLED BAND

+

+

+

+

+

+On glancing over my notes of the seventy odd cases in which I have during the last eight years studied the methods of my friend Sherlock Holmes, I find many tragic, some comic, a large number merely strange, but none commonplace; for, working as he did rather for the love of his art than for the acquirement of wealth, he refused to associate himself with any investigation which did not tend towards the unusual, and even the fantastic. Of all these varied cases, however, I cannot recall any which presented more singular features than that which was associated with the well-known Surrey family of the Roylotts of Stoke Moran. The events in question occurred in the early days of my association with Holmes, when we were sharing rooms as bachelors in Baker Street. It is possible that I might have placed them upon record before, but a promise of secrecy was made at the time, from which I have only been freed during the last month by the untimely death of the lady to whom the pledge was given. It is perhaps as well that the facts should now come to light, for I have reasons to know that there are widespread rumours as to the death of Dr. Grimesby Roylott which tend to make the matter even more terrible than the truth.

+

+

+

+It was early in April in the year '83 that I woke one morning to find Sherlock Holmes standing, fully dressed, by the side of my bed. He was a late riser, as a rule, and as the clock on the mantelpiece showed me that it was only a quarter-past seven, I blinked up at him in some surprise, and perhaps just a little resentment, for I was myself regular in my habits.

+

+

+

+"Very sorry to knock you up, Watson," said he, "but it's the common lot this morning. Mrs. Hudson has been knocked up, she retorted upon me, and I on you."

+

+

+

+"What is it, then--a fire?"

+

+

+

+"No; a client. It seems that a young lady has arrived in a considerable state of excitement, who insists upon seeing me. She is waiting now in the sitting-room. Now, when young ladies wander about the metropolis at this hour of the morning, and knock sleepy people up out of their beds, I presume that it is something very pressing which they have to communicate. Should it prove to be an interesting case, you would, I am sure, wish to follow it from the outset. I thought, at any rate, that I should call you and give you the chance."

+

+

+

+"My dear fellow, I would not miss it for anything."

+

+

+

+I had no keener pleasure than in following Holmes in his professional investigations, and in admiring the rapid deductions, as swift as intuitions, and yet always founded on a logical basis with which he unravelled the problems which were submitted to him. I rapidly threw on my clothes and was ready in a few minutes to accompany my friend down to the sitting-room. A lady dressed in black and heavily veiled, who had been sitting in the window, rose as we entered.

+

+

+

+"Good-morning, madam," said Holmes cheerily. "My name is Sherlock Holmes. This is my intimate friend and associate, Dr. Watson, before whom you can speak as freely as before myself. Ha! I am glad to see that Mrs. Hudson has had the good sense to light the fire. Pray draw up to it, and I shall order you a cup of hot coffee, for I observe that you are shivering."

+

+

+

+"It is not cold which makes me shiver," said the woman in a low voice, changing her seat as requested.

+

+

+

+"What, then?"

+

+

+

+"It is fear, Mr. Holmes. It is terror." She raised her veil as she spoke, and we could see that she was indeed in a pitiable state of agitation, her face all drawn and grey, with restless frightened eyes, like those of some hunted animal. Her features and figure were those of a woman of thirty, but her hair was shot with premature grey, and her expression was weary and haggard. Sherlock Holmes ran her over with one of his quick, all-comprehensive glances.

+

+

+

+"You must not fear," said he soothingly, bending forward and patting her forearm. "We shall soon set matters right, I have no doubt. You have come in by train this morning, I see."

+

+

+

+"You know me, then?"

+

+

+

+"No, but I observe the second half of a return ticket in the palm of your left glove. You must have started early, and yet you had a good drive in a dog-cart, along heavy roads, before you reached the station."

+

+

+

+The lady gave a violent start and stared in bewilderment at my companion.

+

+

+

+"There is no mystery, my dear madam," said he, smiling. "The left arm of your jacket is spattered with mud in no less than seven places. The marks are perfectly fresh. There is no vehicle save a dog-cart which throws up mud in that way, and then only when you sit on the left-hand side of the driver."

+

+

+

+"Whatever your reasons may be, you are perfectly correct," said she. "I started from home before six, reached Leatherhead at twenty past, and came in by the first train to Waterloo. Sir, I can stand this strain no longer; I shall go mad if it continues. I have no one to turn to--none, save only one, who cares for me, and he, poor fellow, can be of little aid. I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes; I have heard of you from Mrs. Farintosh, whom you helped in the hour of her sore need. It was from her that I had your address. Oh, sir, do you not think that you could help me, too, and at least throw a little light through the dense darkness which surrounds me? At present it is out of my power to reward you for your services, but in a month or six weeks I shall be married, with the control of my own income, and then at least you shall not find me ungrateful."

+

+

+

+Holmes turned to his desk and, unlocking it, drew out a small case-book, which he consulted.

+

+

+

+"Farintosh," said he. "Ah yes, I recall the case; it was concerned with an opal tiara. I think it was before your time, Watson. I can only say, madam, that I shall be happy to devote the same care to your case as I did to that of your friend. As to reward, my profession is its own reward; but you are at liberty to defray whatever expenses I may be put to, at the time which suits you best. And now I beg that you will lay before us everything that may help us in forming an opinion upon the matter."

+

+

+

+"Alas!" replied our visitor, "the very horror of my situation lies in the fact that my fears are so vague, and my suspicions depend so entirely upon small points, which might seem trivial to another, that even he to whom of all others I have a right to look for help and advice looks upon all that I tell him about it as the fancies of a nervous woman. He does not say so, but I can read it from his soothing answers and averted eyes. But I have heard, Mr. Holmes, that you can see deeply into the manifold wickedness of the human heart. You may advise me how to walk amid the dangers which encompass me."

+

+

+

+"I am all attention, madam."

+

+

+

+"My name is Helen Stoner, and I am living with my stepfather, who is the last survivor of one of the oldest Saxon families in England, the Roylotts of Stoke Moran, on the western border of Surrey."

+

+

+

+Holmes nodded his head. "The name is familiar to me," said he.

+

+

+

+"The family was at one time among the richest in England, and the estates extended over the borders into Berkshire in the north, and Hampshire in the west. In the last century, however, four successive heirs were of a dissolute and wasteful disposition, and the family ruin was eventually completed by a gambler in the days of the Regency. Nothing was left save a few acres of ground, and the two-hundred-year-old house, which is itself crushed under a heavy mortgage. The last squire dragged out his existence there, living the horrible life of an aristocratic pauper; but his only son, my stepfather, seeing that he must adapt himself to the new conditions, obtained an advance from a relative, which enabled him to take a medical degree and went out to Calcutta, where, by his professional skill and his force of character, he established a large practice. In a fit of anger, however, caused by some robberies which had been perpetrated in the house, he beat his native butler to death and narrowly escaped a capital sentence. As it was, he suffered a long term of imprisonment and afterwards returned to England a morose and disappointed man.

+

+

+

+"When Dr. Roylott was in India he married my mother, Mrs. Stoner, the young widow of Major-General Stoner, of the Bengal Artillery. My sister Julia and I were twins, and we were only two years old at the time of my mother's re-marriage. She had a considerable sum of money--not less than $1000 a year--and this she bequeathed to Dr. Roylott entirely while we resided with him, with a provision that a certain annual sum should be allowed to each of us in the event of our marriage. Shortly after our return to England my mother died--she was killed eight years ago in a railway accident near Crewe. Dr. Roylott then abandoned his attempts to establish himself in practice in London and took us to live with him in the old ancestral house at Stoke Moran. The money which my mother had left was enough for all our wants, and there seemed to be no obstacle to our happiness.

+

+

+

+"But a terrible change came over our stepfather about this time. Instead of making friends and exchanging visits with our neighbours, who had at first been overjoyed to see a Roylott of Stoke Moran back in the old family seat, he shut himself up in his house and seldom came out save to indulge in ferocious quarrels with whoever might cross his path. Violence of temper approaching to mania has been hereditary in the men of the family, and in my stepfather's case it had, I believe, been intensified by his long residence in the tropics. A series of disgraceful brawls took place, two of which ended in the police-court, until at last he became the terror of the village, and the folks would fly at his approach, for he is a man of immense strength, and absolutely uncontrollable in his anger.

+

+

+

+"Last week he hurled the local blacksmith over a parapet into a stream, and it was only by paying over all the money which I could gather together that I was able to avert another public exposure. He had no friends at all save the wandering gipsies, and he would give these vagabonds leave to encamp upon the few acres of bramble-covered land which represent the family estate, and would accept in return the hospitality of their tents, wandering away with them sometimes for weeks on end. He has a passion also for Indian animals, which are sent over to him by a correspondent, and he has at this moment a cheetah and a baboon, which wander freely over his grounds and are feared by the villagers almost as much as their master.

+

+

+

+"You can imagine from what I say that my poor sister Julia and I had no great pleasure in our lives. No servant would stay with us, and for a long time we did all the work of the house. She was but thirty at the time of her death, and yet her hair had already begun to whiten, even as mine has."

+

+

+

+"Your sister is dead, then?"

+

+

+

+"She died just two years ago, and it is of her death that I wish to speak to you. You can understand that, living the life which I have described, we were little likely to see anyone of our own age and position. We had, however, an aunt, my mother's maiden sister, Miss Honoria Westphail, who lives near Harrow, and we were occasionally allowed to pay short visits at this lady's house. Julia went there at Christmas two years ago, and met there a half-pay major of marines, to whom she became engaged. My stepfather learned of the engagement when my sister returned and offered no objection to the marriage; but within a fortnight of the day which had been fixed for the wedding, the terrible event occurred which has deprived me of my only companion."

+

+

+

+Sherlock Holmes had been leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed and his head sunk in a cushion, but he half opened his lids now and glanced across at his visitor.

+

+

+

+"Pray be precise as to details," said he.

+

+

+

+"It is easy for me to be so, for every event of that dreadful time is seared into my memory. The manor-house is, as I have already said, very old, and only one wing is now inhabited. The bedrooms in this wing are on the ground floor, the sitting-rooms being in the central block of the buildings. Of these bedrooms the first is Dr. Roylott's, the second my sister's, and the third my own. There is no communication between them, but they all open out into the same corridor. Do I make myself plain?"

+

+

+

+"Perfectly so."

+

+

+

+"The windows of the three rooms open out upon the lawn. That fatal night Dr. Roylott had gone to his room early, though we knew that he had not retired to rest, for my sister was troubled by the smell of the strong Indian cigars which it was his custom to smoke. She left her room, therefore, and came into mine, where she sat for some time, chatting about her approaching wedding. At eleven o'clock she rose to leave me, but she paused at the door and looked back.

+

+

+

+" 'Tell me, Helen,' said she, 'have you ever heard anyone whistle in the dead of the night?'

+

+

+

+" 'Never,' said I.

+

+

+

+" 'I suppose that you could not possibly whistle, yourself, in your sleep?'

+

+

+

+" 'Certainly not. But why?'

+

+

+

+" 'Because during the last few nights I have always, about three in the morning, heard a low, clear whistle. I am a light sleeper, and it has awakened me. I cannot tell where it came from--perhaps from the next room, perhaps from the lawn. I thought that I would just ask you whether you had heard it.'

+

+

+

+" 'No, I have not. It must be those wretched gipsies in the plantation.'

+

+

+

+" 'Very likely. And yet if it were on the lawn, I wonder that you did not hear it also.'

+

+

+

+" 'Ah, but I sleep more heavily than you.'

+

+

+

+" 'Well, it is of no great consequence, at any rate.' She smiled back at me, closed my door, and a few moments later I heard her key turn in the lock."

+

+

+

+"Indeed," said Holmes. "Was it your custom always to lock yourselves in at night?"

+

+

+

+"Always."

+

+

+

+"And why?"

+

+

+

+"I think that I mentioned to you that the doctor kept a cheetah and a baboon. We had no feeling of security unless our doors were locked."

+

+

+

+"Quite so. Pray proceed with your statement."

+

+

+

+"I could not sleep that night. A vague feeling of impending misfortune impressed me. My sister and I, you will recollect, were twins, and you know how subtle are the links which bind two souls which are so closely allied. It was a wild night. The wind was howling outside, and the rain was beating and splashing against the windows. Suddenly, amid all the hubbub of the gale, there burst forth the wild scream of a terrified woman. I knew that it was my sister's voice. I sprang from my bed, wrapped a shawl round me, and rushed into the corridor. As I opened my door I seemed to hear a low whistle, such as my sister described, and a few moments later a clanging sound, as if a mass of metal had fallen. As I ran down the passage, my sister's door was unlocked, and revolved slowly upon its hinges. I stared at it horror-stricken, not knowing what was about to issue from it. By the light of the corridor-lamp I saw my sister appear at the opening, her face blanched with terror, her hands groping for help, her whole figure swaying to and fro like that of a drunkard. I ran to her and threw my arms round her, but at that moment her knees seemed to give way and she fell to the ground. She writhed as one who is in terrible pain, and her limbs were dreadfully convulsed. At first I thought that she had not recognised me, but as I bent over her she suddenly shrieked out in a voice which I shall never forget, 'Oh, my God! Helen! It was the band! The speckled band!' There was something else which she would fain have said, and she stabbed with her finger into the air in the direction of the doctor's room, but a fresh convulsion seized her and choked her words. I rushed out, calling loudly for my stepfather, and I met him hastening from his room in his dressing-gown. When he reached my sister's side she was unconscious, and though he poured brandy down her throat and sent for medical aid from the village, all efforts were in vain, for she slowly sank and died without having recovered her consciousness. Such was the dreadful end of my beloved sister."

+

+

+

+"One moment," said Holmes, "are you sure about this whistle and metallic sound? Could you swear to it?"

+

+

+

+"That was what the county coroner asked me at the inquiry. It is my strong impression that I heard it, and yet, among the crash of the gale and the creaking of an old house, I may possibly have been deceived."

+

+

+

+"Was your sister dressed?"

+

+

+

+"No, she was in her night-dress. In her right hand was found the charred stump of a match, and in her left a match-box."

+

+

+

+"Showing that she had struck a light and looked about her when the alarm took place. That is important. And what conclusions did the coroner come to?"

+

+

+

+"He investigated the case with great care, for Dr. Roylott's conduct had long been notorious in the county, but he was unable to find any satisfactory cause of death. My evidence showed that the door had been fastened upon the inner side, and the windows were blocked by old-fashioned shutters with broad iron bars, which were secured every night. The walls were carefully sounded, and were shown to be quite solid all round, and the flooring was also thoroughly examined, with the same result. The chimney is wide, but is barred up by four large staples. It is certain, therefore, that my sister was quite alone when she met her end. Besides, there were no marks of any violence upon her."

+

+

+

+"How about poison?"

+

+

+

+"The doctors examined her for it, but without success."

+

+

+

+"What do you think that this unfortunate lady died of, then?"

+

+

+

+"It is my belief that she died of pure fear and nervous shock, though what it was that frightened her I cannot imagine."

+

+

+

+"Were there gipsies in the plantation at the time?"

+

+

+

+"Yes, there are nearly always some there."

+

+

+

+"Ah, and what did you gather from this allusion to a band--a speckled band?"

+

+

+

+"Sometimes I have thought that it was merely the wild talk of delirium, sometimes that it may have referred to some band of people, perhaps to these very gipsies in the plantation. I do not know whether the spotted handkerchiefs which so many of them wear over their heads might have suggested the strange adjective which she used."

+

+

+

+Holmes shook his head like a man who is far from being satisfied.

+

+

+

+"These are very deep waters," said he; "pray go on with your narrative."

+

+

+

+"Two years have passed since then, and my life has been until lately lonelier than ever. A month ago, however, a dear friend, whom I have known for many years, has done me the honour to ask my hand in marriage. His name is Armitage--Percy Armitage--the second son of Mr. Armitage, of Crane Water, near Reading. My stepfather has offered no opposition to the match, and we are to be married in the course of the spring. Two days ago some repairs were started in the west wing of the building, and my bedroom wall has been pierced, so that I have had to move into the chamber in which my sister died, and to sleep in the very bed in which she slept. Imagine, then, my thrill of terror when last night, as I lay awake, thinking over her terrible fate, I suddenly heard in the silence of the night the low whistle which had been the herald of her own death. I sprang up and lit the lamp, but nothing was to be seen in the room. I was too shaken to go to bed again, however, so I dressed, and as soon as it was daylight I slipped down, got a dog-cart at the Crown Inn, which is opposite, and drove to Leatherhead, from whence I have come on this morning with the one object of seeing you and asking your advice."

+

+

+

+"You have done wisely," said my friend. "But have you told me all?"

+

+

+

+"Yes, all."

+

+

+

+"Miss Roylott, you have not. You are screening your stepfather."

+

+

+

+"Why, what do you mean?"

+

+

+

+For answer Holmes pushed back the frill of black lace which fringed the hand that lay upon our visitor's knee. Five little livid spots, the marks of four fingers and a thumb, were printed upon the white wrist.

+

+

+

+"You have been cruelly used," said Holmes.

+

+

+

+The lady coloured deeply and covered over her injured wrist. "He is a hard man," she said, "and perhaps he hardly knows his own strength."

+

+

+

+There was a long silence, during which Holmes leaned his chin upon his hands and stared into the crackling fire.

+

+

+

+"This is a very deep business," he said at last. "There are a thousand details which I should desire to know before I decide upon our course of action. Yet we have not a moment to lose. If we were to come to Stoke Moran to-day, would it be possible for us to see over these rooms without the knowledge of your stepfather?"

+

+

+

+"As it happens, he spoke of coming into town to-day upon some most important business. It is probable that he will be away all day, and that there would be nothing to disturb you. We have a housekeeper now, but she is old and foolish, and I could easily get her out of the way."

+

+

+

+"Excellent. You are not averse to this trip, Watson?"

+

+

+

+"By no means."

+

+

+

+"Then we shall both come. What are you going to do yourself?"

+

+

+

+"I have one or two things which I would wish to do now that I am in town. But I shall return by the twelve o'clock train, so as to be there in time for your coming."

+

+

+

+"And you may expect us early in the afternoon. I have myself some small business matters to attend to. Will you not wait and breakfast?"

+

+

+

+"No, I must go. My heart is lightened already since I have confided my trouble to you. I shall look forward to seeing you again this afternoon." She dropped her thick black veil over her face and glided from the room.

+

+

+

+"And what do you think of it all, Watson?" asked Sherlock Holmes, leaning back in his chair.

+

+

+

+"It seems to me to be a most dark and sinister business."

+

+

+

+"Dark enough and sinister enough."

+

+

+

+"Yet if the lady is correct in saying that the flooring and walls are sound, and that the door, window, and chimney are impassable, then her sister must have been undoubtedly alone when she met her mysterious end."

+

+

+

+"What becomes, then, of these nocturnal whistles, and what of the very peculiar words of the dying woman?"

+

+

+

+"I cannot think."

+

+

+

+"When you combine the ideas of whistles at night, the presence of a band of gipsies who are on intimate terms with this old doctor, the fact that we have every reason to believe that the doctor has an interest in preventing his stepdaughter's marriage, the dying allusion to a band, and, finally, the fact that Miss Helen Stoner heard a metallic clang, which might have been caused by one of those metal bars that secured the shutters falling back into its place, I think that there is good ground to think that the mystery may be cleared along those lines."

+

+

+

+"But what, then, did the gipsies do?"

+

+

+

+"I cannot imagine."

+

+

+

+"I see many objections to any such theory."

+

+

+

+"And so do I. It is precisely for that reason that we are going to Stoke Moran this day. I want to see whether the objections are fatal, or if they may be explained away. But what in the name of the devil!"

+

+

+

+The ejaculation had been drawn from my companion by the fact that our door had been suddenly dashed open, and that a huge man had framed himself in the aperture. His costume was a peculiar mixture of the professional and of the agricultural, having a black top-hat, a long frock-coat, and a pair of high gaiters, with a hunting-crop swinging in his hand. So tall was he that his hat actually brushed the cross bar of the doorway, and his breadth seemed to span it across from side to side. A large face, seared with a thousand wrinkles, burned yellow with the sun, and marked with every evil passion, was turned from one to the other of us, while his deep-set, bile-shot eyes, and his high, thin, fleshless nose, gave him somewhat the resemblance to a fierce old bird of prey.

+

+

+

+"Which of you is Holmes?" asked this apparition.

+

+

+

+"My name, sir; but you have the advantage of me," said my companion quietly.

+

+

+

+"I am Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of Stoke Moran."

+

+

+

+"Indeed, Doctor," said Holmes blandly. "Pray take a seat."

+

+

+

+"I will do nothing of the kind. My stepdaughter has been here. I have traced her. What has she been saying to you?"

+

+

+

+"It is a little cold for the time of the year," said Holmes.

+

+

+

+"What has she been saying to you?" screamed the old man furiously.

+

+

+

+"But I have heard that the crocuses promise well," continued my companion imperturbably.

+

+

+

+"Ha! You put me off, do you?" said our new visitor, taking a step forward and shaking his hunting-crop. "I know you, you scoundrel! I have heard of you before. You are Holmes, the meddler."

+

+

+

+My friend smiled.

+

+

+

+"Holmes, the busybody!"

+

+

+

+His smile broadened.

+

+

+

+"Holmes, the Scotland Yard Jack-in-office!"

+

+

+

+Holmes chuckled heartily. "Your conversation is most entertaining," said he. "When you go out close the door, for there is a decided draught."

+

+

+

+"I will go when I have said my say. Don't you dare to meddle with my affairs. I know that Miss Stoner has been here. I traced her! I am a dangerous man to fall foul of! See here." He stepped swiftly forward, seized the poker, and bent it into a curve with his huge brown hands.

+

+

+

+"See that you keep yourself out of my grip," he snarled, and hurling the twisted poker into the fireplace he strode out of the room.

+

+

+

+"He seems a very amiable person," said Holmes, laughing. "I am not quite so bulky, but if he had remained I might have shown him that my grip was not much more feeble than his own." As he spoke he picked up the steel poker and, with a sudden effort, straightened it out again.

+

+

+

+"Fancy his having the insolence to confound me with the official detective force! This incident gives zest to our investigation, however, and I only trust that our little friend will not suffer from her imprudence in allowing this brute to trace her. And now, Watson, we shall order breakfast, and afterwards I shall walk down to Doctors' Commons, where I hope to get some data which may help us in this matter."

+

+

+

+It was nearly one o'clock when Sherlock Holmes returned from his excursion. He held in his hand a sheet of blue paper, scrawled over with notes and figures.

+

+

+

+"I have seen the will of the deceased wife," said he. "To determine its exact meaning I have been obliged to work out the present prices of the investments with which it is concerned. The total income, which at the time of the wife's death was little short of $1100, is now, through the fall in agricultural prices, not more than $750. Each daughter can claim an income of $250, in case of marriage. It is evident, therefore, that if both girls had married, this beauty would have had a mere pittance, while even one of them would cripple him to a very serious extent. My morning's work has not been wasted, since it has proved that he has the very strongest motives for standing in the way of anything of the sort. And now, Watson, this is too serious for dawdling, especially as the old man is aware that we are interesting ourselves in his affairs; so if you are ready, we shall call a cab and drive to Waterloo. I should be very much obliged if you would slip your revolver into your pocket. An Eley's No. 2 is an excellent argument with gentlemen who can twist steel pokers into knots. That and a tooth-brush are, I think, all that we need."

+

+

+

+At Waterloo we were fortunate in catching a train for Leatherhead, where we hired a trap at the station inn and drove for four or five miles through the lovely Surrey lanes. It was a perfect day, with a bright sun and a few fleecy clouds in the heavens. The trees and wayside hedges were just throwing out their first green shoots, and the air was full of the pleasant smell of the moist earth. To me at least there was a strange contrast between the sweet promise of the spring and this sinister quest upon which we were engaged. My companion sat in the front of the trap, his arms folded, his hat pulled down over his eyes, and his chin sunk upon his breast, buried in the deepest thought. Suddenly, however, he started, tapped me on the shoulder, and pointed over the meadows.

+

+

+

+"Look there!" said he.

+

+

+

+A heavily timbered park stretched up in a gentle slope, thickening into a grove at the highest point. From amid the branches there jutted out the grey gables and high roof-tree of a very old mansion.

+

+

+

+"Stoke Moran?" said he.

+

+

+

+"Yes, sir, that be the house of Dr. Grimesby Roylott," remarked the driver.

+

+

+

+"There is some building going on there," said Holmes; "that is where we are going."

+

+

+

+"There's the village," said the driver, pointing to a cluster of roofs some distance to the left; "but if you want to get to the house, you'll find it shorter to get over this stile, and so by the foot-path over the fields. There it is, where the lady is walking."

+

+

+

+"And the lady, I fancy, is Miss Stoner," observed Holmes, shading his eyes. "Yes, I think we had better do as you suggest."

+

+

+

+We got off, paid our fare, and the trap rattled back on its way to Leatherhead.

+

+

+

+"I thought it as well," said Holmes as we climbed the stile, "that this fellow should think we had come here as architects, or on some definite business. It may stop his gossip. Good-afternoon, Miss Stoner. You see that we have been as good as our word."

+

+

+

+Our client of the morning had hurried forward to meet us with a face which spoke her joy. "I have been waiting so eagerly for you," she cried, shaking hands with us warmly. "All has turned out splendidly. Dr. Roylott has gone to town, and it is unlikely that he will be back before evening."

+

+

+

+"We have had the pleasure of making the doctor's acquaintance," said Holmes, and in a few words he sketched out what had occurred. Miss Stoner turned white to the lips as she listened.

+

+

+

+"Good heavens!" she cried, "he has followed me, then."

+

+

+

+"So it appears."

+

+

+

+"He is so cunning that I never know when I am safe from him. What will he say when he returns?"

+

+

+

+"He must guard himself, for he may find that there is someone more cunning than himself upon his track. You must lock yourself up from him to-night. If he is violent, we shall take you away to your aunt's at Harrow. Now, we must make the best use of our time, so kindly take us at once to the rooms which we are to examine."

+

+

+

+The building was of grey, lichen-blotched stone, with a high central portion and two curving wings, like the claws of a crab, thrown out on each side. In one of these wings the windows were broken and blocked with wooden boards, while the roof was partly caved in, a picture of ruin. The central portion was in little better repair, but the right-hand block was comparatively modern, and the blinds in the windows, with the blue smoke curling up from the chimneys, showed that this was where the family resided. Some scaffolding had been erected against the end wall, and the stone-work had been broken into, but there were no signs of any workmen at the moment of our visit. Holmes walked slowly up and down the ill-trimmed lawn and examined with deep attention the outsides of the windows.

+

+

+

+"This, I take it, belongs to the room in which you used to sleep, the centre one to your sister's, and the one next to the main building to Dr. Roylott's chamber?"

+

+

+

+"Exactly so. But I am now sleeping in the middle one."

+

+

+

+"Pending the alterations, as I understand. By the way, there does not seem to be any very pressing need for repairs at that end wall."

+

+

+

+"There were none. I believe that it was an excuse to move me from my room."

+

+

+

+"Ah! that is suggestive. Now, on the other side of this narrow wing runs the corridor from which these three rooms open. There are windows in it, of course?"

+

+

+

+"Yes, but very small ones. Too narrow for anyone to pass through."

+

+

+

+"As you both locked your doors at night, your rooms were unapproachable from that side. Now, would you have the kindness to go into your room and bar your shutters?"

+

+

+

+Miss Stoner did so, and Holmes, after a careful examination through the open window, endeavoured in every way to force the shutter open, but without success. There was no slit through which a knife could be passed to raise the bar. Then with his lens he tested the hinges, but they were of solid iron, built firmly into the massive masonry. "Hum!" said he, scratching his chin in some perplexity, "my theory certainly presents some difficulties. No one could pass these shutters if they were bolted. Well, we shall see if the inside throws any light upon the matter."

+

+

+

+A small side door led into the whitewashed corridor from which the three bedrooms opened. Holmes refused to examine the third chamber, so we passed at once to the second, that in which Miss Stoner was now sleeping, and in which her sister had met with her fate. It was a homely little room, with a low ceiling and a gaping fireplace, after the fashion of old country-houses. A brown chest of drawers stood in one corner, a narrow white-counterpaned bed in another, and a dressing-table on the left-hand side of the window. These articles, with two small wicker-work chairs, made up all the furniture in the room save for a square of Wilton carpet in the centre. The boards round and the panelling of the walls were of brown, worm-eaten oak, so old and discoloured that it may have dated from the original building of the house. Holmes drew one of the chairs into a corner and sat silent, while his eyes travelled round and round and up and down, taking in every detail of the apartment.

+

+

+

+"Where does that bell communicate with?" he asked at last pointing to a thick bell-rope which hung down beside the bed, the tassel actually lying upon the pillow.

+

+

+

+"It goes to the housekeeper's room."

+

+

+

+"It looks newer than the other things?"

+

+

+

+"Yes, it was only put there a couple of years ago."

+

+

+

+"Your sister asked for it, I suppose?"

+

+

+

+"No, I never heard of her using it. We used always to get what we wanted for ourselves."

+

+

+

+"Indeed, it seemed unnecessary to put so nice a bell-pull there. You will excuse me for a few minutes while I satisfy myself as to this floor." He threw himself down upon his face with his lens in his hand and crawled swiftly backward and forward, examining minutely the cracks between the boards. Then he did the same with the wood-work with which the chamber was panelled. Finally he walked over to the bed and spent some time in staring at it and in running his eye up and down the wall. Finally he took the bell-rope in his hand and gave it a brisk tug.

+

+

+

+"Why, it's a dummy," said he.

+

+

+

+"Won't it ring?"

+

+

+

+"No, it is not even attached to a wire. This is very interesting. You can see now that it is fastened to a hook just above where the little opening for the ventilator is."

+

+

+

+"How very absurd! I never noticed that before."

+

+

+

+"Very strange!" muttered Holmes, pulling at the rope. "There are one or two very singular points about this room. For example, what a fool a builder must be to open a ventilator into another room, when, with the same trouble, he might have communicated with the outside air!"

+

+

+

+"That is also quite modern," said the lady.

+

+

+

+"Done about the same time as the bell-rope?" remarked Holmes.

+

+

+

+"Yes, there were several little changes carried out about that time."

+

+

+

+"They seem to have been of a most interesting character--dummy bell-ropes, and ventilators which do not ventilate. With your permission, Miss Stoner, we shall now carry our researches into the inner apartment."

+

+

+

+Dr. Grimesby Roylott's chamber was larger than that of his step-daughter, but was as plainly furnished. A camp-bed, a small wooden shelf full of books, mostly of a technical character, an armchair beside the bed, a plain wooden chair against the wall, a round table, and a large iron safe were the principal things which met the eye. Holmes walked slowly round and examined each and all of them with the keenest interest.

+

+

+

+"What's in here?" he asked, tapping the safe.

+

+

+

+"My stepfather's business papers."

+

+

+

+"Oh! you have seen inside, then?"

+

+

+

+"Only once, some years ago. I remember that it was full of papers."

+

+

+

+"There isn't a cat in it, for example?"

+

+

+

+"No. What a strange idea!"

+

+

+

+"Well, look at this!" He took up a small saucer of milk which stood on the top of it.

+

+

+

+"No; we don't keep a cat. But there is a cheetah and a baboon."

+

+

+

+"Ah, yes, of course! Well, a cheetah is just a big cat, and yet a saucer of milk does not go very far in satisfying its wants, I daresay. There is one point which I should wish to determine." He squatted down in front of the wooden chair and examined the seat of it with the greatest attention.

+

+

+

+"Thank you. That is quite settled," said he, rising and putting his lens in his pocket. "Hullo! Here is something interesting!"

+

+

+

+The object which had caught his eye was a small dog lash hung on one corner of the bed. The lash, however, was curled upon itself and tied so as to make a loop of whipcord.

+

+

+

+"What do you make of that, Watson?"

+

+

+

+"It's a common enough lash. But I don't know why it should be tied."

+

+

+

+"That is not quite so common, is it? Ah, me! it's a wicked world, and when a clever man turns his brains to crime it is the worst of all. I think that I have seen enough now, Miss Stoner, and with your permission we shall walk out upon the lawn."

+

+

+

+I had never seen my friend's face so grim or his brow so dark as it was when we turned from the scene of this investigation. We had walked several times up and down the lawn, neither Miss Stoner nor myself liking to break in upon his thoughts before he roused himself from his reverie.

+

+

+

+"It is very essential, Miss Stoner," said he, "that you should absolutely follow my advice in every respect."

+

+

+

+"I shall most certainly do so."

+

+

+

+"The matter is too serious for any hesitation. Your life may depend upon your compliance."

+

+

+

+"I assure you that I am in your hands."

+

+

+

+"In the first place, both my friend and I must spend the night in your room."

+

+

+

+Both Miss Stoner and I gazed at him in astonishment.

+

+

+

+"Yes, it must be so. Let me explain. I believe that that is the village inn over there?"

+

+

+

+"Yes, that is the Crown."

+

+

+

+"Very good. Your windows would be visible from there?"

+

+

+

+"Certainly."

+

+

+

+"You must confine yourself to your room, on pretence of a headache, when your stepfather comes back. Then when you hear him retire for the night, you must open the shutters of your window, undo the hasp, put your lamp there as a signal to us, and then withdraw quietly with everything which you are likely to want into the room which you used to occupy. I have no doubt that, in spite of the repairs, you could manage there for one night."

+

+

+

+"Oh, yes, easily."

+

+

+

+"The rest you will leave in our hands."

+

+

+

+"But what will you do?"

+

+

+

+"We shall spend the night in your room, and we shall investigate the cause of this noise which has disturbed you."

+

+

+

+"I believe, Mr. Holmes, that you have already made up your mind," said Miss Stoner, laying her hand upon my companion's sleeve.

+

+

+

+"Perhaps I have."

+

+

+

+"Then, for pity's sake, tell me what was the cause of my sister's death."

+

+

+

+"I should prefer to have clearer proofs before I speak."

+

+

+

+"You can at least tell me whether my own thought is correct, and if she died from some sudden fright."

+

+

+

+"No, I do not think so. I think that there was probably some more tangible cause. And now, Miss Stoner, we must leave you for if Dr. Roylott returned and saw us our journey would be in vain. Good-bye, and be brave, for if you will do what I have told you, you may rest assured that we shall soon drive away the dangers that threaten you."

+

+

+

+Sherlock Holmes and I had no difficulty in engaging a bedroom and sitting-room at the Crown Inn. They were on the upper floor, and from our window we could command a view of the avenue gate, and of the inhabited wing of Stoke Moran Manor House. At dusk we saw Dr. Grimesby Roylott drive past, his huge form looming up beside the little figure of the lad who drove him. The boy had some slight difficulty in undoing the heavy iron gates, and we heard the hoarse roar of the doctor's voice and saw the fury with which he shook his clinched fists at him. The trap drove on, and a few minutes later we saw a sudden light spring up among the trees as the lamp was lit in one of the sitting-rooms.

+

+

+

+"Do you know, Watson," said Holmes as we sat together in the gathering darkness, "I have really some scruples as to taking you to-night. There is a distinct element of danger."

+

+

+

+"Can I be of assistance?"

+

+

+

+"Your presence might be invaluable."

+

+

+

+"Then I shall certainly come."

+

+

+

+"It is very kind of you."

+

+

+

+"You speak of danger. You have evidently seen more in these rooms than was visible to me."

+

+

+

+"No, but I fancy that I may have deduced a little more. I imagine that you saw all that I did."

+

+

+

+"I saw nothing remarkable save the bell-rope, and what purpose that could answer I confess is more than I can imagine."

+

+

+

+"You saw the ventilator, too?"

+

+

+

+"Yes, but I do not think that it is such a very unusual thing to have a small opening between two rooms. It was so small that a rat could hardly pass through."

+

+

+

+"I knew that we should find a ventilator before ever we came to Stoke Moran."

+

+

+

+"My dear Holmes!"

+

+

+

+"Oh, yes, I did. You remember in her statement she said that her sister could smell Dr. Roylott's cigar. Now, of course that suggested at once that there must be a communication between the two rooms. It could only be a small one, or it would have been remarked upon at the coroner's inquiry. I deduced a ventilator."

+

+

+

+"But what harm can there be in that?"

+

+

+

+"Well, there is at least a curious coincidence of dates. A ventilator is made, a cord is hung, and a lady who sleeps in the bed dies. Does not that strike you?"

+

+

+

+"I cannot as yet see any connection."

+

+

+

+"Did you observe anything very peculiar about that bed?"

+

+

+

+"No."

+

+

+

+"It was clamped to the floor. Did you ever see a bed fastened like that before?"

+

+

+

+"I cannot say that I have."

+

+

+

+"The lady could not move her bed. It must always be in the same relative position to the ventilator and to the rope--or so we may call it, since it was clearly never meant for a bell-pull."

+

+

+

+"Holmes," I cried, "I seem to see dimly what you are hinting at. We are only just in time to prevent some subtle and horrible crime."

+

+

+

+"Subtle enough and horrible enough. When a doctor does go wrong he is the first of criminals. He has nerve and he has knowledge. Palmer and Pritchard were among the heads of their profession. This man strikes even deeper, but I think, Watson, that we shall be able to strike deeper still. But we shall have horrors enough before the night is over; for goodness' sake let us have a quiet pipe and turn our minds for a few hours to something more cheerful."

+

+

+

+About nine o'clock the light among the trees was extinguished, and all was dark in the direction of the Manor House. Two hours passed slowly away, and then, suddenly, just at the stroke of eleven, a single bright light shone out right in front of us.

+

+

+

+"That is our signal," said Holmes, springing to his feet; "it comes from the middle window."

+

+

+

+As we passed out he exchanged a few words with the landlord, explaining that we were going on a late visit to an acquaintance, and that it was possible that we might spend the night there. A moment later we were out on the dark road, a chill wind blowing in our faces, and one yellow light twinkling in front of us through the gloom to guide us on our sombre errand.

+

+

+

+There was little difficulty in entering the grounds, for unrepaired breaches gaped in the old park wall. Making our way among the trees, we reached the lawn, crossed it, and were about to enter through the window when out from a clump of laurel bushes there darted what seemed to be a hideous and distorted child, who threw itself upon the grass with writhing limbs and then ran swiftly across the lawn into the darkness.

+

+

+

+"My God!" I whispered; "did you see it?"

+

+

+

+Holmes was for the moment as startled as I. His hand closed like a vice upon my wrist in his agitation. Then he broke into a low laugh and put his lips to my ear.

+

+

+

+"It is a nice household," he murmured. "That is the baboon."

+

+

+

+I had forgotten the strange pets which the doctor affected. There was a cheetah, too; perhaps we might find it upon our shoulders at any moment. I confess that I felt easier in my mind when, after following Holmes' example and slipping off my shoes, I found myself inside the bedroom. My companion noiselessly closed the shutters, moved the lamp onto the table, and cast his eyes round the room. All was as we had seen it in the daytime. Then creeping up to me and making a trumpet of his hand, he whispered into my ear again so gently that it was all that I could do to distinguish the words:

+

+

+

+"The least sound would be fatal to our plans."

+

+

+

+I nodded to show that I had heard.

+

+

+

+"We must sit without light. He would see it through the ventilator."

+

+

+

+I nodded again.

+

+

+

+"Do not go asleep; your very life may depend upon it. Have your pistol ready in case we should need it. I will sit on the side of the bed, and you in that chair."

+

+

+

+I took out my revolver and laid it on the corner of the table.

+

+

+

+Holmes had brought up a long thin cane, and this he placed upon the bed beside him. By it he laid the box of matches and the stump of a candle. Then he turned down the lamp, and we were left in darkness.

+

+

+

+How shall I ever forget that dreadful vigil? I could not hear a sound, not even the drawing of a breath, and yet I knew that my companion sat open-eyed, within a few feet of me, in the same state of nervous tension in which I was myself. The shutters cut off the least ray of light, and we waited in absolute darkness.

+

+

+

+From outside came the occasional cry of a night-bird, and once at our very window a long drawn catlike whine, which told us that the cheetah was indeed at liberty. Far away we could hear the deep tones of the parish clock, which boomed out every quarter of an hour. How long they seemed, those quarters! Twelve struck, and one and two and three, and still we sat waiting silently for whatever might befall.

+

+

+

+Suddenly there was the momentary gleam of a light up in the direction of the ventilator, which vanished immediately, but was succeeded by a strong smell of burning oil and heated metal. Someone in the next room had lit a dark-lantern. I heard a gentle sound of movement, and then all was silent once more, though the smell grew stronger. For half an hour I sat with straining ears. Then suddenly another sound became audible--a very gentle, soothing sound, like that of a small jet of steam escaping continually from a kettle. The instant that we heard it, Holmes sprang from the bed, struck a match, and lashed furiously with his cane at the bell-pull.

+

+

+

+"You see it, Watson?" he yelled. "You see it?"

+

+

+

+But I saw nothing. At the moment when Holmes struck the light I heard a low, clear whistle, but the sudden glare flashing into my weary eyes made it impossible for me to tell what it was at which my friend lashed so savagely. I could, however, see that his face was deadly pale and filled with horror and loathing. He had ceased to strike and was gazing up at the ventilator when suddenly there broke from the silence of the night the most horrible cry to which I have ever listened. It swelled up louder and louder, a hoarse yell of pain and fear and anger all mingled in the one dreadful shriek. They say that away down in the village, and even in the distant parsonage, that cry raised the sleepers from their beds. It struck cold to our hearts, and I stood gazing at Holmes, and he at me, until the last echoes of it had died away into the silence from which it rose.

+

+

+

+"What can it mean?" I gasped.

+

+

+

+"It means that it is all over," Holmes answered. "And perhaps, after all, it is for the best. Take your pistol, and we will enter Dr. Roylott's room."

+

+

+

+With a grave face he lit the lamp and led the way down the corridor. Twice he struck at the chamber door without any reply from within. Then he turned the handle and entered, I at his heels, with the cocked pistol in my hand.

+

+

+

+It was a singular sight which met our eyes. On the table stood a dark-lantern with the shutter half open, throwing a brilliant beam of light upon the iron safe, the door of which was ajar. Beside this table, on the wooden chair, sat Dr. Grimesby Roylott clad in a long grey dressing-gown, his bare ankles protruding beneath, and his feet thrust into red heelless Turkish slippers. Across his lap lay the short stock with the long lash which we had noticed during the day. His chin was cocked upward and his eyes were fixed in a dreadful, rigid stare at the corner of the ceiling. Round his brow he had a peculiar yellow band, with brownish speckles, which seemed to be bound tightly round his head. As we entered he made neither sound nor motion.

+

+

+

+"The band! the speckled band!" whispered Holmes.

+

+

+

+I took a step forward. In an instant his strange headgear began to move, and there reared itself from among his hair the squat diamond-shaped head and puffed neck of a loathsome serpent.

+

+

+

+"It is a swamp adder!" cried Holmes; "the deadliest snake in India. He has died within ten seconds of being bitten. Violence does, in truth, recoil upon the violent, and the schemer falls into the pit which he digs for another. Let us thrust this creature back into its den, and we can then remove Miss Stoner to some place of shelter and let the county police know what has happened."

+

+

+

+As he spoke he drew the dog-whip swiftly from the dead man's lap, and throwing the noose round the reptile's neck he drew it from its horrid perch and, carrying it at arm's length, threw it into the iron safe, which he closed upon it.

+

+

+

+Such are the true facts of the death of Dr. Grimesby Roylott, of Stoke Moran. It is not necessary that I should prolong a narrative which has already run to too great a length by telling how we broke the sad news to the terrified girl, how we conveyed her by the morning train to the care of her good aunt at Harrow, of how the slow process of official inquiry came to the conclusion that the doctor met his fate while indiscreetly playing with a dangerous pet. The little which I had yet to learn of the case was told me by Sherlock Holmes as we travelled back next day.

+

+

+

+"I had," said he, "come to an entirely erroneous conclusion which shows, my dear Watson, how dangerous it always is to reason from insufficient data. The presence of the gipsies, and the use of the word 'band,' which was used by the poor girl, no doubt, to explain the appearance which she had caught a hurried glimpse of by the light of her match, were sufficient to put me upon an entirely wrong scent. I can only claim the merit that I instantly reconsidered my position when, however, it became clear to me that whatever danger threatened an occupant of the room could not come either from the window or the door. My attention was speedily drawn, as I have already remarked to you, to this ventilator, and to the bell-rope which hung down to the bed. The discovery that this was a dummy, and that the bed was clamped to the floor, instantly gave rise to the suspicion that the rope was there as a bridge for something passing through the hole and coming to the bed. The idea of a snake instantly occurred to me, and when I coupled it with my knowledge that the doctor was furnished with a supply of creatures from India, I felt that I was probably on the right track. The idea of using a form of poison which could not possibly be discovered by any chemical test was just such a one as would occur to a clever and ruthless man who had had an Eastern training. The rapidity with which such a poison would take effect would also, from his point of view, be an advantage. It would be a sharp-eyed coroner, indeed, who could distinguish the two little dark punctures which would show where the poison fangs had done their work. Then I thought of the whistle. Of course he must recall the snake before the morning light revealed it to the victim. He had trained it, probably by the use of the milk which we saw, to return to him when summoned. He would put it through this ventilator at the hour that he thought best, with the certainty that it would crawl down the rope and land on the bed. It might or might not bite the occupant, perhaps she might escape every night for a week, but sooner or later she must fall a victim.

+

+

+

+"I had come to these conclusions before ever I had entered his room. An inspection of his chair showed me that he had been in the habit of standing on it, which of course would be necessary in order that he should reach the ventilator. The sight of the safe, the saucer of milk, and the loop of whipcord were enough to finally dispel any doubts which may have remained. The metallic clang heard by Miss Stoner was obviously caused by her stepfather hastily closing the door of his safe upon its terrible occupant. Having once made up my mind, you know the steps which I took in order to put the matter to the proof. I heard the creature hiss as I have no doubt that you did also, and I instantly lit the light and attacked it."

+

+

+

+"With the result of driving it through the ventilator."

+

+

+

+"And also with the result of causing it to turn upon its master at the other side. Some of the blows of my cane came home and roused its snakish temper, so that it flew upon the first person it saw. In this way I am no doubt indirectly responsible for Dr. Grimesby Roylott's death, and I cannot say that it is likely to weigh very heavily upon my conscience."

+

+

+

+IX.  THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENGINEER'S THUMB

+

+

+

+

+

+Of all the problems which have been submitted to my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, for solution during the years of our intimacy, there were only two which I was the means of introducing to his notice--that of Mr. Hatherley's thumb, and that of Colonel Warburton's madness. Of these the latter may have afforded a finer field for an acute and original observer, but the other was so strange in its inception and so dramatic in its details that it may be the more worthy of being placed upon record, even if it gave my friend fewer openings for those deductive methods of reasoning by which he achieved such remarkable results. The story has, I believe, been told more than once in the newspapers, but, like all such narratives, its effect is much less striking when set forth en bloc in a single half-column of print than when the facts slowly evolve before your own eyes, and the mystery clears gradually away as each new discovery furnishes a step which leads on to the complete truth. At the time the circumstances made a deep impression upon me, and the lapse of two years has hardly served to weaken the effect.

+

+

+

+It was in the summer of '89, not long after my marriage, that the events occurred which I am now about to summarise. I had returned to civil practice and had finally abandoned Holmes in his Baker Street rooms, although I continually visited him and occasionally even persuaded him to forgo his Bohemian habits so far as to come and visit us. My practice had steadily increased, and as I happened to live at no very great distance from Paddington Station, I got a few patients from among the officials. One of these, whom I had cured of a painful and lingering disease, was never weary of advertising my virtues and of endeavouring to send me on every sufferer over whom he might have any influence.

+

+

+

+One morning, at a little before seven o'clock, I was awakened by the maid tapping at the door to announce that two men had come from Paddington and were waiting in the consulting-room. I dressed hurriedly, for I knew by experience that railway cases were seldom trivial, and hastened downstairs. As I descended, my old ally, the guard, came out of the room and closed the door tightly behind him.

+

+

+

+"I've got him here," he whispered, jerking his thumb over his shoulder; "he's all right."

+

+

+

+"What is it, then?" I asked, for his manner suggested that it was some strange creature which he had caged up in my room.

+

+

+

+"It's a new patient," he whispered. "I thought I'd bring him round myself; then he couldn't slip away. There he is, all safe and sound. I must go now, Doctor; I have my dooties, just the same as you." And off he went, this trusty tout, without even giving me time to thank him.

+

+

+

+I entered my consulting-room and found a gentleman seated by the table. He was quietly dressed in a suit of heather tweed with a soft cloth cap which he had laid down upon my books. Round one of his hands he had a handkerchief wrapped, which was mottled all over with bloodstains. He was young, not more than five-and-twenty, I should say, with a strong, masculine face; but he was exceedingly pale and gave me the impression of a man who was suffering from some strong agitation, which it took all his strength of mind to control.

+

+

+

+"I am sorry to knock you up so early, Doctor," said he, "but I have had a very serious accident during the night. I came in by train this morning, and on inquiring at Paddington as to where I might find a doctor, a worthy fellow very kindly escorted me here. I gave the maid a card, but I see that she has left it upon the side-table."

+

+

+

+I took it up and glanced at it. "Mr. Victor Hatherley, hydraulic engineer, 16A, Victoria Street (3rd floor)." That was the name, style, and abode of my morning visitor. "I regret that I have kept you waiting," said I, sitting down in my library-chair. "You are fresh from a night journey, I understand, which is in itself a monotonous occupation."

+

+

+

+"Oh, my night could not be called monotonous," said he, and laughed. He laughed very heartily, with a high, ringing note, leaning back in his chair and shaking his sides. All my medical instincts rose up against that laugh.

+

+

+

+"Stop it!" I cried; "pull yourself together!" and I poured out some water from a caraffe.

+

+

+

+It was useless, however. He was off in one of those hysterical outbursts which come upon a strong nature when some great crisis is over and gone. Presently he came to himself once more, very weary and pale-looking.

+

+

+

+"I have been making a fool of myself," he gasped.

+

+

+

+"Not at all. Drink this." I dashed some brandy into the water, and the colour began to come back to his bloodless cheeks.

+

+

+

+"That's better!" said he. "And now, Doctor, perhaps you would kindly attend to my thumb, or rather to the place where my thumb used to be."

+

+

+

+He unwound the handkerchief and held out his hand. It gave even my hardened nerves a shudder to look at it. There were four protruding fingers and a horrid red, spongy surface where the thumb should have been. It had been hacked or torn right out from the roots.

+

+

+

+"Good heavens!" I cried, "this is a terrible injury. It must have bled considerably."

+

+

+

+"Yes, it did. I fainted when it was done, and I think that I must have been senseless for a long time. When I came to I found that it was still bleeding, so I tied one end of my handkerchief very tightly round the wrist and braced it up with a twig."

+

+

+

+"Excellent! You should have been a surgeon."

+

+

+

+"It is a question of hydraulics, you see, and came within my own province."

+

+

+

+"This has been done," said I, examining the wound, "by a very heavy and sharp instrument."

+

+

+

+"A thing like a cleaver," said he.

+

+

+

+"An accident, I presume?"

+

+

+

+"By no means."

+

+

+

+"What! a murderous attack?"

+

+

+

+"Very murderous indeed."

+

+

+

+"You horrify me."

+

+

+

+I sponged the wound, cleaned it, dressed it, and finally covered it over with cotton wadding and carbolised bandages. He lay back without wincing, though he bit his lip from time to time.

+

+

+

+"How is that?" I asked when I had finished.

+

+

+

+"Capital! Between your brandy and your bandage, I feel a new man. I was very weak, but I have had a good deal to go through."

+

+

+

+"Perhaps you had better not speak of the matter. It is evidently trying to your nerves."

+

+

+

+"Oh, no, not now. I shall have to tell my tale to the police; but, between ourselves, if it were not for the convincing evidence of this wound of mine, I should be surprised if they believed my statement, for it is a very extraordinary one, and I have not much in the way of proof with which to back it up; and, even if they believe me, the clues which I can give them are so vague that it is a question whether justice will be done."

+

+

+

+"Ha!" cried I, "if it is anything in the nature of a problem which you desire to see solved, I should strongly recommend you to come to my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, before you go to the official police."

+

+

+

+"Oh, I have heard of that fellow," answered my visitor, "and I should be very glad if he would take the matter up, though of course I must use the official police as well. Would you give me an introduction to him?"

+

+

+

+"I'll do better. I'll take you round to him myself."

+

+

+

+"I should be immensely obliged to you."

+

+

+

+"We'll call a cab and go together. We shall just be in time to have a little breakfast with him. Do you feel equal to it?"

+

+

+

+"Yes; I shall not feel easy until I have told my story."

+

+

+

+"Then my servant will call a cab, and I shall be with you in an instant." I rushed upstairs, explained the matter shortly to my wife, and in five minutes was inside a hansom, driving with my new acquaintance to Baker Street.

+

+

+

+Sherlock Holmes was, as I expected, lounging about his sitting-room in his dressing-gown, reading the agony column of The Times and smoking his before-breakfast pipe, which was composed of all the plugs and dottles left from his smokes of the day before, all carefully dried and collected on the corner of the mantelpiece. He received us in his quietly genial fashion, ordered fresh rashers and eggs, and joined us in a hearty meal. When it was concluded he settled our new acquaintance upon the sofa, placed a pillow beneath his head, and laid a glass of brandy and water within his reach.

+

+

+

+"It is easy to see that your experience has been no common one, Mr. Hatherley," said he. "Pray, lie down there and make yourself absolutely at home. Tell us what you can, but stop when you are tired and keep up your strength with a little stimulant."

+

+

+

+"Thank you," said my patient. "but I have felt another man since the doctor bandaged me, and I think that your breakfast has completed the cure. I shall take up as little of your valuable time as possible, so I shall start at once upon my peculiar experiences."

+

+

+

+Holmes sat in his big armchair with the weary, heavy-lidded expression which veiled his keen and eager nature, while I sat opposite to him, and we listened in silence to the strange story which our visitor detailed to us.

+

+

+

+"You must know," said he, "that I am an orphan and a bachelor, residing alone in lodgings in London. By profession I am a hydraulic engineer, and I have had considerable experience of my work during the seven years that I was apprenticed to Venner & Matheson, the well-known firm, of Greenwich. Two years ago, having served my time, and having also come into a fair sum of money through my poor father's death, I determined to start in business for myself and took professional chambers in Victoria Street.

+

+

+

+"I suppose that everyone finds his first independent start in business a dreary experience. To me it has been exceptionally so. During two years I have had three consultations and one small job, and that is absolutely all that my profession has brought me. My gross takings amount to $27 10s. Every day, from nine in the morning until four in the afternoon, I waited in my little den, until at last my heart began to sink, and I came to believe that I should never have any practice at all.

+

+

+

+"Yesterday, however, just as I was thinking of leaving the office, my clerk entered to say there was a gentleman waiting who wished to see me upon business. He brought up a card, too, with the name of 'Colonel Lysander Stark' engraved upon it. Close at his heels came the colonel himself, a man rather over the middle size, but of an exceeding thinness. I do not think that I have ever seen so thin a man. His whole face sharpened away into nose and chin, and the skin of his cheeks was drawn quite tense over his outstanding bones. Yet this emaciation seemed to be his natural habit, and due to no disease, for his eye was bright, his step brisk, and his bearing assured. He was plainly but neatly dressed, and his age, I should judge, would be nearer forty than thirty.

+

+

+

+" 'Mr. Hatherley?' said he, with something of a German accent. 'You have been recommended to me, Mr. Hatherley, as being a man who is not only proficient in his profession but is also discreet and capable of preserving a secret.'

+

+

+

+"I bowed, feeling as flattered as any young man would at such an address. 'May I ask who it was who gave me so good a character?'

+

+

+

+" 'Well, perhaps it is better that I should not tell you that just at this moment. I have it from the same source that you are both an orphan and a bachelor and are residing alone in London.'

+

+

+

+" 'That is quite correct,' I answered; 'but you will excuse me if I say that I cannot see how all this bears upon my professional qualifications. I understand that it was on a professional matter that you wished to speak to me?'

+

+

+

+" 'Undoubtedly so. But you will find that all I say is really to the point. I have a professional commission for you, but absolute secrecy is quite essential--absolute secrecy, you understand, and of course we may expect that more from a man who is alone than from one who lives in the bosom of his family.'

+

+

+

+" 'If I promise to keep a secret,' said I, 'you may absolutely depend upon my doing so.'

+

+

+

+"He looked very hard at me as I spoke, and it seemed to me that I had never seen so suspicious and questioning an eye.

+

+

+

+" 'Do you promise, then?' said he at last.

+

+

+

+" 'Yes, I promise.'

+

+

+

+" 'Absolute and complete silence before, during, and after? No reference to the matter at all, either in word or writing?'

+

+

+

+" 'I have already given you my word.'

+

+

+

+" 'Very good.' He suddenly sprang up, and darting like lightning across the room he flung open the door. The passage outside was empty.

+

+

+

+" 'That's all right,' said he, coming back. 'I know that clerks are sometimes curious as to their master's affairs. Now we can talk in safety.' He drew up his chair very close to mine and began to stare at me again with the same questioning and thoughtful look.

+

+

+

+"A feeling of repulsion, and of something akin to fear had begun to rise within me at the strange antics of this fleshless man. Even my dread of losing a client could not restrain me from showing my impatience.

+

+

+

+" 'I beg that you will state your business, sir,' said I; 'my time is of value.' Heaven forgive me for that last sentence, but the words came to my lips.

+

+

+

+" 'How would fifty guineas for a night's work suit you?' he asked.

+

+

+

+" 'Most admirably.'

+

+

+

+" 'I say a night's work, but an hour's would be nearer the mark. I simply want your opinion about a hydraulic stamping machine which has got out of gear. If you show us what is wrong we shall soon set it right ourselves. What do you think of such a commission as that?'

+

+

+

+" 'The work appears to be light and the pay munificent.'

+

+

+

+" 'Precisely so. We shall want you to come to-night by the last train.'

+

+

+

+" 'Where to?'

+

+

+

+" 'To Eyford, in Berkshire. It is a little place near the borders of Oxfordshire, and within seven miles of Reading. There is a train from Paddington which would bring you there at about 11:15.'

+

+

+

+" 'Very good.'

+

+

+

+" 'I shall come down in a carriage to meet you.'

+

+

+

+" 'There is a drive, then?'

+

+

+

+" 'Yes, our little place is quite out in the country. It is a good seven miles from Eyford Station.'

+

+

+

+" 'Then we can hardly get there before midnight. I suppose there would be no chance of a train back. I should be compelled to stop the night.'

+

+

+

+" 'Yes, we could easily give you a shake-down.'

+

+

+

+" 'That is very awkward. Could I not come at some more convenient hour?'

+

+

+

+" 'We have judged it best that you should come late. It is to recompense you for any inconvenience that we are paying to you, a young and unknown man, a fee which would buy an opinion from the very heads of your profession. Still, of course, if you would like to draw out of the business, there is plenty of time to do so.'

+

+

+

+"I thought of the fifty guineas, and of how very useful they would be to me. 'Not at all,' said I, 'I shall be very happy to accommodate myself to your wishes. I should like, however, to understand a little more clearly what it is that you wish me to do.'

+

+

+

+" 'Quite so. It is very natural that the pledge of secrecy which we have exacted from you should have aroused your curiosity. I have no wish to commit you to anything without your having it all laid before you. I suppose that we are absolutely safe from eavesdroppers?'

+

+

+

+" 'Entirely.'

+

+

+

+" 'Then the matter stands thus. You are probably aware that fuller's-earth is a valuable product, and that it is only found in one or two places in England?'

+

+

+

+" 'I have heard so.'

+

+

+

+" 'Some little time ago I bought a small place--a very small place--within ten miles of Reading. I was fortunate enough to discover that there was a deposit of fuller's-earth in one of my fields. On examining it, however, I found that this deposit was a comparatively small one, and that it formed a link between two very much larger ones upon the right and left--both of them, however, in the grounds of my neighbours. These good people were absolutely ignorant that their land contained that which was quite as valuable as a gold-mine. Naturally, it was to my interest to buy their land before they discovered its true value, but unfortunately I had no capital by which I could do this. I took a few of my friends into the secret, however, and they suggested that we should quietly and secretly work our own little deposit and that in this way we should earn the money which would enable us to buy the neighbouring fields. This we have now been doing for some time, and in order to help us in our operations we erected a hydraulic press. This press, as I have already explained, has got out of order, and we wish your advice upon the subject. We guard our secret very jealously, however, and if it once became known that we had hydraulic engineers coming to our little house, it would soon rouse inquiry, and then, if the facts came out, it would be good-bye to any chance of getting these fields and carrying out our plans. That is why I have made you promise me that you will not tell a human being that you are going to Eyford to-night. I hope that I make it all plain?'

+

+

+

+" 'I quite follow you,' said I. 'The only point which I could not quite understand was what use you could make of a hydraulic press in excavating fuller's-earth, which, as I understand, is dug out like gravel from a pit.'

+

+

+

+" 'Ah!' said he carelessly, 'we have our own process. We compress the earth into bricks, so as to remove them without revealing what they are. But that is a mere detail. I have taken you fully into my confidence now, Mr. Hatherley, and I have shown you how I trust you.' He rose as he spoke. 'I shall expect you, then, at Eyford at 11:15.'

+

+

+

+" 'I shall certainly be there.'

+

+

+

+" 'And not a word to a soul.' He looked at me with a last long, questioning gaze, and then, pressing my hand in a cold, dank grasp, he hurried from the room.

+

+

+

+"Well, when I came to think it all over in cool blood I was very much astonished, as you may both think, at this sudden commission which had been intrusted to me. On the one hand, of course, I was glad, for the fee was at least tenfold what I should have asked had I set a price upon my own services, and it was possible that this order might lead to other ones. On the other hand, the face and manner of my patron had made an unpleasant impression upon me, and I could not think that his explanation of the fuller's-earth was sufficient to explain the necessity for my coming at midnight, and his extreme anxiety lest I should tell anyone of my errand. However, I threw all fears to the winds, ate a hearty supper, drove to Paddington, and started off, having obeyed to the letter the injunction as to holding my tongue.

+

+

+

+"At Reading I had to change not only my carriage but my station. However, I was in time for the last train to Eyford, and I reached the little dim-lit station after eleven o'clock. I was the only passenger who got out there, and there was no one upon the platform save a single sleepy porter with a lantern. As I passed out through the wicket gate, however, I found my acquaintance of the morning waiting in the shadow upon the other side. Without a word he grasped my arm and hurried me into a carriage, the door of which was standing open. He drew up the windows on either side, tapped on the wood-work, and away we went as fast as the horse could go."

+

+

+

+"One horse?" interjected Holmes.

+

+

+

+"Yes, only one."

+

+

+

+"Did you observe the colour?"

+

+

+

+"Yes, I saw it by the side-lights when I was stepping into the carriage. It was a chestnut."

+

+

+

+"Tired-looking or fresh?"

+

+

+

+"Oh, fresh and glossy."

+

+

+

+"Thank you. I am sorry to have interrupted you. Pray continue your most interesting statement."

+

+

+

+"Away we went then, and we drove for at least an hour. Colonel Lysander Stark had said that it was only seven miles, but I should think, from the rate that we seemed to go, and from the time that we took, that it must have been nearer twelve. He sat at my side in silence all the time, and I was aware, more than once when I glanced in his direction, that he was looking at me with great intensity. The country roads seem to be not very good in that part of the world, for we lurched and jolted terribly. I tried to look out of the windows to see something of where we were, but they were made of frosted glass, and I could make out nothing save the occasional bright blur of a passing light. Now and then I hazarded some remark to break the monotony of the journey, but the colonel answered only in monosyllables, and the conversation soon flagged. At last, however, the bumping of the road was exchanged for the crisp smoothness of a gravel-drive, and the carriage came to a stand. Colonel Lysander Stark sprang out, and, as I followed after him, pulled me swiftly into a porch which gaped in front of us. We stepped, as it were, right out of the carriage and into the hall, so that I failed to catch the most fleeting glance of the front of the house. The instant that I had crossed the threshold the door slammed heavily behind us, and I heard faintly the rattle of the wheels as the carriage drove away.

+

+

+

+"It was pitch dark inside the house, and the colonel fumbled about looking for matches and muttering under his breath. Suddenly a door opened at the other end of the passage, and a long, golden bar of light shot out in our direction. It grew broader, and a woman appeared with a lamp in her hand, which she held above her head, pushing her face forward and peering at us. I could see that she was pretty, and from the gloss with which the light shone upon her dark dress I knew that it was a rich material. She spoke a few words in a foreign tongue in a tone as though asking a question, and when my companion answered in a gruff monosyllable she gave such a start that the lamp nearly fell from her hand. Colonel Stark went up to her, whispered something in her ear, and then, pushing her back into the room from whence she had come, he walked towards me again with the lamp in his hand.

+

+

+

+" 'Perhaps you will have the kindness to wait in this room for a few minutes,' said he, throwing open another door. It was a quiet, little, plainly furnished room, with a round table in the centre, on which several German books were scattered. Colonel Stark laid down the lamp on the top of a harmonium beside the door. 'I shall not keep you waiting an instant,' said he, and vanished into the darkness.

+

+

+

+"I glanced at the books upon the table, and in spite of my ignorance of German I could see that two of them were treatises on science, the others being volumes of poetry. Then I walked across to the window, hoping that I might catch some glimpse of the country-side, but an oak shutter, heavily barred, was folded across it. It was a wonderfully silent house. There was an old clock ticking loudly somewhere in the passage, but otherwise everything was deadly still. A vague feeling of uneasiness began to steal over me. Who were these German people, and what were they doing living in this strange, out-of-the-way place? And where was the place? I was ten miles or so from Eyford, that was all I knew, but whether north, south, east, or west I had no idea. For that matter, Reading, and possibly other large towns, were within that radius, so the place might not be so secluded, after all. Yet it was quite certain, from the absolute stillness, that we were in the country. I paced up and down the room, humming a tune under my breath to keep up my spirits and feeling that I was thoroughly earning my fifty-guinea fee.

+

+

+

+"Suddenly, without any preliminary sound in the midst of the utter stillness, the door of my room swung slowly open. The woman was standing in the aperture, the darkness of the hall behind her, the yellow light from my lamp beating upon her eager and beautiful face. I could see at a glance that she was sick with fear, and the sight sent a chill to my own heart. She held up one shaking finger to warn me to be silent, and she shot a few whispered words of broken English at me, her eyes glancing back, like those of a frightened horse, into the gloom behind her.

+

+

+

+" 'I would go,' said she, trying hard, as it seemed to me, to speak calmly; 'I would go. I should not stay here. There is no good for you to do.'

+

+

+

+" 'But, madam,' said I, 'I have not yet done what I came for. I cannot possibly leave until I have seen the machine.'

+

+

+

+" 'It is not worth your while to wait,' she went on. 'You can pass through the door; no one hinders.' And then, seeing that I smiled and shook my head, she suddenly threw aside her constraint and made a step forward, with her hands wrung together. 'For the love of Heaven!' she whispered, 'get away from here before it is too late!'

+

+

+

+"But I am somewhat headstrong by nature, and the more ready to engage in an affair when there is some obstacle in the way. I thought of my fifty-guinea fee, of my wearisome journey, and of the unpleasant night which seemed to be before me. Was it all to go for nothing? Why should I slink away without having carried out my commission, and without the payment which was my due? This woman might, for all I knew, be a monomaniac. With a stout bearing, therefore, though her manner had shaken me more than I cared to confess, I still shook my head and declared my intention of remaining where I was. She was about to renew her entreaties when a door slammed overhead, and the sound of several footsteps was heard upon the stairs. She listened for an instant, threw up her hands with a despairing gesture, and vanished as suddenly and as noiselessly as she had come.

+

+

+

+"The newcomers were Colonel Lysander Stark and a short thick man with a chinchilla beard growing out of the creases of his double chin, who was introduced to me as Mr. Ferguson.

+

+

+

+" 'This is my secretary and manager,' said the colonel. 'By the way, I was under the impression that I left this door shut just now. I fear that you have felt the draught.'

+

+

+

+" 'On the contrary,' said I, 'I opened the door myself because I felt the room to be a little close.'

+

+

+

+"He shot one of his suspicious looks at me. 'Perhaps we had better proceed to business, then,' said he. 'Mr. Ferguson and I will take you up to see the machine.'

+

+

+

+" 'I had better put my hat on, I suppose.'

+

+

+

+" 'Oh, no, it is in the house.'

+

+

+

+" 'What, you dig fuller's-earth in the house?'

+

+

+

+" 'No, no. This is only where we compress it. But never mind that. All we wish you to do is to examine the machine and to let us know what is wrong with it.'

+

+

+

+"We went upstairs together, the colonel first with the lamp, the fat manager and I behind him. It was a labyrinth of an old house, with corridors, passages, narrow winding staircases, and little low doors, the thresholds of which were hollowed out by the generations who had crossed them. There were no carpets and no signs of any furniture above the ground floor, while the plaster was peeling off the walls, and the damp was breaking through in green, unhealthy blotches. I tried to put on as unconcerned an air as possible, but I had not forgotten the warnings of the lady, even though I disregarded them, and I kept a keen eye upon my two companions. Ferguson appeared to be a morose and silent man, but I could see from the little that he said that he was at least a fellow-countryman.

+

+

+

+"Colonel Lysander Stark stopped at last before a low door, which he unlocked. Within was a small, square room, in which the three of us could hardly get at one time. Ferguson remained outside, and the colonel ushered me in.

+

+

+

+" 'We are now,' said he, 'actually within the hydraulic press, and it would be a particularly unpleasant thing for us if anyone were to turn it on. The ceiling of this small chamber is really the end of the descending piston, and it comes down with the force of many tons upon this metal floor. There are small lateral columns of water outside which receive the force, and which transmit and multiply it in the manner which is familiar to you. The machine goes readily enough, but there is some stiffness in the working of it, and it has lost a little of its force. Perhaps you will have the goodness to look it over and to show us how we can set it right.'

+

+

+

+"I took the lamp from him, and I examined the machine very thoroughly. It was indeed a gigantic one, and capable of exercising enormous pressure. When I passed outside, however, and pressed down the levers which controlled it, I knew at once by the whishing sound that there was a slight leakage, which allowed a regurgitation of water through one of the side cylinders. An examination showed that one of the india-rubber bands which was round the head of a driving-rod had shrunk so as not quite to fill the socket along which it worked. This was clearly the cause of the loss of power, and I pointed it out to my companions, who followed my remarks very carefully and asked several practical questions as to how they should proceed to set it right. When I had made it clear to them, I returned to the main chamber of the machine and took a good look at it to satisfy my own curiosity. It was obvious at a glance that the story of the fuller's-earth was the merest fabrication, for it would be absurd to suppose that so powerful an engine could be designed for so inadequate a purpose. The walls were of wood, but the floor consisted of a large iron trough, and when I came to examine it I could see a crust of metallic deposit all over it. I had stooped and was scraping at this to see exactly what it was when I heard a muttered exclamation in German and saw the cadaverous face of the colonel looking down at me.

+

+

+

+" 'What are you doing there?' he asked.

+

+

+

+"I felt angry at having been tricked by so elaborate a story as that which he had told me. 'I was admiring your fuller's-earth,' said I; 'I think that I should be better able to advise you as to your machine if I knew what the exact purpose was for which it was used.'

+

+

+

+"The instant that I uttered the words I regretted the rashness of my speech. His face set hard, and a baleful light sprang up in his grey eyes.

+

+

+

+" 'Very well,' said he, 'you shall know all about the machine.' He took a step backward, slammed the little door, and turned the key in the lock. I rushed towards it and pulled at the handle, but it was quite secure, and did not give in the least to my kicks and shoves. 'Hullo!' I yelled. 'Hullo! Colonel! Let me out!'

+

+

+

+"And then suddenly in the silence I heard a sound which sent my heart into my mouth. It was the clank of the levers and the swish of the leaking cylinder. He had set the engine at work. The lamp still stood upon the floor where I had placed it when examining the trough. By its light I saw that the black ceiling was coming down upon me, slowly, jerkily, but, as none knew better than myself, with a force which must within a minute grind me to a shapeless pulp. I threw myself, screaming, against the door, and dragged with my nails at the lock. I implored the colonel to let me out, but the remorseless clanking of the levers drowned my cries. The ceiling was only a foot or two above my head, and with my hand upraised I could feel its hard, rough surface. Then it flashed through my mind that the pain of my death would depend very much upon the position in which I met it. If I lay on my face the weight would come upon my spine, and I shuddered to think of that dreadful snap. Easier the other way, perhaps; and yet, had I the nerve to lie and look up at that deadly black shadow wavering down upon me? Already I was unable to stand erect, when my eye caught something which brought a gush of hope back to my heart.

+

+

+

+"I have said that though the floor and ceiling were of iron, the walls were of wood. As I gave a last hurried glance around, I saw a thin line of yellow light between two of the boards, which broadened and broadened as a small panel was pushed backward. For an instant I could hardly believe that here was indeed a door which led away from death. The next instant I threw myself through, and lay half-fainting upon the other side. The panel had closed again behind me, but the crash of the lamp, and a few moments afterwards the clang of the two slabs of metal, told me how narrow had been my escape.

+

+

+

+"I was recalled to myself by a frantic plucking at my wrist, and I found myself lying upon the stone floor of a narrow corridor, while a woman bent over me and tugged at me with her left hand, while she held a candle in her right. It was the same good friend whose warning I had so foolishly rejected.

+

+

+

+" 'Come! come!' she cried breathlessly. 'They will be here in a moment. They will see that you are not there. Oh, do not waste the so-precious time, but come!'

+

+

+

+"This time, at least, I did not scorn her advice. I staggered to my feet and ran with her along the corridor and down a winding stair. The latter led to another broad passage, and just as we reached it we heard the sound of running feet and the shouting of two voices, one answering the other from the floor on which we were and from the one beneath. My guide stopped and looked about her like one who is at her wit's end. Then she threw open a door which led into a bedroom, through the window of which the moon was shining brightly.

+

+

+

+" 'It is your only chance,' said she. 'It is high, but it may be that you can jump it.'

+

+

+

+"As she spoke a light sprang into view at the further end of the passage, and I saw the lean figure of Colonel Lysander Stark rushing forward with a lantern in one hand and a weapon like a butcher's cleaver in the other. I rushed across the bedroom, flung open the window, and looked out. How quiet and sweet and wholesome the garden looked in the moonlight, and it could not be more than thirty feet down. I clambered out upon the sill, but I hesitated to jump until I should have heard what passed between my saviour and the ruffian who pursued me. If she were ill-used, then at any risks I was determined to go back to her assistance. The thought had hardly flashed through my mind before he was at the door, pushing his way past her; but she threw her arms round him and tried to hold him back.

+

+

+

+" 'Fritz! Fritz!' she cried in English, 'remember your promise after the last time. You said it should not be again. He will be silent! Oh, he will be silent!'

+

+

+

+" 'You are mad, Elise!' he shouted, struggling to break away from her. 'You will be the ruin of us. He has seen too much. Let me pass, I say!' He dashed her to one side, and, rushing to the window, cut at me with his heavy weapon. I had let myself go, and was hanging by the hands to the sill, when his blow fell. I was conscious of a dull pain, my grip loosened, and I fell into the garden below.

+

+

+

+"I was shaken but not hurt by the fall; so I picked myself up and rushed off among the bushes as hard as I could run, for I understood that I was far from being out of danger yet. Suddenly, however, as I ran, a deadly dizziness and sickness came over me. I glanced down at my hand, which was throbbing painfully, and then, for the first time, saw that my thumb had been cut off and that the blood was pouring from my wound. I endeavoured to tie my handkerchief round it, but there came a sudden buzzing in my ears, and next moment I fell in a dead faint among the rose-bushes.

+

+

+

+"How long I remained unconscious I cannot tell. It must have been a very long time, for the moon had sunk, and a bright morning was breaking when I came to myself. My clothes were all sodden with dew, and my coat-sleeve was drenched with blood from my wounded thumb. The smarting of it recalled in an instant all the particulars of my night's adventure, and I sprang to my feet with the feeling that I might hardly yet be safe from my pursuers. But to my astonishment, when I came to look round me, neither house nor garden were to be seen. I had been lying in an angle of the hedge close by the highroad, and just a little lower down was a long building, which proved, upon my approaching it, to be the very station at which I had arrived upon the previous night. Were it not for the ugly wound upon my hand, all that had passed during those dreadful hours might have been an evil dream.

+

+

+

+"Half dazed, I went into the station and asked about the morning train. There would be one to Reading in less than an hour. The same porter was on duty, I found, as had been there when I arrived. I inquired of him whether he had ever heard of Colonel Lysander Stark. The name was strange to him. Had he observed a carriage the night before waiting for me? No, he had not. Was there a police-station anywhere near? There was one about three miles off.

+

+

+

+"It was too far for me to go, weak and ill as I was. I determined to wait until I got back to town before telling my story to the police. It was a little past six when I arrived, so I went first to have my wound dressed, and then the doctor was kind enough to bring me along here. I put the case into your hands and shall do exactly what you advise."

+

+

+

+We both sat in silence for some little time after listening to this extraordinary narrative. Then Sherlock Holmes pulled down from the shelf one of the ponderous commonplace books in which he placed his cuttings.

+

+

+

+"Here is an advertisement which will interest you," said he. "It appeared in all the papers about a year ago. Listen to this: 'Lost, on the 9th inst., Mr. Jeremiah Hayling, aged twenty-six, a hydraulic engineer. Left his lodgings at ten o'clock at night, and has not been heard of since. Was dressed in,' etc., etc. Ha! That represents the last time that the colonel needed to have his machine overhauled, I fancy."

+

+

+

+"Good heavens!" cried my patient. "Then that explains what the girl said."

+

+

+

+"Undoubtedly. It is quite clear that the colonel was a cool and desperate man, who was absolutely determined that nothing should stand in the way of his little game, like those out-and-out pirates who will leave no survivor from a captured ship. Well, every moment now is precious, so if you feel equal to it we shall go down to Scotland Yard at once as a preliminary to starting for Eyford."

+

+

+

+Some three hours or so afterwards we were all in the train together, bound from Reading to the little Berkshire village. There were Sherlock Holmes, the hydraulic engineer, Inspector Bradstreet, of Scotland Yard, a plain-clothes man, and myself. Bradstreet had spread an ordnance map of the county out upon the seat and was busy with his compasses drawing a circle with Eyford for its centre.

+

+

+

+"There you are," said he. "That circle is drawn at a radius of ten miles from the village. The place we want must be somewhere near that line. You said ten miles, I think, sir."

+

+

+

+"It was an hour's good drive."

+

+

+

+"And you think that they brought you back all that way when you were unconscious?"

+

+

+

+"They must have done so. I have a confused memory, too, of having been lifted and conveyed somewhere."

+

+

+

+"What I cannot understand," said I, "is why they should have spared you when they found you lying fainting in the garden. Perhaps the villain was softened by the woman's entreaties."

+

+

+

+"I hardly think that likely. I never saw a more inexorable face in my life."

+

+

+

+"Oh, we shall soon clear up all that," said Bradstreet. "Well, I have drawn my circle, and I only wish I knew at what point upon it the folk that we are in search of are to be found."

+

+

+

+"I think I could lay my finger on it," said Holmes quietly.

+

+

+

+"Really, now!" cried the inspector, "you have formed your opinion! Come, now, we shall see who agrees with you. I say it is south, for the country is more deserted there."

+

+

+

+"And I say east," said my patient.

+

+

+

+"I am for west," remarked the plain-clothes man. "There are several quiet little villages up there."

+

+

+

+"And I am for north," said I, "because there are no hills there, and our friend says that he did not notice the carriage go up any."

+

+

+

+"Come," cried the inspector, laughing; "it's a very pretty diversity of opinion. We have boxed the compass among us. Who do you give your casting vote to?"

+

+

+

+"You are all wrong."

+

+

+

+"But we can't all be."

+

+

+

+"Oh, yes, you can. This is my point." He placed his finger in the centre of the circle. "This is where we shall find them."

+

+

+

+"But the twelve-mile drive?" gasped Hatherley.

+

+

+

+"Six out and six back. Nothing simpler. You say yourself that the horse was fresh and glossy when you got in. How could it be that if it had gone twelve miles over heavy roads?"

+

+

+

+"Indeed, it is a likely ruse enough," observed Bradstreet thoughtfully. "Of course there can be no doubt as to the nature of this gang."

+

+

+

+"None at all," said Holmes. "They are coiners on a large scale, and have used the machine to form the amalgam which has taken the place of silver."

+

+

+

+"We have known for some time that a clever gang was at work," said the inspector. "They have been turning out half-crowns by the thousand. We even traced them as far as Reading, but could get no farther, for they had covered their traces in a way that showed that they were very old hands. But now, thanks to this lucky chance, I think that we have got them right enough."

+

+

+

+But the inspector was mistaken, for those criminals were not destined to fall into the hands of justice. As we rolled into Eyford Station we saw a gigantic column of smoke which streamed up from behind a small clump of trees in the neighbourhood and hung like an immense ostrich feather over the landscape.

+

+

+

+"A house on fire?" asked Bradstreet as the train steamed off again on its way.

+

+

+

+"Yes, sir!" said the station-master.

+

+

+

+"When did it break out?"

+

+

+

+"I hear that it was during the night, sir, but it has got worse, and the whole place is in a blaze."

+

+

+

+"Whose house is it?"

+

+

+

+"Dr. Becher's."

+

+

+

+"Tell me," broke in the engineer, "is Dr. Becher a German, very thin, with a long, sharp nose?"

+

+

+

+The station-master laughed heartily. "No, sir, Dr. Becher is an Englishman, and there isn't a man in the parish who has a better-lined waistcoat. But he has a gentleman staying with him, a patient, as I understand, who is a foreigner, and he looks as if a little good Berkshire beef would do him no harm."

+

+

+

+The station-master had not finished his speech before we were all hastening in the direction of the fire. The road topped a low hill, and there was a great widespread whitewashed building in front of us, spouting fire at every chink and window, while in the garden in front three fire-engines were vainly striving to keep the flames under.

+

+

+

+"That's it!" cried Hatherley, in intense excitement. "There is the gravel-drive, and there are the rose-bushes where I lay. That second window is the one that I jumped from."

+

+

+

+"Well, at least," said Holmes, "you have had your revenge upon them. There can be no question that it was your oil-lamp which, when it was crushed in the press, set fire to the wooden walls, though no doubt they were too excited in the chase after you to observe it at the time. Now keep your eyes open in this crowd for your friends of last night, though I very much fear that they are a good hundred miles off by now."

+

+

+

+And Holmes' fears came to be realised, for from that day to this no word has ever been heard either of the beautiful woman, the sinister German, or the morose Englishman. Early that morning a peasant had met a cart containing several people and some very bulky boxes driving rapidly in the direction of Reading, but there all traces of the fugitives disappeared, and even Holmes' ingenuity failed ever to discover the least clue as to their whereabouts.

+

+

+

+The firemen had been much perturbed at the strange arrangements which they had found within, and still more so by discovering a newly severed human thumb upon a window-sill of the second floor. About sunset, however, their efforts were at last successful, and they subdued the flames, but not before the roof had fallen in, and the whole place been reduced to such absolute ruin that, save some twisted cylinders and iron piping, not a trace remained of the machinery which had cost our unfortunate acquaintance so dearly. Large masses of nickel and of tin were discovered stored in an out-house, but no coins were to be found, which may have explained the presence of those bulky boxes which have been already referred to.

+

+

+

+How our hydraulic engineer had been conveyed from the garden to the spot where he recovered his senses might have remained forever a mystery were it not for the soft mould, which told us a very plain tale. He had evidently been carried down by two persons, one of whom had remarkably small feet and the other unusually large ones. On the whole, it was most probable that the silent Englishman, being less bold or less murderous than his companion, had assisted the woman to bear the unconscious man out of the way of danger.

+

+

+

+"Well," said our engineer ruefully as we took our seats to return once more to London, "it has been a pretty business for me! I have lost my thumb and I have lost a fifty-guinea fee, and what have I gained?"

+

+

+

+"Experience," said Holmes, laughing. "Indirectly it may be of value, you know; you have only to put it into words to gain the reputation of being excellent company for the remainder of your existence."

+

+

+

+X.  THE ADVENTURE OF THE NOBLE BACHELOR

+

+

+

+

+

+The Lord St. Simon marriage, and its curious termination, have long ceased to be a subject of interest in those exalted circles in which the unfortunate bridegroom moves. Fresh scandals have eclipsed it, and their more piquant details have drawn the gossips away from this four-year-old drama. As I have reason to believe, however, that the full facts have never been revealed to the general public, and as my friend Sherlock Holmes had a considerable share in clearing the matter up, I feel that no memoir of him would be complete without some little sketch of this remarkable episode.

+

+

+

+It was a few weeks before my own marriage, during the days when I was still sharing rooms with Holmes in Baker Street, that he came home from an afternoon stroll to find a letter on the table waiting for him. I had remained indoors all day, for the weather had taken a sudden turn to rain, with high autumnal winds, and the Jezail bullet which I had brought back in one of my limbs as a relic of my Afghan campaign throbbed with dull persistence. With my body in one easy-chair and my legs upon another, I had surrounded myself with a cloud of newspapers until at last, saturated with the news of the day, I tossed them all aside and lay listless, watching the huge crest and monogram upon the envelope upon the table and wondering lazily who my friend's noble correspondent could be.

+

+

+

+"Here is a very fashionable epistle," I remarked as he entered. "Your morning letters, if I remember right, were from a fish-monger and a tide-waiter."

+

+

+

+"Yes, my correspondence has certainly the charm of variety," he answered, smiling, "and the humbler are usually the more interesting. This looks like one of those unwelcome social summonses which call upon a man either to be bored or to lie."

+

+

+

+He broke the seal and glanced over the contents.

+

+

+

+"Oh, come, it may prove to be something of interest, after all."

+

+

+

+"Not social, then?"

+

+

+

+"No, distinctly professional."

+

+

+

+"And from a noble client?"

+

+

+

+"One of the highest in England."

+

+

+

+"My dear fellow, I congratulate you."

+

+

+

+"I assure you, Watson, without affectation, that the status of my client is a matter of less moment to me than the interest of his case. It is just possible, however, that that also may not be wanting in this new investigation. You have been reading the papers diligently of late, have you not?"

+

+

+

+"It looks like it," said I ruefully, pointing to a huge bundle in the corner. "I have had nothing else to do."

+

+

+

+"It is fortunate, for you will perhaps be able to post me up. I read nothing except the criminal news and the agony column. The latter is always instructive. But if you have followed recent events so closely you must have read about Lord St. Simon and his wedding?"

+

+

+

+"Oh, yes, with the deepest interest."

+

+

+

+"That is well. The letter which I hold in my hand is from Lord St. Simon. I will read it to you, and in return you must turn over these papers and let me have whatever bears upon the matter. This is what he says:

+

+

+

+" 'MY DEAR MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES:--Lord Backwater tells me that I may place implicit reliance upon your judgment and discretion. I have determined, therefore, to call upon you and to consult you in reference to the very painful event which has occurred in connection with my wedding. Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, is acting already in the matter, but he assures me that he sees no objection to your co-operation, and that he even thinks that it might be of some assistance. I will call at four o'clock in the afternoon, and, should you have any other engagement at that time, I hope that you will postpone it, as this matter is of paramount importance. Yours faithfully,

+

+

+

+

+

+" 'ST. SIMON.'

+

+

+

+"It is dated from Grosvenor Mansions, written with a quill pen, and the noble lord has had the misfortune to get a smear of ink upon the outer side of his right little finger," remarked Holmes as he folded up the epistle.

+

+

+

+"He says four o'clock. It is three now. He will be here in an hour."

+

+

+

+"Then I have just time, with your assistance, to get clear upon the subject. Turn over those papers and arrange the extracts in their order of time, while I take a glance as to who our client is." He picked a red-covered volume from a line of books of reference beside the mantelpiece. "Here he is," said he, sitting down and flattening it out upon his knee. " 'Lord Robert Walsingham de Vere St. Simon, second son of the Duke of Balmoral.' Hum! 'Arms: Azure, three caltrops in chief over a fess sable. Born in 1846.' He's forty-one years of age, which is mature for marriage. Was Under-Secretary for the colonies in a late administration. The Duke, his father, was at one time Secretary for Foreign Affairs. They inherit Plantagenet blood by direct descent, and Tudor on the distaff side. Ha! Well, there is nothing very instructive in all this. I think that I must turn to you Watson, for something more solid."

+

+

+

+"I have very little difficulty in finding what I want," said I, "for the facts are quite recent, and the matter struck me as remarkable. I feared to refer them to you, however, as I knew that you had an inquiry on hand and that you disliked the intrusion of other matters."

+

+

+

+"Oh, you mean the little problem of the Grosvenor Square furniture van. That is quite cleared up now--though, indeed, it was obvious from the first. Pray give me the results of your newspaper selections."

+

+

+

+"Here is the first notice which I can find. It is in the personal column of the Morning Post, and dates, as you see, some weeks back: 'A marriage has been arranged,' it says, 'and will, if rumour is correct, very shortly take place, between Lord Robert St. Simon, second son of the Duke of Balmoral, and Miss Hatty Doran, the only daughter of Aloysius Doran. Esq., of San Francisco, Cal., U.S.A.' That is all."

+

+

+

+"Terse and to the point," remarked Holmes, stretching his long, thin legs towards the fire.

+

+

+

+"There was a paragraph amplifying this in one of the society papers of the same week. Ah, here it is: 'There will soon be a call for protection in the marriage market, for the present free-trade principle appears to tell heavily against our home product. One by one the management of the noble houses of Great Britain is passing into the hands of our fair cousins from across the Atlantic. An important addition has been made during the last week to the list of the prizes which have been borne away by these charming invaders. Lord St. Simon, who has shown himself for over twenty years proof against the little god's arrows, has now definitely announced his approaching marriage with Miss Hatty Doran, the fascinating daughter of a California millionaire. Miss Doran, whose graceful figure and striking face attracted much attention at the Westbury House festivities, is an only child, and it is currently reported that her dowry will run to considerably over the six figures, with expectancies for the future. As it is an open secret that the Duke of Balmoral has been compelled to sell his pictures within the last few years, and as Lord St. Simon has no property of his own save the small estate of Birchmoor, it is obvious that the Californian heiress is not the only gainer by an alliance which will enable her to make the easy and common transition from a Republican lady to a British peeress.' "

+

+

+

+"Anything else?" asked Holmes, yawning.

+

+

+

+"Oh, yes; plenty. Then there is another note in the Morning Post to say that the marriage would be an absolutely quiet one, that it would be at St. George's, Hanover Square, that only half a dozen intimate friends would be invited, and that the party would return to the furnished house at Lancaster Gate which has been taken by Mr. Aloysius Doran. Two days later--that is, on Wednesday last--there is a curt announcement that the wedding had taken place, and that the honeymoon would be passed at Lord Backwater's place, near Petersfield. Those are all the notices which appeared before the disappearance of the bride."

+

+

+

+"Before the what?" asked Holmes with a start.

+

+

+

+"The vanishing of the lady."

+

+

+

+"When did she vanish, then?"

+

+

+

+"At the wedding breakfast."

+

+

+

+"Indeed. This is more interesting than it promised to be; quite dramatic, in fact."

+

+

+

+"Yes; it struck me as being a little out of the common."

+

+

+

+"They often vanish before the ceremony, and occasionally during the honeymoon; but I cannot call to mind anything quite so prompt as this. Pray let me have the details."

+

+

+

+"I warn you that they are very incomplete."

+

+

+

+"Perhaps we may make them less so."

+

+

+

+"Such as they are, they are set forth in a single article of a morning paper of yesterday, which I will read to you. It is headed, 'Singular Occurrence at a Fashionable Wedding':

+

+

+

+" 'The family of Lord Robert St. Simon has been thrown into the greatest consternation by the strange and painful episodes which have taken place in connection with his wedding. The ceremony, as shortly announced in the papers of yesterday, occurred on the previous morning; but it is only now that it has been possible to confirm the strange rumours which have been so persistently floating about. In spite of the attempts of the friends to hush the matter up, so much public attention has now been drawn to it that no good purpose can be served by affecting to disregard what is a common subject for conversation.

+

+

+

+" 'The ceremony, which was performed at St. George's, Hanover Square, was a very quiet one, no one being present save the father of the bride, Mr. Aloysius Doran, the Duchess of Balmoral, Lord Backwater, Lord Eustace and Lady Clara St. Simon (the younger brother and sister of the bridegroom), and Lady Alicia Whittington. The whole party proceeded afterwards to the house of Mr. Aloysius Doran, at Lancaster Gate, where breakfast had been prepared. It appears that some little trouble was caused by a woman, whose name has not been ascertained, who endeavoured to force her way into the house after the bridal party, alleging that she had some claim upon Lord St. Simon. It was only after a painful and prolonged scene that she was ejected by the butler and the footman. The bride, who had fortunately entered the house before this unpleasant interruption, had sat down to breakfast with the rest, when she complained of a sudden indisposition and retired to her room. Her prolonged absence having caused some comment, her father followed her, but learned from her maid that she had only come up to her chamber for an instant, caught up an ulster and bonnet, and hurried down to the passage. One of the footmen declared that he had seen a lady leave the house thus apparelled, but had refused to credit that it was his mistress, believing her to be with the company. On ascertaining that his daughter had disappeared, Mr. Aloysius Doran, in conjunction with the bridegroom, instantly put themselves in communication with the police, and very energetic inquiries are being made, which will probably result in a speedy clearing up of this very singular business. Up to a late hour last night, however, nothing had transpired as to the whereabouts of the missing lady. There are rumours of foul play in the matter, and it is said that the police have caused the arrest of the woman who had caused the original disturbance, in the belief that, from jealousy or some other motive, she may have been concerned in the strange disappearance of the bride.' "

+

+

+

+"And is that all?"

+

+

+

+"Only one little item in another of the morning papers, but it is a suggestive one."

+

+

+

+"And it is--"

+

+

+

+"That Miss Flora Millar, the lady who had caused the disturbance, has actually been arrested. It appears that she was formerly a danseuse at the Allegro, and that she has known the bridegroom for some years. There are no further particulars, and the whole case is in your hands now--so far as it has been set forth in the public press."

+

+

+

+"And an exceedingly interesting case it appears to be. I would not have missed it for worlds. But there is a ring at the bell, Watson, and as the clock makes it a few minutes after four, I have no doubt that this will prove to be our noble client. Do not dream of going, Watson, for I very much prefer having a witness, if only as a check to my own memory."

+

+

+

+"Lord Robert St. Simon," announced our page-boy, throwing open the door. A gentleman entered, with a pleasant, cultured face, high-nosed and pale, with something perhaps of petulance about the mouth, and with the steady, well-opened eye of a man whose pleasant lot it had ever been to command and to be obeyed. His manner was brisk, and yet his general appearance gave an undue impression of age, for he had a slight forward stoop and a little bend of the knees as he walked. His hair, too, as he swept off his very curly-brimmed hat, was grizzled round the edges and thin upon the top. As to his dress, it was careful to the verge of foppishness, with high collar, black frock-coat, white waistcoat, yellow gloves, patent-leather shoes, and light-coloured gaiters. He advanced slowly into the room, turning his head from left to right, and swinging in his right hand the cord which held his golden eyeglasses.

+

+

+

+"Good-day, Lord St. Simon," said Holmes, rising and bowing. "Pray take the basket-chair. This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson. Draw up a little to the fire, and we will talk this matter over."

+

+

+

+"A most painful matter to me, as you can most readily imagine, Mr. Holmes. I have been cut to the quick. I understand that you have already managed several delicate cases of this sort, sir, though I presume that they were hardly from the same class of society."

+

+

+

+"No, I am descending."

+

+

+

+"I beg pardon."

+

+

+

+"My last client of the sort was a king."

+

+

+

+"Oh, really! I had no idea. And which king?"

+

+

+

+"The King of Scandinavia."

+

+

+

+"What! Had he lost his wife?"

+

+

+

+"You can understand," said Holmes suavely, "that I extend to the affairs of my other clients the same secrecy which I promise to you in yours."

+

+

+

+"Of course! Very right! very right! I'm sure I beg pardon. As to my own case, I am ready to give you any information which may assist you in forming an opinion."

+

+

+

+"Thank you. I have already learned all that is in the public prints, nothing more. I presume that I may take it as correct--this article, for example, as to the disappearance of the bride."

+

+

+

+Lord St. Simon glanced over it. "Yes, it is correct, as far as it goes."

+

+

+

+"But it needs a great deal of supplementing before anyone could offer an opinion. I think that I may arrive at my facts most directly by questioning you."

+

+

+

+"Pray do so."

+

+

+

+"When did you first meet Miss Hatty Doran?"

+

+

+

+"In San Francisco, a year ago."

+

+

+

+"You were travelling in the States?"

+

+

+

+"Yes."

+

+

+

+"Did you become engaged then?"

+

+

+

+"No."

+

+

+

+"But you were on a friendly footing?"

+

+

+

+"I was amused by her society, and she could see that I was amused."

+

+

+

+"Her father is very rich?"

+

+

+

+"He is said to be the richest man on the Pacific slope."

+

+

+

+"And how did he make his money?"

+

+

+

+"In mining. He had nothing a few years ago. Then he struck gold, invested it, and came up by leaps and bounds."

+

+

+

+"Now, what is your own impression as to the young lady's--your wife's character?"

+

+

+

+The nobleman swung his glasses a little faster and stared down into the fire. "You see, Mr. Holmes," said he, "my wife was twenty before her father became a rich man. During that time she ran free in a mining camp and wandered through woods or mountains, so that her education has come from Nature rather than from the schoolmaster. She is what we call in England a tomboy, with a strong nature, wild and free, unfettered by any sort of traditions. She is impetuous--volcanic, I was about to say. She is swift in making up her mind and fearless in carrying out her resolutions. On the other hand, I would not have given her the name which I have the honour to bear"--he gave a little stately cough--"had I not thought her to be at bottom a noble woman. I believe that she is capable of heroic self-sacrifice and that anything dishonourable would be repugnant to her."

+

+

+

+"Have you her photograph?"

+

+

+

+"I brought this with me." He opened a locket and showed us the full face of a very lovely woman. It was not a photograph but an ivory miniature, and the artist had brought out the full effect of the lustrous black hair, the large dark eyes, and the exquisite mouth. Holmes gazed long and earnestly at it. Then he closed the locket and handed it back to Lord St. Simon.

+

+

+

+"The young lady came to London, then, and you renewed your acquaintance?"

+

+

+

+"Yes, her father brought her over for this last London season. I met her several times, became engaged to her, and have now married her."

+

+

+

+"She brought, I understand, a considerable dowry?"

+

+

+

+"A fair dowry. Not more than is usual in my family."

+

+

+

+"And this, of course, remains to you, since the marriage is a fait accompli?"

+

+

+

+"I really have made no inquiries on the subject."

+

+

+

+"Very naturally not. Did you see Miss Doran on the day before the wedding?"

+

+

+

+"Yes."

+

+

+

+"Was she in good spirits?"

+

+

+

+"Never better. She kept talking of what we should do in our future lives."

+

+

+

+"Indeed! That is very interesting. And on the morning of the wedding?"

+

+

+

+"She was as bright as possible--at least until after the ceremony."

+

+

+

+"And did you observe any change in her then?"

+

+

+

+"Well, to tell the truth, I saw then the first signs that I had ever seen that her temper was just a little sharp. The incident however, was too trivial to relate and can have no possible bearing upon the case."

+

+

+

+"Pray let us have it, for all that."

+

+

+

+"Oh, it is childish. She dropped her bouquet as we went towards the vestry. She was passing the front pew at the time, and it fell over into the pew. There was a moment's delay, but the gentleman in the pew handed it up to her again, and it did not appear to be the worse for the fall. Yet when I spoke to her of the matter, she answered me abruptly; and in the carriage, on our way home, she seemed absurdly agitated over this trifling cause."

+

+

+

+"Indeed! You say that there was a gentleman in the pew. Some of the general public were present, then?"

+

+

+

+"Oh, yes. It is impossible to exclude them when the church is open."

+

+

+

+"This gentleman was not one of your wife's friends?"

+

+

+

+"No, no; I call him a gentleman by courtesy, but he was quite a common-looking person. I hardly noticed his appearance. But really I think that we are wandering rather far from the point."

+

+

+

+"Lady St. Simon, then, returned from the wedding in a less cheerful frame of mind than she had gone to it. What did she do on re-entering her father's house?"

+

+

+

+"I saw her in conversation with her maid."

+

+

+

+"And who is her maid?"

+

+

+

+"Alice is her name. She is an American and came from California with her."

+

+

+

+"A confidential servant?"

+

+

+

+"A little too much so. It seemed to me that her mistress allowed her to take great liberties. Still, of course, in America they look upon these things in a different way."

+

+

+

+"How long did she speak to this Alice?"

+

+

+

+"Oh, a few minutes. I had something else to think of."

+

+

+

+"You did not overhear what they said?"

+

+

+

+"Lady St. Simon said something about 'jumping a claim.' She was accustomed to use slang of the kind. I have no idea what she meant."

+

+

+

+"American slang is very expressive sometimes. And what did your wife do when she finished speaking to her maid?"

+

+

+

+"She walked into the breakfast-room."

+

+

+

+"On your arm?"

+

+

+

+"No, alone. She was very independent in little matters like that. Then, after we had sat down for ten minutes or so, she rose hurriedly, muttered some words of apology, and left the room. She never came back."

+

+

+

+"But this maid, Alice, as I understand, deposes that she went to her room, covered her bride's dress with a long ulster, put on a bonnet, and went out."

+

+

+

+"Quite so. And she was afterwards seen walking into Hyde Park in company with Flora Millar, a woman who is now in custody, and who had already made a disturbance at Mr. Doran's house that morning."

+

+

+

+"Ah, yes. I should like a few particulars as to this young lady, and your relations to her."

+

+

+

+Lord St. Simon shrugged his shoulders and raised his eyebrows. "We have been on a friendly footing for some years--I may say on a very friendly footing. She used to be at the Allegro. I have not treated her ungenerously, and she had no just cause of complaint against me, but you know what women are, Mr. Holmes. Flora was a dear little thing, but exceedingly hot-headed and devotedly attached to me. She wrote me dreadful letters when she heard that I was about to be married, and, to tell the truth, the reason why I had the marriage celebrated so quietly was that I feared lest there might be a scandal in the church. She came to Mr. Doran's door just after we returned, and she endeavoured to push her way in, uttering very abusive expressions towards my wife, and even threatening her, but I had foreseen the possibility of something of the sort, and I had two police fellows there in private clothes, who soon pushed her out again. She was quiet when she saw that there was no good in making a row."

+

+

+

+"Did your wife hear all this?"

+

+

+

+"No, thank goodness, she did not."

+

+

+

+"And she was seen walking with this very woman afterwards?"

+

+

+

+"Yes. That is what Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland Yard, looks upon as so serious. It is thought that Flora decoyed my wife out and laid some terrible trap for her."

+

+

+

+"Well, it is a possible supposition."

+

+

+

+"You think so, too?"

+

+

+

+"I did not say a probable one. But you do not yourself look upon this as likely?"

+

+

+

+"I do not think Flora would hurt a fly."

+

+

+

+"Still, jealousy is a strange transformer of characters. Pray what is your own theory as to what took place?"

+

+

+

+"Well, really, I came to seek a theory, not to propound one. I have given you all the facts. Since you ask me, however, I may say that it has occurred to me as possible that the excitement of this affair, the consciousness that she had made so immense a social stride, had the effect of causing some little nervous disturbance in my wife."

+

+

+

+"In short, that she had become suddenly deranged?"

+

+

+

+"Well, really, when I consider that she has turned her back--I will not say upon me, but upon so much that many have aspired to without success--I can hardly explain it in any other fashion."

+

+

+

+"Well, certainly that is also a conceivable hypothesis," said Holmes, smiling. "And now, Lord St. Simon, I think that I have nearly all my data. May I ask whether you were seated at the breakfast-table so that you could see out of the window?"

+

+

+

+"We could see the other side of the road and the Park."

+

+

+

+"Quite so. Then I do not think that I need to detain you longer. I shall communicate with you."

+

+

+

+"Should you be fortunate enough to solve this problem," said our client, rising.

+

+

+

+"I have solved it."

+

+

+

+"Eh? What was that?"

+

+

+

+"I say that I have solved it."

+

+

+

+"Where, then, is my wife?"

+

+

+

+"That is a detail which I shall speedily supply."

+

+

+

+Lord St. Simon shook his head. "I am afraid that it will take wiser heads than yours or mine," he remarked, and bowing in a stately, old-fashioned manner he departed.

+

+

+

+"It is very good of Lord St. Simon to honour my head by putting it on a level with his own," said Sherlock Holmes, laughing. "I think that I shall have a whisky and soda and a cigar after all this cross-questioning. I had formed my conclusions as to the case before our client came into the room."

+

+

+

+"My dear Holmes!"

+

+

+

+"I have notes of several similar cases, though none, as I remarked before, which were quite as prompt. My whole examination served to turn my conjecture into a certainty. Circumstantial evidence is occasionally very convincing, as when you find a trout in the milk, to quote Thoreau's example."

+

+

+

+"But I have heard all that you have heard."

+

+

+

+"Without, however, the knowledge of pre-existing cases which serves me so well. There was a parallel instance in Aberdeen some years back, and something on very much the same lines at Munich the year after the Franco-Prussian War. It is one of these cases--but, hullo, here is Lestrade! Good-afternoon, Lestrade! You will find an extra tumbler upon the sideboard, and there are cigars in the box."

+

+

+

+The official detective was attired in a pea-jacket and cravat, which gave him a decidedly nautical appearance, and he carried a black canvas bag in his hand. With a short greeting he seated himself and lit the cigar which had been offered to him.

+

+

+

+"What's up, then?" asked Holmes with a twinkle in his eye. "You look dissatisfied."

+

+

+

+"And I feel dissatisfied. It is this infernal St. Simon marriage case. I can make neither head nor tail of the business."

+

+

+

+"Really! You surprise me."

+

+

+

+"Who ever heard of such a mixed affair? Every clue seems to slip through my fingers. I have been at work upon it all day."

+

+

+

+"And very wet it seems to have made you," said Holmes laying his hand upon the arm of the pea-jacket.

+

+

+

+"Yes, I have been dragging the Serpentine."

+

+

+

+"In heaven's name, what for?"

+

+

+

+"In search of the body of Lady St. Simon."

+

+

+

+Sherlock Holmes leaned back in his chair and laughed heartily.

+

+

+

+"Have you dragged the basin of Trafalgar Square fountain?" he asked.

+

+

+

+"Why? What do you mean?"

+

+

+

+"Because you have just as good a chance of finding this lady in the one as in the other."

+

+

+

+Lestrade shot an angry glance at my companion. "I suppose you know all about it," he snarled.

+

+

+

+"Well, I have only just heard the facts, but my mind is made up."

+

+

+

+"Oh, indeed! Then you think that the Serpentine plays no part in the matter?"

+

+

+

+"I think it very unlikely."

+

+

+

+"Then perhaps you will kindly explain how it is that we found this in it?" He opened his bag as he spoke, and tumbled onto the floor a wedding-dress of watered silk, a pair of white satin shoes and a bride's wreath and veil, all discoloured and soaked in water. "There," said he, putting a new wedding-ring upon the top of the pile. "There is a little nut for you to crack, Master Holmes."

+

+

+

+"Oh, indeed!" said my friend, blowing blue rings into the air. "You dragged them from the Serpentine?"

+

+

+

+"No. They were found floating near the margin by a park-keeper. They have been identified as her clothes, and it seemed to me that if the clothes were there the body would not be far off."

+

+

+

+"By the same brilliant reasoning, every man's body is to be found in the neighbourhood of his wardrobe. And pray what did you hope to arrive at through this?"

+

+

+

+"At some evidence implicating Flora Millar in the disappearance."

+

+

+

+"I am afraid that you will find it difficult."

+

+

+

+"Are you, indeed, now?" cried Lestrade with some bitterness. "I am afraid, Holmes, that you are not very practical with your deductions and your inferences. You have made two blunders in as many minutes. This dress does implicate Miss Flora Millar."

+

+

+

+"And how?"

+

+

+

+"In the dress is a pocket. In the pocket is a card-case. In the card-case is a note. And here is the very note." He slapped it down upon the table in front of him. "Listen to this: 'You will see me when all is ready. Come at once. F. H. M.' Now my theory all along has been that Lady St. Simon was decoyed away by Flora Millar, and that she, with confederates, no doubt, was responsible for her disappearance. Here, signed with her initials, is the very note which was no doubt quietly slipped into her hand at the door and which lured her within their reach."

+

+

+

+"Very good, Lestrade," said Holmes, laughing. "You really are very fine indeed. Let me see it." He took up the paper in a listless way, but his attention instantly became riveted, and he gave a little cry of satisfaction. "This is indeed important," said he.

+

+

+

+"Ha! you find it so?"

+

+

+

+"Extremely so. I congratulate you warmly."

+

+

+

+Lestrade rose in his triumph and bent his head to look. "Why," he shrieked, "you're looking at the wrong side!"

+

+

+

+"On the contrary, this is the right side."

+

+

+

+"The right side? You're mad! Here is the note written in pencil over here."

+

+

+

+"And over here is what appears to be the fragment of a hotel bill, which interests me deeply."

+

+

+

+"There's nothing in it. I looked at it before," said Lestrade. " 'Oct. 4th, rooms 8s., breakfast 2s. 6d., cocktail 1s., lunch 2s. 6d., glass sherry, 8d.' I see nothing in that."

+

+

+

+"Very likely not. It is most important, all the same. As to the note, it is important also, or at least the initials are, so I congratulate you again."

+

+

+

+"I've wasted time enough," said Lestrade, rising. "I believe in hard work and not in sitting by the fire spinning fine theories. Good-day, Mr. Holmes, and we shall see which gets to the bottom of the matter first." He gathered up the garments, thrust them into the bag, and made for the door.

+

+

+

+"Just one hint to you, Lestrade," drawled Holmes before his rival vanished; "I will tell you the true solution of the matter. Lady St. Simon is a myth. There is not, and there never has been, any such person."

+

+

+

+Lestrade looked sadly at my companion. Then he turned to me, tapped his forehead three times, shook his head solemnly, and hurried away.

+

+

+

+He had hardly shut the door behind him when Holmes rose to put on his overcoat. "There is something in what the fellow says about outdoor work," he remarked, "so I think, Watson, that I must leave you to your papers for a little."

+

+

+

+It was after five o'clock when Sherlock Holmes left me, but I had no time to be lonely, for within an hour there arrived a confectioner's man with a very large flat box. This he unpacked with the help of a youth whom he had brought with him, and presently, to my very great astonishment, a quite epicurean little cold supper began to be laid out upon our humble lodging-house mahogany. There were a couple of brace of cold woodcock, a pheasant, a pate de foie gras pie with a group of ancient and cobwebby bottles. Having laid out all these luxuries, my two visitors vanished away, like the genii of the Arabian Nights, with no explanation save that the things had been paid for and were ordered to this address.

+

+

+

+Just before nine o'clock Sherlock Holmes stepped briskly into the room. His features were gravely set, but there was a light in his eye which made me think that he had not been disappointed in his conclusions.

+

+

+

+"They have laid the supper, then," he said, rubbing his hands.

+

+

+

+"You seem to expect company. They have laid for five."

+

+

+

+"Yes, I fancy we may have some company dropping in," said he. "I am surprised that Lord St. Simon has not already arrived. Ha! I fancy that I hear his step now upon the stairs."

+

+

+

+It was indeed our visitor of the afternoon who came bustling in, dangling his glasses more vigorously than ever, and with a very perturbed expression upon his aristocratic features.

+

+

+

+"My messenger reached you, then?" asked Holmes.

+

+

+

+"Yes, and I confess that the contents startled me beyond measure. Have you good authority for what you say?"

+

+

+

+"The best possible."

+

+

+

+Lord St. Simon sank into a chair and passed his hand over his forehead.

+

+

+

+"What will the Duke say," he murmured, "when he hears that one of the family has been subjected to such humiliation?"

+

+

+

+"It is the purest accident. I cannot allow that there is any humiliation."

+

+

+

+"Ah, you look on these things from another standpoint."

+

+

+

+"I fail to see that anyone is to blame. I can hardly see how the lady could have acted otherwise, though her abrupt method of doing it was undoubtedly to be regretted. Having no mother, she had no one to advise her at such a crisis."

+

+

+

+"It was a slight, sir, a public slight," said Lord St. Simon, tapping his fingers upon the table.

+

+

+

+"You must make allowance for this poor girl, placed in so unprecedented a position."

+

+

+

+"I will make no allowance. I am very angry indeed, and I have been shamefully used."

+

+

+

+"I think that I heard a ring," said Holmes. "Yes, there are steps on the landing. If I cannot persuade you to take a lenient view of the matter, Lord St. Simon, I have brought an advocate here who may be more successful." He opened the door and ushered in a lady and gentleman. "Lord St. Simon," said he "allow me to introduce you to Mr. and Mrs. Francis Hay Moulton. The lady, I think, you have already met."

+

+

+

+At the sight of these newcomers our client had sprung from his seat and stood very erect, with his eyes cast down and his hand thrust into the breast of his frock-coat, a picture of offended dignity. The lady had taken a quick step forward and had held out her hand to him, but he still refused to raise his eyes. It was as well for his resolution, perhaps, for her pleading face was one which it was hard to resist.

+

+

+

+"You're angry, Robert," said she. "Well, I guess you have every cause to be."

+

+

+

+"Pray make no apology to me," said Lord St. Simon bitterly.

+

+

+

+"Oh, yes, I know that I have treated you real bad and that I should have spoken to you before I went; but I was kind of rattled, and from the time when I saw Frank here again I just didn't know what I was doing or saying. I only wonder I didn't fall down and do a faint right there before the altar."

+

+

+

+"Perhaps, Mrs. Moulton, you would like my friend and me to leave the room while you explain this matter?"

+

+

+

+"If I may give an opinion," remarked the strange gentleman, "we've had just a little too much secrecy over this business already. For my part, I should like all Europe and America to hear the rights of it." He was a small, wiry, sunburnt man, clean-shaven, with a sharp face and alert manner.

+

+

+

+"Then I'll tell our story right away," said the lady. "Frank here and I met in '84, in McQuire's camp, near the Rockies, where Pa was working a claim. We were engaged to each other, Frank and I; but then one day father struck a rich pocket and made a pile, while poor Frank here had a claim that petered out and came to nothing. The richer Pa grew the poorer was Frank; so at last Pa wouldn't hear of our engagement lasting any longer, and he took me away to 'Frisco. Frank wouldn't throw up his hand, though; so he followed me there, and he saw me without Pa knowing anything about it. It would only have made him mad to know, so we just fixed it all up for ourselves. Frank said that he would go and make his pile, too, and never come back to claim me until he had as much as Pa. So then I promised to wait for him to the end of time and pledged myself not to marry anyone else while he lived. 'Why shouldn't we be married right away, then,' said he, 'and then I will feel sure of you; and I won't claim to be your husband until I come back?' Well, we talked it over, and he had fixed it all up so nicely, with a clergyman all ready in waiting, that we just did it right there; and then Frank went off to seek his fortune, and I went back to Pa.

+

+

+

+"The next I heard of Frank was that he was in Montana, and then he went prospecting in Arizona, and then I heard of him from New Mexico. After that came a long newspaper story about how a miners' camp had been attacked by Apache Indians, and there was my Frank's name among the killed. I fainted dead away, and I was very sick for months after. Pa thought I had a decline and took me to half the doctors in 'Frisco. Not a word of news came for a year and more, so that I never doubted that Frank was really dead. Then Lord St. Simon came to 'Frisco, and we came to London, and a marriage was arranged, and Pa was very pleased, but I felt all the time that no man on this earth would ever take the place in my heart that had been given to my poor Frank.

+

+

+

+"Still, if I had married Lord St. Simon, of course I'd have done my duty by him. We can't command our love, but we can our actions. I went to the altar with him with the intention to make him just as good a wife as it was in me to be. But you may imagine what I felt when, just as I came to the altar rails, I glanced back and saw Frank standing and looking at me out of the first pew. I thought it was his ghost at first; but when I looked again there he was still, with a kind of question in his eyes, as if to ask me whether I were glad or sorry to see him. I wonder I didn't drop. I know that everything was turning round, and the words of the clergyman were just like the buzz of a bee in my ear. I didn't know what to do. Should I stop the service and make a scene in the church? I glanced at him again, and he seemed to know what I was thinking, for he raised his finger to his lips to tell me to be still. Then I saw him scribble on a piece of paper, and I knew that he was writing me a note. As I passed his pew on the way out I dropped my bouquet over to him, and he slipped the note into my hand when he returned me the flowers. It was only a line asking me to join him when he made the sign to me to do so. Of course I never doubted for a moment that my first duty was now to him, and I determined to do just whatever he might direct.

+

+

+

+"When I got back I told my maid, who had known him in California, and had always been his friend. I ordered her to say nothing, but to get a few things packed and my ulster ready. I know I ought to have spoken to Lord St. Simon, but it was dreadful hard before his mother and all those great people. I just made up my mind to run away and explain afterwards. I hadn't been at the table ten minutes before I saw Frank out of the window at the other side of the road. He beckoned to me and then began walking into the Park. I slipped out, put on my things, and followed him. Some woman came talking something or other about Lord St. Simon to me--seemed to me from the little I heard as if he had a little secret of his own before marriage also--but I managed to get away from her and soon overtook Frank. We got into a cab together, and away we drove to some lodgings he had taken in Gordon Square, and that was my true wedding after all those years of waiting. Frank had been a prisoner among the Apaches, had escaped, came on to 'Frisco, found that I had given him up for dead and had gone to England, followed me there, and had come upon me at last on the very morning of my second wedding."

+

+

+

+"I saw it in a paper," explained the American. "It gave the name and the church but not where the lady lived."

+

+

+

+"Then we had a talk as to what we should do, and Frank was all for openness, but I was so ashamed of it all that I felt as if I should like to vanish away and never see any of them again--just sending a line to Pa, perhaps, to show him that I was alive. It was awful to me to think of all those lords and ladies sitting round that breakfast-table and waiting for me to come back. So Frank took my wedding-clothes and things and made a bundle of them, so that I should not be traced, and dropped them away somewhere where no one could find them. It is likely that we should have gone on to Paris to-morrow, only that this good gentleman, Mr. Holmes, came round to us this evening, though how he found us is more than I can think, and he showed us very clearly and kindly that I was wrong and that Frank was right, and that we should be putting ourselves in the wrong if we were so secret. Then he offered to give us a chance of talking to Lord St. Simon alone, and so we came right away round to his rooms at once. Now, Robert, you have heard it all, and I am very sorry if I have given you pain, and I hope that you do not think very meanly of me."

+

+

+

+Lord St. Simon had by no means relaxed his rigid attitude, but had listened with a frowning brow and a compressed lip to this long narrative.

+

+

+

+"Excuse me," he said, "but it is not my custom to discuss my most intimate personal affairs in this public manner."

+

+

+

+"Then you won't forgive me? You won't shake hands before I go?"

+

+

+

+"Oh, certainly, if it would give you any pleasure." He put out his hand and coldly grasped that which she extended to him.

+

+

+

+"I had hoped," suggested Holmes, "that you would have joined us in a friendly supper."

+

+

+

+"I think that there you ask a little too much," responded his Lordship. "I may be forced to acquiesce in these recent developments, but I can hardly be expected to make merry over them. I think that with your permission I will now wish you all a very good-night." He included us all in a sweeping bow and stalked out of the room.

+

+

+

+"Then I trust that you at least will honour me with your company," said Sherlock Holmes. "It is always a joy to meet an American, Mr. Moulton, for I am one of those who believe that the folly of a monarch and the blundering of a minister in far-gone years will not prevent our children from being some day citizens of the same world-wide country under a flag which shall be a quartering of the Union Jack with the Stars and Stripes."

+

+

+

+"The case has been an interesting one," remarked Holmes when our visitors had left us, "because it serves to show very clearly how simple the explanation may be of an affair which at first sight seems to be almost inexplicable. Nothing could be more natural than the sequence of events as narrated by this lady, and nothing stranger than the result when viewed, for instance, by Mr. Lestrade of Scotland Yard."

+

+

+

+"You were not yourself at fault at all, then?"

+

+

+

+"From the first, two facts were very obvious to me, the one that the lady had been quite willing to undergo the wedding ceremony, the other that she had repented of it within a few minutes of returning home. Obviously something had occurred during the morning, then, to cause her to change her mind. What could that something be? She could not have spoken to anyone when she was out, for she had been in the company of the bridegroom. Had she seen someone, then? If she had, it must be someone from America because she had spent so short a time in this country that she could hardly have allowed anyone to acquire so deep an influence over her that the mere sight of him would induce her to change her plans so completely. You see we have already arrived, by a process of exclusion, at the idea that she might have seen an American. Then who could this American be, and why should he possess so much influence over her? It might be a lover; it might be a husband. Her young womanhood had, I knew, been spent in rough scenes and under strange conditions. So far I had got before I ever heard Lord St. Simon's narrative. When he told us of a man in a pew, of the change in the bride's manner, of so transparent a device for obtaining a note as the dropping of a bouquet, of her resort to her confidential maid, and of her very significant allusion to claim-jumping--which in miners' parlance means taking possession of that which another person has a prior claim to--the whole situation became absolutely clear. She had gone off with a man, and the man was either a lover or was a previous husband--the chances being in favour of the latter."

+

+

+

+"And how in the world did you find them?"

+

+

+

+"It might have been difficult, but friend Lestrade held information in his hands the value of which he did not himself know. The initials were, of course, of the highest importance, but more valuable still was it to know that within a week he had settled his bill at one of the most select London hotels."

+

+

+

+"How did you deduce the select?"

+

+

+

+"By the select prices. Eight shillings for a bed and eightpence for a glass of sherry pointed to one of the most expensive hotels. There are not many in London which charge at that rate. In the second one which I visited in Northumberland Avenue, I learned by an inspection of the book that Francis H. Moulton, an American gentleman, had left only the day before, and on looking over the entries against him, I came upon the very items which I had seen in the duplicate bill. His letters were to be forwarded to 226 Gordon Square; so thither I travelled, and being fortunate enough to find the loving couple at home, I ventured to give them some paternal advice and to point out to them that it would be better in every way that they should make their position a little clearer both to the general public and to Lord St. Simon in particular. I invited them to meet him here, and, as you see, I made him keep the appointment."

+

+

+

+"But with no very good result," I remarked. "His conduct was certainly not very gracious."

+

+

+

+"Ah, Watson," said Holmes, smiling, "perhaps you would not be very gracious either, if, after all the trouble of wooing and wedding, you found yourself deprived in an instant of wife and of fortune. I think that we may judge Lord St. Simon very mercifully and thank our stars that we are never likely to find ourselves in the same position. Draw your chair up and hand me my violin, for the only problem we have still to solve is how to while away these bleak autumnal evenings."

+

+

+

+XI.  THE ADVENTURE OF THE BERYL CORONET

+

+

+

+

+

+"Holmes," said I as I stood one morning in our bow-window looking down the street, "here is a madman coming along. It seems rather sad that his relatives should allow him to come out alone."

+

+

+

+My friend rose lazily from his armchair and stood with his hands in the pockets of his dressing-gown, looking over my shoulder. It was a bright, crisp February morning, and the snow of the day before still lay deep upon the ground, shimmering brightly in the wintry sun. Down the centre of Baker Street it had been ploughed into a brown crumbly band by the traffic, but at either side and on the heaped-up edges of the foot-paths it still lay as white as when it fell. The grey pavement had been cleaned and scraped, but was still dangerously slippery, so that there were fewer passengers than usual. Indeed, from the direction of the Metropolitan Station no one was coming save the single gentleman whose eccentric conduct had drawn my attention.

+

+

+

+He was a man of about fifty, tall, portly, and imposing, with a massive, strongly marked face and a commanding figure. He was dressed in a sombre yet rich style, in black frock-coat, shining hat, neat brown gaiters, and well-cut pearl-grey trousers. Yet his actions were in absurd contrast to the dignity of his dress and features, for he was running hard, with occasional little springs, such as a weary man gives who is little accustomed to set any tax upon his legs. As he ran he jerked his hands up and down, waggled his head, and writhed his face into the most extraordinary contortions.

+

+

+

+"What on earth can be the matter with him?" I asked. "He is looking up at the numbers of the houses."

+

+

+

+"I believe that he is coming here," said Holmes, rubbing his hands.

+

+

+

+"Here?"

+

+

+

+"Yes; I rather think he is coming to consult me professionally. I think that I recognise the symptoms. Ha! did I not tell you?" As he spoke, the man, puffing and blowing, rushed at our door and pulled at our bell until the whole house resounded with the clanging.

+

+

+

+A few moments later he was in our room, still puffing, still gesticulating, but with so fixed a look of grief and despair in his eyes that our smiles were turned in an instant to horror and pity. For a while he could not get his words out, but swayed his body and plucked at his hair like one who has been driven to the extreme limits of his reason. Then, suddenly springing to his feet, he beat his head against the wall with such force that we both rushed upon him and tore him away to the centre of the room. Sherlock Holmes pushed him down into the easy-chair and, sitting beside him, patted his hand and chatted with him in the easy, soothing tones which he knew so well how to employ.

+

+

+

+"You have come to me to tell your story, have you not?" said he. "You are fatigued with your haste. Pray wait until you have recovered yourself, and then I shall be most happy to look into any little problem which you may submit to me."

+

+

+

+The man sat for a minute or more with a heaving chest, fighting against his emotion. Then he passed his handkerchief over his brow, set his lips tight, and turned his face towards us.

+

+

+

+"No doubt you think me mad?" said he.

+

+

+

+"I see that you have had some great trouble," responded Holmes.

+

+

+

+"God knows I have!--a trouble which is enough to unseat my reason, so sudden and so terrible is it. Public disgrace I might have faced, although I am a man whose character has never yet borne a stain. Private affliction also is the lot of every man; but the two coming together, and in so frightful a form, have been enough to shake my very soul. Besides, it is not I alone. The very noblest in the land may suffer unless some way be found out of this horrible affair."

+

+

+

+"Pray compose yourself, sir," said Holmes, "and let me have a clear account of who you are and what it is that has befallen you."

+

+

+

+"My name," answered our visitor, "is probably familiar to your ears. I am Alexander Holder, of the banking firm of Holder & Stevenson, of Threadneedle Street."

+

+

+

+The name was indeed well known to us as belonging to the senior partner in the second largest private banking concern in the City of London. What could have happened, then, to bring one of the foremost citizens of London to this most pitiable pass? We waited, all curiosity, until with another effort he braced himself to tell his story.

+

+

+

+"I feel that time is of value," said he; "that is why I hastened here when the police inspector suggested that I should secure your co-operation. I came to Baker Street by the Underground and hurried from there on foot, for the cabs go slowly through this snow. That is why I was so out of breath, for I am a man who takes very little exercise. I feel better now, and I will put the facts before you as shortly and yet as clearly as I can.

+

+

+

+"It is, of course, well known to you that in a successful banking business as much depends upon our being able to find remunerative investments for our funds as upon our increasing our connection and the number of our depositors. One of our most lucrative means of laying out money is in the shape of loans, where the security is unimpeachable. We have done a good deal in this direction during the last few years, and there are many noble families to whom we have advanced large sums upon the security of their pictures, libraries, or plate.

+

+

+

+"Yesterday morning I was seated in my office at the bank when a card was brought in to me by one of the clerks. I started when I saw the name, for it was that of none other than--well, perhaps even to you I had better say no more than that it was a name which is a household word all over the earth--one of the highest, noblest, most exalted names in England. I was overwhelmed by the honour and attempted, when he entered, to say so, but he plunged at once into business with the air of a man who wishes to hurry quickly through a disagreeable task.

+

+

+

+" 'Mr. Holder,' said he, 'I have been informed that you are in the habit of advancing money.'

+

+

+

+" 'The firm does so when the security is good.' I answered.

+

+

+

+" 'It is absolutely essential to me,' said he, 'that I should have $50,000 at once. I could, of course, borrow so trifling a sum ten times over from my friends, but I much prefer to make it a matter of business and to carry out that business myself. In my position you can readily understand that it is unwise to place one's self under obligations.'

+

+

+

+" 'For how long, may I ask, do you want this sum?' I asked.

+

+

+

+" 'Next Monday I have a large sum due to me, and I shall then most certainly repay what you advance, with whatever interest you think it right to charge. But it is very essential to me that the money should be paid at once.'

+

+

+

+" 'I should be happy to advance it without further parley from my own private purse,' said I, 'were it not that the strain would be rather more than it could bear. If, on the other hand, I am to do it in the name of the firm, then in justice to my partner I must insist that, even in your case, every businesslike precaution should be taken.'

+

+

+

+" 'I should much prefer to have it so,' said he, raising up a square, black morocco case which he had laid beside his chair. 'You have doubtless heard of the Beryl Coronet?'

+

+

+

+" 'One of the most precious public possessions of the empire,' said I.

+

+

+

+" 'Precisely.' He opened the case, and there, imbedded in soft, flesh-coloured velvet, lay the magnificent piece of jewellery which he had named. 'There are thirty-nine enormous beryls,' said he, 'and the price of the gold chasing is incalculable. The lowest estimate would put the worth of the coronet at double the sum which I have asked. I am prepared to leave it with you as my security.'

+

+

+

+"I took the precious case into my hands and looked in some perplexity from it to my illustrious client.

+

+

+

+" 'You doubt its value?' he asked.

+

+

+

+" 'Not at all. I only doubt--'

+

+

+

+" 'The propriety of my leaving it. You may set your mind at rest about that. I should not dream of doing so were it not absolutely certain that I should be able in four days to reclaim it. It is a pure matter of form. Is the security sufficient?'

+

+

+

+" 'Ample.'

+

+

+

+" 'You understand, Mr. Holder, that I am giving you a strong proof of the confidence which I have in you, founded upon all that I have heard of you. I rely upon you not only to be discreet and to refrain from all gossip upon the matter but, above all, to preserve this coronet with every possible precaution because I need not say that a great public scandal would be caused if any harm were to befall it. Any injury to it would be almost as serious as its complete loss, for there are no beryls in the world to match these, and it would be impossible to replace them. I leave it with you, however, with every confidence, and I shall call for it in person on Monday morning.'

+

+

+

+"Seeing that my client was anxious to leave, I said no more but, calling for my cashier, I ordered him to pay over fifty $1000 notes. When I was alone once more, however, with the precious case lying upon the table in front of me, I could not but think with some misgivings of the immense responsibility which it entailed upon me. There could be no doubt that, as it was a national possession, a horrible scandal would ensue if any misfortune should occur to it. I already regretted having ever consented to take charge of it. However, it was too late to alter the matter now, so I locked it up in my private safe and turned once more to my work.

+

+

+

+"When evening came I felt that it would be an imprudence to leave so precious a thing in the office behind me. Bankers' safes had been forced before now, and why should not mine be? If so, how terrible would be the position in which I should find myself! I determined, therefore, that for the next few days I would always carry the case backward and forward with me, so that it might never be really out of my reach. With this intention, I called a cab and drove out to my house at Streatham, carrying the jewel with me. I did not breathe freely until I had taken it upstairs and locked it in the bureau of my dressing-room.

+

+

+

+"And now a word as to my household, Mr. Holmes, for I wish you to thoroughly understand the situation. My groom and my page sleep out of the house, and may be set aside altogether. I have three maid-servants who have been with me a number of years and whose absolute reliability is quite above suspicion. Another, Lucy Parr, the second waiting-maid, has only been in my service a few months. She came with an excellent character, however, and has always given me satisfaction. She is a very pretty girl and has attracted admirers who have occasionally hung about the place. That is the only drawback which we have found to her, but we believe her to be a thoroughly good girl in every way.

+

+

+

+"So much for the servants. My family itself is so small that it will not take me long to describe it. I am a widower and have an only son, Arthur. He has been a disappointment to me, Mr. Holmes--a grievous disappointment. I have no doubt that I am myself to blame. People tell me that I have spoiled him. Very likely I have. When my dear wife died I felt that he was all I had to love. I could not bear to see the smile fade even for a moment from his face. I have never denied him a wish. Perhaps it would have been better for both of us had I been sterner, but I meant it for the best.

+

+

+

+"It was naturally my intention that he should succeed me in my business, but he was not of a business turn. He was wild, wayward, and, to speak the truth, I could not trust him in the handling of large sums of money. When he was young he became a member of an aristocratic club, and there, having charming manners, he was soon the intimate of a number of men with long purses and expensive habits. He learned to play heavily at cards and to squander money on the turf, until he had again and again to come to me and implore me to give him an advance upon his allowance, that he might settle his debts of honour. He tried more than once to break away from the dangerous company which he was keeping, but each time the influence of his friend, Sir George Burnwell, was enough to draw him back again.

+

+

+

+"And, indeed, I could not wonder that such a man as Sir George Burnwell should gain an influence over him, for he has frequently brought him to my house, and I have found myself that I could hardly resist the fascination of his manner. He is older than Arthur, a man of the world to his finger-tips, one who had been everywhere, seen everything, a brilliant talker, and a man of great personal beauty. Yet when I think of him in cold blood, far away from the glamour of his presence, I am convinced from his cynical speech and the look which I have caught in his eyes that he is one who should be deeply distrusted. So I think, and so, too, thinks my little Mary, who has a woman's quick insight into character.

+

+

+

+"And now there is only she to be described. She is my niece; but when my brother died five years ago and left her alone in the world I adopted her, and have looked upon her ever since as my daughter. She is a sunbeam in my house--sweet, loving, beautiful, a wonderful manager and housekeeper, yet as tender and quiet and gentle as a woman could be. She is my right hand. I do not know what I could do without her. In only one matter has she ever gone against my wishes. Twice my boy has asked her to marry him, for he loves her devotedly, but each time she has refused him. I think that if anyone could have drawn him into the right path it would have been she, and that his marriage might have changed his whole life; but now, alas! it is too late--forever too late!

+

+

+

+"Now, Mr. Holmes, you know the people who live under my roof, and I shall continue with my miserable story.

+

+

+

+"When we were taking coffee in the drawing-room that night after dinner, I told Arthur and Mary my experience, and of the precious treasure which we had under our roof, suppressing only the name of my client. Lucy Parr, who had brought in the coffee, had, I am sure, left the room; but I cannot swear that the door was closed. Mary and Arthur were much interested and wished to see the famous coronet, but I thought it better not to disturb it.

+

+

+

+" 'Where have you put it?' asked Arthur.

+

+

+

+" 'In my own bureau.'

+

+

+

+" 'Well, I hope to goodness the house won't be burgled during the night.' said he.

+

+

+

+" 'It is locked up,' I answered.

+

+

+

+" 'Oh, any old key will fit that bureau. When I was a youngster I have opened it myself with the key of the box-room cupboard.'

+

+

+

+"He often had a wild way of talking, so that I thought little of what he said. He followed me to my room, however, that night with a very grave face.

+

+

+

+" 'Look here, dad,' said he with his eyes cast down, 'can you let me have $200?'

+

+

+

+" 'No, I cannot!' I answered sharply. 'I have been far too generous with you in money matters.'

+

+

+

+" 'You have been very kind,' said he, 'but I must have this money, or else I can never show my face inside the club again.'

+

+

+

+" 'And a very good thing, too!' I cried.

+

+

+

+" 'Yes, but you would not have me leave it a dishonoured man,' said he. 'I could not bear the disgrace. I must raise the money in some way, and if you will not let me have it, then I must try other means.'

+

+

+

+"I was very angry, for this was the third demand during the month. 'You shall not have a farthing from me,' I cried, on which he bowed and left the room without another word.

+

+

+

+"When he was gone I unlocked my bureau, made sure that my treasure was safe, and locked it again. Then I started to go round the house to see that all was secure--a duty which I usually leave to Mary but which I thought it well to perform myself that night. As I came down the stairs I saw Mary herself at the side window of the hall, which she closed and fastened as I approached.

+

+

+

+" 'Tell me, dad,' said she, looking, I thought, a little disturbed, 'did you give Lucy, the maid, leave to go out to-night?'

+

+

+

+" 'Certainly not.'

+

+

+

+" 'She came in just now by the back door. I have no doubt that she has only been to the side gate to see someone, but I think that it is hardly safe and should be stopped.'

+

+

+

+" 'You must speak to her in the morning, or I will if you prefer it. Are you sure that everything is fastened?'

+

+

+

+" 'Quite sure, dad.'

+

+

+

+" 'Then, good-night.' I kissed her and went up to my bedroom again, where I was soon asleep.

+

+

+

+"I am endeavouring to tell you everything, Mr. Holmes, which may have any bearing upon the case, but I beg that you will question me upon any point which I do not make clear."

+

+

+

+"On the contrary, your statement is singularly lucid."

+

+

+

+"I come to a part of my story now in which I should wish to be particularly so. I am not a very heavy sleeper, and the anxiety in my mind tended, no doubt, to make me even less so than usual. About two in the morning, then, I was awakened by some sound in the house. It had ceased ere I was wide awake, but it had left an impression behind it as though a window had gently closed somewhere. I lay listening with all my ears. Suddenly, to my horror, there was a distinct sound of footsteps moving softly in the next room. I slipped out of bed, all palpitating with fear, and peeped round the corner of my dressing-room door.

+

+

+

+" 'Arthur!' I screamed, 'you villain! you thief! How dare you touch that coronet?'

+

+

+

+"The gas was half up, as I had left it, and my unhappy boy, dressed only in his shirt and trousers, was standing beside the light, holding the coronet in his hands. He appeared to be wrenching at it, or bending it with all his strength. At my cry he dropped it from his grasp and turned as pale as death. I snatched it up and examined it. One of the gold corners, with three of the beryls in it, was missing.

+

+

+

+" 'You blackguard!' I shouted, beside myself with rage. 'You have destroyed it! You have dishonoured me forever! Where are the jewels which you have stolen?'

+

+

+

+" 'Stolen!' he cried.

+

+

+

+" 'Yes, thief!' I roared, shaking him by the shoulder.

+

+

+

+" 'There are none missing. There cannot be any missing,' said he.

+

+

+

+" 'There are three missing. And you know where they are. Must I call you a liar as well as a thief? Did I not see you trying to tear off another piece?'

+

+

+

+" 'You have called me names enough,' said he, 'I will not stand it any longer. I shall not say another word about this business, since you have chosen to insult me. I will leave your house in the morning and make my own way in the world.'

+

+

+

+" 'You shall leave it in the hands of the police!' I cried half-mad with grief and rage. 'I shall have this matter probed to the bottom.'

+

+

+

+" 'You shall learn nothing from me,' said he with a passion such as I should not have thought was in his nature. 'If you choose to call the police, let the police find what they can.'

+

+

+

+"By this time the whole house was astir, for I had raised my voice in my anger. Mary was the first to rush into my room, and, at the sight of the coronet and of Arthur's face, she read the whole story and, with a scream, fell down senseless on the ground. I sent the house-maid for the police and put the investigation into their hands at once. When the inspector and a constable entered the house, Arthur, who had stood sullenly with his arms folded, asked me whether it was my intention to charge him with theft. I answered that it had ceased to be a private matter, but had become a public one, since the ruined coronet was national property. I was determined that the law should have its way in everything.

+

+

+

+" 'At least,' said he, 'you will not have me arrested at once. It would be to your advantage as well as mine if I might leave the house for five minutes.'

+

+

+

+" 'That you may get away, or perhaps that you may conceal what you have stolen,' said I. And then, realising the dreadful position in which I was placed, I implored him to remember that not only my honour but that of one who was far greater than I was at stake; and that he threatened to raise a scandal which would convulse the nation. He might avert it all if he would but tell me what he had done with the three missing stones.

+

+

+

+" 'You may as well face the matter,' said I; 'you have been caught in the act, and no confession could make your guilt more heinous. If you but make such reparation as is in your power, by telling us where the beryls are, all shall be forgiven and forgotten.'

+

+

+

+" 'Keep your forgiveness for those who ask for it,' he answered, turning away from me with a sneer. I saw that he was too hardened for any words of mine to influence him. There was but one way for it. I called in the inspector and gave him into custody. A search was made at once not only of his person but of his room and of every portion of the house where he could possibly have concealed the gems; but no trace of them could be found, nor would the wretched boy open his mouth for all our persuasions and our threats. This morning he was removed to a cell, and I, after going through all the police formalities, have hurried round to you to implore you to use your skill in unravelling the matter. The police have openly confessed that they can at present make nothing of it. You may go to any expense which you think necessary. I have already offered a reward of $1000. My God, what shall I do! I have lost my honour, my gems, and my son in one night. Oh, what shall I do!"

+

+

+

+He put a hand on either side of his head and rocked himself to and fro, droning to himself like a child whose grief has got beyond words.

+

+

+

+Sherlock Holmes sat silent for some few minutes, with his brows knitted and his eyes fixed upon the fire.

+

+

+

+"Do you receive much company?" he asked.

+

+

+

+"None save my partner with his family and an occasional friend of Arthur's. Sir George Burnwell has been several times lately. No one else, I think."

+

+

+

+"Do you go out much in society?"

+

+

+

+"Arthur does. Mary and I stay at home. We neither of us care for it."

+

+

+

+"That is unusual in a young girl."

+

+

+

+"She is of a quiet nature. Besides, she is not so very young. She is four-and-twenty."

+

+

+

+"This matter, from what you say, seems to have been a shock to her also."

+

+

+

+"Terrible! She is even more affected than I."

+

+

+

+"You have neither of you any doubt as to your son's guilt?"

+

+

+

+"How can we have when I saw him with my own eyes with the coronet in his hands."

+

+

+

+"I hardly consider that a conclusive proof. Was the remainder of the coronet at all injured?"

+

+

+

+"Yes, it was twisted."

+

+

+

+"Do you not think, then, that he might have been trying to straighten it?"

+

+

+

+"God bless you! You are doing what you can for him and for me. But it is too heavy a task. What was he doing there at all? If his purpose were innocent, why did he not say so?"

+

+

+

+"Precisely. And if it were guilty, why did he not invent a lie? His silence appears to me to cut both ways. There are several singular points about the case. What did the police think of the noise which awoke you from your sleep?"

+

+

+

+"They considered that it might be caused by Arthur's closing his bedroom door."

+

+

+

+"A likely story! As if a man bent on felony would slam his door so as to wake a household. What did they say, then, of the disappearance of these gems?"

+

+

+

+"They are still sounding the planking and probing the furniture in the hope of finding them."

+

+

+

+"Have they thought of looking outside the house?"

+

+

+

+"Yes, they have shown extraordinary energy. The whole garden has already been minutely examined."

+

+

+

+"Now, my dear sir," said Holmes. "is it not obvious to you now that this matter really strikes very much deeper than either you or the police were at first inclined to think? It appeared to you to be a simple case; to me it seems exceedingly complex. Consider what is involved by your theory. You suppose that your son came down from his bed, went, at great risk, to your dressing-room, opened your bureau, took out your coronet, broke off by main force a small portion of it, went off to some other place, concealed three gems out of the thirty-nine, with such skill that nobody can find them, and then returned with the other thirty-six into the room in which he exposed himself to the greatest danger of being discovered. I ask you now, is such a theory tenable?"

+

+

+

+"But what other is there?" cried the banker with a gesture of despair. "If his motives were innocent, why does he not explain them?"

+

+

+

+"It is our task to find that out," replied Holmes; "so now, if you please, Mr. Holder, we will set off for Streatham together, and devote an hour to glancing a little more closely into details."

+

+

+

+My friend insisted upon my accompanying them in their expedition, which I was eager enough to do, for my curiosity and sympathy were deeply stirred by the story to which we had listened. I confess that the guilt of the banker's son appeared to me to be as obvious as it did to his unhappy father, but still I had such faith in Holmes' judgment that I felt that there must be some grounds for hope as long as he was dissatisfied with the accepted explanation. He hardly spoke a word the whole way out to the southern suburb, but sat with his chin upon his breast and his hat drawn over his eyes, sunk in the deepest thought. Our client appeared to have taken fresh heart at the little glimpse of hope which had been presented to him, and he even broke into a desultory chat with me over his business affairs. A short railway journey and a shorter walk brought us to Fairbank, the modest residence of the great financier.

+

+

+

+Fairbank was a good-sized square house of white stone, standing back a little from the road. A double carriage-sweep, with a snow-clad lawn, stretched down in front to two large iron gates which closed the entrance. On the right side was a small wooden thicket, which led into a narrow path between two neat hedges stretching from the road to the kitchen door, and forming the tradesmen's entrance. On the left ran a lane which led to the stables, and was not itself within the grounds at all, being a public, though little used, thoroughfare. Holmes left us standing at the door and walked slowly all round the house, across the front, down the tradesmen's path, and so round by the garden behind into the stable lane. So long was he that Mr. Holder and I went into the dining-room and waited by the fire until he should return. We were sitting there in silence when the door opened and a young lady came in. She was rather above the middle height, slim, with dark hair and eyes, which seemed the darker against the absolute pallor of her skin. I do not think that I have ever seen such deadly paleness in a woman's face. Her lips, too, were bloodless, but her eyes were flushed with crying. As she swept silently into the room she impressed me with a greater sense of grief than the banker had done in the morning, and it was the more striking in her as she was evidently a woman of strong character, with immense capacity for self-restraint. Disregarding my presence, she went straight to her uncle and passed her hand over his head with a sweet womanly caress.

+

+

+

+"You have given orders that Arthur should be liberated, have you not, dad?" she asked.

+

+

+

+"No, no, my girl, the matter must be probed to the bottom."

+

+

+

+"But I am so sure that he is innocent. You know what woman's instincts are. I know that he has done no harm and that you will be sorry for having acted so harshly."

+

+

+

+"Why is he silent, then, if he is innocent?"

+

+

+

+"Who knows? Perhaps because he was so angry that you should suspect him."

+

+

+

+"How could I help suspecting him, when I actually saw him with the coronet in his hand?"

+

+

+

+"Oh, but he had only picked it up to look at it. Oh, do, do take my word for it that he is innocent. Let the matter drop and say no more. It is so dreadful to think of our dear Arthur in prison!"

+

+

+

+"I shall never let it drop until the gems are found--never, Mary! Your affection for Arthur blinds you as to the awful consequences to me. Far from hushing the thing up, I have brought a gentleman down from London to inquire more deeply into it."

+

+

+

+"This gentleman?" she asked, facing round to me.

+

+

+

+"No, his friend. He wished us to leave him alone. He is round in the stable lane now."

+

+

+

+"The stable lane?" She raised her dark eyebrows. "What can he hope to find there? Ah! this, I suppose, is he. I trust, sir, that you will succeed in proving, what I feel sure is the truth, that my cousin Arthur is innocent of this crime."

+

+

+

+"I fully share your opinion, and I trust, with you, that we may prove it," returned Holmes, going back to the mat to knock the snow from his shoes. "I believe I have the honour of addressing Miss Mary Holder. Might I ask you a question or two?"

+

+

+

+"Pray do, sir, if it may help to clear this horrible affair up."

+

+

+

+"You heard nothing yourself last night?"

+

+

+

+"Nothing, until my uncle here began to speak loudly. I heard that, and I came down."

+

+

+

+"You shut up the windows and doors the night before. Did you fasten all the windows?"

+

+

+

+"Yes."

+

+

+

+"Were they all fastened this morning?"

+

+

+

+"Yes."

+

+

+

+"You have a maid who has a sweetheart? I think that you remarked to your uncle last night that she had been out to see him?"

+

+

+

+"Yes, and she was the girl who waited in the drawing-room, and who may have heard uncle's remarks about the coronet."

+

+

+

+"I see. You infer that she may have gone out to tell her sweetheart, and that the two may have planned the robbery."

+

+

+

+"But what is the good of all these vague theories," cried the banker impatiently, "when I have told you that I saw Arthur with the coronet in his hands?"

+

+

+

+"Wait a little, Mr. Holder. We must come back to that. About this girl, Miss Holder. You saw her return by the kitchen door, I presume?"

+

+

+

+"Yes; when I went to see if the door was fastened for the night I met her slipping in. I saw the man, too, in the gloom."

+

+

+

+"Do you know him?"

+

+

+

+"Oh, yes! he is the green-grocer who brings our vegetables round. His name is Francis Prosper."

+

+

+

+"He stood," said Holmes, "to the left of the door--that is to say, farther up the path than is necessary to reach the door?"

+

+

+

+"Yes, he did."

+

+

+

+"And he is a man with a wooden leg?"

+

+

+

+Something like fear sprang up in the young lady's expressive black eyes. "Why, you are like a magician," said she. "How do you know that?" She smiled, but there was no answering smile in Holmes' thin, eager face.

+

+

+

+"I should be very glad now to go upstairs," said he. "I shall probably wish to go over the outside of the house again. Perhaps I had better take a look at the lower windows before I go up."

+

+

+

+He walked swiftly round from one to the other, pausing only at the large one which looked from the hall onto the stable lane. This he opened and made a very careful examination of the sill with his powerful magnifying lens. "Now we shall go upstairs," said he at last.

+

+

+

+The banker's dressing-room was a plainly furnished little chamber, with a grey carpet, a large bureau, and a long mirror. Holmes went to the bureau first and looked hard at the lock.

+

+

+

+"Which key was used to open it?" he asked.

+

+

+

+"That which my son himself indicated--that of the cupboard of the lumber-room."

+

+

+

+"Have you it here?"

+

+

+

+"That is it on the dressing-table."

+

+

+

+Sherlock Holmes took it up and opened the bureau.

+

+

+

+"It is a noiseless lock," said he. "It is no wonder that it did not wake you. This case, I presume, contains the coronet. We must have a look at it." He opened the case, and taking out the diadem he laid it upon the table. It was a magnificent specimen of the jeweller's art, and the thirty-six stones were the finest that I have ever seen. At one side of the coronet was a cracked edge, where a corner holding three gems had been torn away.

+

+

+

+"Now, Mr. Holder," said Holmes, "here is the corner which corresponds to that which has been so unfortunately lost. Might I beg that you will break it off."

+

+

+

+The banker recoiled in horror. "I should not dream of trying," said he.

+

+

+

+"Then I will." Holmes suddenly bent his strength upon it, but without result. "I feel it give a little," said he; "but, though I am exceptionally strong in the fingers, it would take me all my time to break it. An ordinary man could not do it. Now, what do you think would happen if I did break it, Mr. Holder? There would be a noise like a pistol shot. Do you tell me that all this happened within a few yards of your bed and that you heard nothing of it?"

+

+

+

+"I do not know what to think. It is all dark to me."

+

+

+

+"But perhaps it may grow lighter as we go. What do you think, Miss Holder?"

+

+

+

+"I confess that I still share my uncle's perplexity."

+

+

+

+"Your son had no shoes or slippers on when you saw him?"

+

+

+

+"He had nothing on save only his trousers and shirt."

+

+

+

+"Thank you. We have certainly been favoured with extraordinary luck during this inquiry, and it will be entirely our own fault if we do not succeed in clearing the matter up. With your permission, Mr. Holder, I shall now continue my investigations outside."

+

+

+

+He went alone, at his own request, for he explained that any unnecessary footmarks might make his task more difficult. For an hour or more he was at work, returning at last with his feet heavy with snow and his features as inscrutable as ever.

+

+

+

+"I think that I have seen now all that there is to see, Mr. Holder," said he; "I can serve you best by returning to my rooms."

+

+

+

+"But the gems, Mr. Holmes. Where are they?"

+

+

+

+"I cannot tell."

+

+

+

+The banker wrung his hands. "I shall never see them again!" he cried. "And my son? You give me hopes?"

+

+

+

+"My opinion is in no way altered."

+

+

+

+"Then, for God's sake, what was this dark business which was acted in my house last night?"

+

+

+

+"If you can call upon me at my Baker Street rooms to-morrow morning between nine and ten I shall be happy to do what I can to make it clearer. I understand that you give me carte blanche to act for you, provided only that I get back the gems, and that you place no limit on the sum I may draw."

+

+

+

+"I would give my fortune to have them back."

+

+

+

+"Very good. I shall look into the matter between this and then. Good-bye; it is just possible that I may have to come over here again before evening."

+

+

+

+It was obvious to me that my companion's mind was now made up about the case, although what his conclusions were was more than I could even dimly imagine. Several times during our homeward journey I endeavoured to sound him upon the point, but he always glided away to some other topic, until at last I gave it over in despair. It was not yet three when we found ourselves in our rooms once more. He hurried to his chamber and was down again in a few minutes dressed as a common loafer. With his collar turned up, his shiny, seedy coat, his red cravat, and his worn boots, he was a perfect sample of the class.

+

+

+

+"I think that this should do," said he, glancing into the glass above the fireplace. "I only wish that you could come with me, Watson, but I fear that it won't do. I may be on the trail in this matter, or I may be following a will-o'-the-wisp, but I shall soon know which it is. I hope that I may be back in a few hours." He cut a slice of beef from the joint upon the sideboard, sandwiched it between two rounds of bread, and thrusting this rude meal into his pocket he started off upon his expedition.

+

+

+

+I had just finished my tea when he returned, evidently in excellent spirits, swinging an old elastic-sided boot in his hand. He chucked it down into a corner and helped himself to a cup of tea.

+

+

+

+"I only looked in as I passed," said he. "I am going right on."

+

+

+

+"Where to?"

+

+

+

+"Oh, to the other side of the West End. It may be some time before I get back. Don't wait up for me in case I should be late."

+

+

+

+"How are you getting on?"

+

+

+

+"Oh, so so. Nothing to complain of. I have been out to Streatham since I saw you last, but I did not call at the house. It is a very sweet little problem, and I would not have missed it for a good deal. However, I must not sit gossiping here, but must get these disreputable clothes off and return to my highly respectable self."

+

+

+

+I could see by his manner that he had stronger reasons for satisfaction than his words alone would imply. His eyes twinkled, and there was even a touch of colour upon his sallow cheeks. He hastened upstairs, and a few minutes later I heard the slam of the hall door, which told me that he was off once more upon his congenial hunt.

+

+

+

+I waited until midnight, but there was no sign of his return, so I retired to my room. It was no uncommon thing for him to be away for days and nights on end when he was hot upon a scent, so that his lateness caused me no surprise. I do not know at what hour he came in, but when I came down to breakfast in the morning there he was with a cup of coffee in one hand and the paper in the other, as fresh and trim as possible.

+

+

+

+"You will excuse my beginning without you, Watson," said he, "but you remember that our client has rather an early appointment this morning."

+

+

+

+"Why, it is after nine now," I answered. "I should not be surprised if that were he. I thought I heard a ring."

+

+

+

+It was, indeed, our friend the financier. I was shocked by the change which had come over him, for his face which was naturally of a broad and massive mould, was now pinched and fallen in, while his hair seemed to me at least a shade whiter. He entered with a weariness and lethargy which was even more painful than his violence of the morning before, and he dropped heavily into the armchair which I pushed forward for him.

+

+

+

+"I do not know what I have done to be so severely tried," said he. "Only two days ago I was a happy and prosperous man, without a care in the world. Now I am left to a lonely and dishonoured age. One sorrow comes close upon the heels of another. My niece, Mary, has deserted me."

+

+

+

+"Deserted you?"

+

+

+

+"Yes. Her bed this morning had not been slept in, her room was empty, and a note for me lay upon the hall table. I had said to her last night, in sorrow and not in anger, that if she had married my boy all might have been well with him. Perhaps it was thoughtless of me to say so. It is to that remark that she refers in this note:

+

+

+

+" 'MY DEAREST UNCLE:--I feel that I have brought trouble upon you, and that if I had acted differently this terrible misfortune might never have occurred. I cannot, with this thought in my mind, ever again be happy under your roof, and I feel that I must leave you forever. Do not worry about my future, for that is provided for; and, above all, do not search for me, for it will be fruitless labour and an ill-service to me. In life or in death, I am ever your loving

+

+

+

+

+

+" 'MARY.'

+

+

+

+"What could she mean by that note, Mr. Holmes? Do you think it points to suicide?"

+

+

+

+"No, no, nothing of the kind. It is perhaps the best possible solution. I trust, Mr. Holder, that you are nearing the end of your troubles."

+

+

+

+"Ha! You say so! You have heard something, Mr. Holmes; you have learned something! Where are the gems?"

+

+

+

+"You would not think $1000 apiece an excessive sum for them?"

+

+

+

+"I would pay ten."

+

+

+

+"That would be unnecessary. Three thousand will cover the matter. And there is a little reward, I fancy. Have you your check-book? Here is a pen. Better make it out for $4000."

+

+

+

+With a dazed face the banker made out the required check. Holmes walked over to his desk, took out a little triangular piece of gold with three gems in it, and threw it down upon the table.

+

+

+

+With a shriek of joy our client clutched it up.

+

+

+

+"You have it!" he gasped. "I am saved! I am saved!"

+

+

+

+The reaction of joy was as passionate as his grief had been, and he hugged his recovered gems to his bosom.

+

+

+

+"There is one other thing you owe, Mr. Holder," said Sherlock Holmes rather sternly.

+

+

+

+"Owe!" He caught up a pen. "Name the sum, and I will pay it."

+

+

+

+"No, the debt is not to me. You owe a very humble apology to that noble lad, your son, who has carried himself in this matter as I should be proud to see my own son do, should I ever chance to have one."

+

+

+

+"Then it was not Arthur who took them?"

+

+

+

+"I told you yesterday, and I repeat to-day, that it was not."

+

+

+

+"You are sure of it! Then let us hurry to him at once to let him know that the truth is known."

+

+

+

+"He knows it already. When I had cleared it all up I had an interview with him, and finding that he would not tell me the story, I told it to him, on which he had to confess that I was right and to add the very few details which were not yet quite clear to me. Your news of this morning, however, may open his lips."

+

+

+

+"For heaven's sake, tell me, then, what is this extraordinary mystery!"

+

+

+

+"I will do so, and I will show you the steps by which I reached it. And let me say to you, first, that which it is hardest for me to say and for you to hear: there has been an understanding between Sir George Burnwell and your niece Mary. They have now fled together."

+

+

+

+"My Mary? Impossible!"

+

+

+

+"It is unfortunately more than possible; it is certain. Neither you nor your son knew the true character of this man when you admitted him into your family circle. He is one of the most dangerous men in England--a ruined gambler, an absolutely desperate villain, a man without heart or conscience. Your niece knew nothing of such men. When he breathed his vows to her, as he had done to a hundred before her, she flattered herself that she alone had touched his heart. The devil knows best what he said, but at least she became his tool and was in the habit of seeing him nearly every evening."

+

+

+

+"I cannot, and I will not, believe it!" cried the banker with an ashen face.

+

+

+

+"I will tell you, then, what occurred in your house last night. Your niece, when you had, as she thought, gone to your room, slipped down and talked to her lover through the window which leads into the stable lane. His footmarks had pressed right through the snow, so long had he stood there. She told him of the coronet. His wicked lust for gold kindled at the news, and he bent her to his will. I have no doubt that she loved you, but there are women in whom the love of a lover extinguishes all other loves, and I think that she must have been one. She had hardly listened to his instructions when she saw you coming downstairs, on which she closed the window rapidly and told you about one of the servants' escapade with her wooden-legged lover, which was all perfectly true.

+

+

+

+"Your boy, Arthur, went to bed after his interview with you but he slept badly on account of his uneasiness about his club debts. In the middle of the night he heard a soft tread pass his door, so he rose and, looking out, was surprised to see his cousin walking very stealthily along the passage until she disappeared into your dressing-room. Petrified with astonishment, the lad slipped on some clothes and waited there in the dark to see what would come of this strange affair. Presently she emerged from the room again, and in the light of the passage-lamp your son saw that she carried the precious coronet in her hands. She passed down the stairs, and he, thrilling with horror, ran along and slipped behind the curtain near your door, whence he could see what passed in the hall beneath. He saw her stealthily open the window, hand out the coronet to someone in the gloom, and then closing it once more hurry back to her room, passing quite close to where he stood hid behind the curtain.

+

+

+

+"As long as she was on the scene he could not take any action without a horrible exposure of the woman whom he loved. But the instant that she was gone he realised how crushing a misfortune this would be for you, and how all-important it was to set it right. He rushed down, just as he was, in his bare feet, opened the window, sprang out into the snow, and ran down the lane, where he could see a dark figure in the moonlight. Sir George Burnwell tried to get away, but Arthur caught him, and there was a struggle between them, your lad tugging at one side of the coronet, and his opponent at the other. In the scuffle, your son struck Sir George and cut him over the eye. Then something suddenly snapped, and your son, finding that he had the coronet in his hands, rushed back, closed the window, ascended to your room, and had just observed that the coronet had been twisted in the struggle and was endeavouring to straighten it when you appeared upon the scene."

+

+

+

+"Is it possible?" gasped the banker.

+

+

+

+"You then roused his anger by calling him names at a moment when he felt that he had deserved your warmest thanks. He could not explain the true state of affairs without betraying one who certainly deserved little enough consideration at his hands. He took the more chivalrous view, however, and preserved her secret."

+

+

+

+"And that was why she shrieked and fainted when she saw the coronet," cried Mr. Holder. "Oh, my God! what a blind fool I have been! And his asking to be allowed to go out for five minutes! The dear fellow wanted to see if the missing piece were at the scene of the struggle. How cruelly I have misjudged him!"

+

+

+

+"When I arrived at the house," continued Holmes, "I at once went very carefully round it to observe if there were any traces in the snow which might help me. I knew that none had fallen since the evening before, and also that there had been a strong frost to preserve impressions. I passed along the tradesmen's path, but found it all trampled down and indistinguishable. Just beyond it, however, at the far side of the kitchen door, a woman had stood and talked with a man, whose round impressions on one side showed that he had a wooden leg. I could even tell that they had been disturbed, for the woman had run back swiftly to the door, as was shown by the deep toe and light heel marks, while Wooden-leg had waited a little, and then had gone away. I thought at the time that this might be the maid and her sweetheart, of whom you had already spoken to me, and inquiry showed it was so. I passed round the garden without seeing anything more than random tracks, which I took to be the police; but when I got into the stable lane a very long and complex story was written in the snow in front of me.

+

+

+

+"There was a double line of tracks of a booted man, and a second double line which I saw with delight belonged to a man with naked feet. I was at once convinced from what you had told me that the latter was your son. The first had walked both ways, but the other had run swiftly, and as his tread was marked in places over the depression of the boot, it was obvious that he had passed after the other. I followed them up and found they led to the hall window, where Boots had worn all the snow away while waiting. Then I walked to the other end, which was a hundred yards or more down the lane. I saw where Boots had faced round, where the snow was cut up as though there had been a struggle, and, finally, where a few drops of blood had fallen, to show me that I was not mistaken. Boots had then run down the lane, and another little smudge of blood showed that it was he who had been hurt. When he came to the highroad at the other end, I found that the pavement had been cleared, so there was an end to that clue.

+

+

+

+"On entering the house, however, I examined, as you remember, the sill and framework of the hall window with my lens, and I could at once see that someone had passed out. I could distinguish the outline of an instep where the wet foot had been placed in coming in. I was then beginning to be able to form an opinion as to what had occurred. A man had waited outside the window; someone had brought the gems; the deed had been overseen by your son; he had pursued the thief; had struggled with him; they had each tugged at the coronet, their united strength causing injuries which neither alone could have effected. He had returned with the prize, but had left a fragment in the grasp of his opponent. So far I was clear. The question now was, who was the man and who was it brought him the coronet?

+

+

+

+"It is an old maxim of mine that when you have excluded the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Now, I knew that it was not you who had brought it down, so there only remained your niece and the maids. But if it were the maids, why should your son allow himself to be accused in their place? There could be no possible reason. As he loved his cousin, however, there was an excellent explanation why he should retain her secret--the more so as the secret was a disgraceful one. When I remembered that you had seen her at that window, and how she had fainted on seeing the coronet again, my conjecture became a certainty.

+

+

+

+"And who could it be who was her confederate? A lover evidently, for who else could outweigh the love and gratitude which she must feel to you? I knew that you went out little, and that your circle of friends was a very limited one. But among them was Sir George Burnwell. I had heard of him before as being a man of evil reputation among women. It must have been he who wore those boots and retained the missing gems. Even though he knew that Arthur had discovered him, he might still flatter himself that he was safe, for the lad could not say a word without compromising his own family.

+

+

+

+"Well, your own good sense will suggest what measures I took next. I went in the shape of a loafer to Sir George's house, managed to pick up an acquaintance with his valet, learned that his master had cut his head the night before, and, finally, at the expense of six shillings, made all sure by buying a pair of his cast-off shoes. With these I journeyed down to Streatham and saw that they exactly fitted the tracks."

+

+

+

+"I saw an ill-dressed vagabond in the lane yesterday evening," said Mr. Holder.

+

+

+

+"Precisely. It was I. I found that I had my man, so I came home and changed my clothes. It was a delicate part which I had to play then, for I saw that a prosecution must be avoided to avert scandal, and I knew that so astute a villain would see that our hands were tied in the matter. I went and saw him. At first, of course, he denied everything. But when I gave him every particular that had occurred, he tried to bluster and took down a life-preserver from the wall. I knew my man, however, and I clapped a pistol to his head before he could strike. Then he became a little more reasonable. I told him that we would give him a price for the stones he held--$1000 apiece. That brought out the first signs of grief that he had shown. 'Why, dash it all!' said he, 'I've let them go at six hundred for the three!' I soon managed to get the address of the receiver who had them, on promising him that there would be no prosecution. Off I set to him, and after much chaffering I got our stones at $1000 apiece. Then I looked in upon your son, told him that all was right, and eventually got to my bed about two o'clock, after what I may call a really hard day's work."

+

+

+

+"A day which has saved England from a great public scandal," said the banker, rising. "Sir, I cannot find words to thank you, but you shall not find me ungrateful for what you have done. Your skill has indeed exceeded all that I have heard of it. And now I must fly to my dear boy to apologise to him for the wrong which I have done him. As to what you tell me of poor Mary, it goes to my very heart. Not even your skill can inform me where she is now."

+

+

+

+"I think that we may safely say," returned Holmes, "that she is wherever Sir George Burnwell is. It is equally certain, too, that whatever her sins are, they will soon receive a more than sufficient punishment."

+

+

+

+XII.  THE ADVENTURE OF THE COPPER BEECHES

+

+

+

+

+

+"To the man who loves art for its own sake," remarked Sherlock Holmes, tossing aside the advertisement sheet of the Daily Telegraph, "it is frequently in its least important and lowliest manifestations that the keenest pleasure is to be derived. It is pleasant to me to observe, Watson, that you have so far grasped this truth that in these little records of our cases which you have been good enough to draw up, and, I am bound to say, occasionally to embellish, you have given prominence not so much to the many causes celebres and sensational trials in which I have figured but rather to those incidents which may have been trivial in themselves, but which have given room for those faculties of deduction and of logical synthesis which I have made my special province."

+

+

+

+"And yet," said I, smiling, "I cannot quite hold myself absolved from the charge of sensationalism which has been urged against my records."

+

+

+

+"You have erred, perhaps," he observed, taking up a glowing cinder with the tongs and lighting with it the long cherry-wood pipe which was wont to replace his clay when he was in a disputatious rather than a meditative mood--"you have erred perhaps in attempting to put colour and life into each of your statements instead of confining yourself to the task of placing upon record that severe reasoning from cause to effect which is really the only notable feature about the thing."

+

+

+

+"It seems to me that I have done you full justice in the matter," I remarked with some coldness, for I was repelled by the egotism which I had more than once observed to be a strong factor in my friend's singular character.

+

+

+

+"No, it is not selfishness or conceit," said he, answering, as was his wont, my thoughts rather than my words. "If I claim full justice for my art, it is because it is an impersonal thing--a thing beyond myself. Crime is common. Logic is rare. Therefore it is upon the logic rather than upon the crime that you should dwell. You have degraded what should have been a course of lectures into a series of tales."

+

+

+

+It was a cold morning of the early spring, and we sat after breakfast on either side of a cheery fire in the old room at Baker Street. A thick fog rolled down between the lines of dun-coloured houses, and the opposing windows loomed like dark, shapeless blurs through the heavy yellow wreaths. Our gas was lit and shone on the white cloth and glimmer of china and metal, for the table had not been cleared yet. Sherlock Holmes had been silent all the morning, dipping continuously into the advertisement columns of a succession of papers until at last, having apparently given up his search, he had emerged in no very sweet temper to lecture me upon my literary shortcomings.

+

+

+

+"At the same time," he remarked after a pause, during which he had sat puffing at his long pipe and gazing down into the fire, "you can hardly be open to a charge of sensationalism, for out of these cases which you have been so kind as to interest yourself in, a fair proportion do not treat of crime, in its legal sense, at all. The small matter in which I endeavoured to help the King of Bohemia, the singular experience of Miss Mary Sutherland, the problem connected with the man with the twisted lip, and the incident of the noble bachelor, were all matters which are outside the pale of the law. But in avoiding the sensational, I fear that you may have bordered on the trivial."

+

+

+

+"The end may have been so," I answered, "but the methods I hold to have been novel and of interest."

+

+

+

+"Pshaw, my dear fellow, what do the public, the great unobservant public, who could hardly tell a weaver by his tooth or a compositor by his left thumb, care about the finer shades of analysis and deduction! But, indeed, if you are trivial. I cannot blame you, for the days of the great cases are past. Man, or at least criminal man, has lost all enterprise and originality. As to my own little practice, it seems to be degenerating into an agency for recovering lost lead pencils and giving advice to young ladies from boarding-schools. I think that I have touched bottom at last, however. This note I had this morning marks my zero-point, I fancy. Read it!" He tossed a crumpled letter across to me.

+

+

+

+It was dated from Montague Place upon the preceding evening, and ran thus:

+

+

+

+"DEAR MR. HOLMES:--I am very anxious to consult you as to whether I should or should not accept a situation which has been offered to me as governess. I shall call at half-past ten to-morrow if I do not inconvenience you. Yours faithfully,

+

+

+

+

+

+"VIOLET HUNTER."

+

+

+

+"Do you know the young lady?" I asked.

+

+

+

+"Not I."

+

+

+

+"It is half-past ten now."

+

+

+

+"Yes, and I have no doubt that is her ring."

+

+

+

+"It may turn out to be of more interest than you think. You remember that the affair of the blue carbuncle, which appeared to be a mere whim at first, developed into a serious investigation. It may be so in this case, also."

+

+

+

+"Well, let us hope so. But our doubts will very soon be solved, for here, unless I am much mistaken, is the person in question."

+

+

+

+As he spoke the door opened and a young lady entered the room. She was plainly but neatly dressed, with a bright, quick face, freckled like a plover's egg, and with the brisk manner of a woman who has had her own way to make in the world.

+

+

+

+"You will excuse my troubling you, I am sure," said she, as my companion rose to greet her, "but I have had a very strange experience, and as I have no parents or relations of any sort from whom I could ask advice, I thought that perhaps you would be kind enough to tell me what I should do."

+

+

+

+"Pray take a seat, Miss Hunter. I shall be happy to do anything that I can to serve you."

+

+

+

+I could see that Holmes was favourably impressed by the manner and speech of his new client. He looked her over in his searching fashion, and then composed himself, with his lids drooping and his finger-tips together, to listen to her story.

+

+

+

+"I have been a governess for five years," said she, "in the family of Colonel Spence Munro, but two months ago the colonel received an appointment at Halifax, in Nova Scotia, and took his children over to America with him, so that I found myself without a situation. I advertised, and I answered advertisements, but without success. At last the little money which I had saved began to run short, and I was at my wit's end as to what I should do.

+

+

+

+"There is a well-known agency for governesses in the West End called Westaway's, and there I used to call about once a week in order to see whether anything had turned up which might suit me. Westaway was the name of the founder of the business, but it is really managed by Miss Stoper. She sits in her own little office, and the ladies who are seeking employment wait in an anteroom, and are then shown in one by one, when she consults her ledgers and sees whether she has anything which would suit them.

+

+

+

+"Well, when I called last week I was shown into the little office as usual, but I found that Miss Stoper was not alone. A prodigiously stout man with a very smiling face and a great heavy chin which rolled down in fold upon fold over his throat sat at her elbow with a pair of glasses on his nose, looking very earnestly at the ladies who entered. As I came in he gave quite a jump in his chair and turned quickly to Miss Stoper.

+

+

+

+" 'That will do,' said he; 'I could not ask for anything better. Capital! capital!' He seemed quite enthusiastic and rubbed his hands together in the most genial fashion. He was such a comfortable-looking man that it was quite a pleasure to look at him.

+

+

+

+" 'You are looking for a situation, miss?' he asked.

+

+

+

+" 'Yes, sir.'

+

+

+

+" 'As governess?'

+

+

+

+" 'Yes, sir.'

+

+

+

+" 'And what salary do you ask?'

+

+

+

+" 'I had $4 a month in my last place with Colonel Spence Munro.'

+

+

+

+" 'Oh, tut, tut! sweating--rank sweating!' he cried, throwing his fat hands out into the air like a man who is in a boiling passion. 'How could anyone offer so pitiful a sum to a lady with such attractions and accomplishments?'

+

+

+

+" 'My accomplishments, sir, may be less than you imagine,' said I. 'A little French, a little German, music, and drawing--'

+

+

+

+" 'Tut, tut!' he cried. 'This is all quite beside the question. The point is, have you or have you not the bearing and deportment of a lady? There it is in a nutshell. If you have not, you are not fitted for the rearing of a child who may some day play a considerable part in the history of the country. But if you have why, then, how could any gentleman ask you to condescend to accept anything under the three figures? Your salary with me, madam, would commence at $100 a year.'

+

+

+

+"You may imagine, Mr. Holmes, that to me, destitute as I was, such an offer seemed almost too good to be true. The gentleman, however, seeing perhaps the look of incredulity upon my face, opened a pocket-book and took out a note.

+

+

+

+" 'It is also my custom,' said he, smiling in the most pleasant fashion until his eyes were just two little shining slits amid the white creases of his face, 'to advance to my young ladies half their salary beforehand, so that they may meet any little expenses of their journey and their wardrobe.'

+

+

+

+"It seemed to me that I had never met so fascinating and so thoughtful a man. As I was already in debt to my tradesmen, the advance was a great convenience, and yet there was something unnatural about the whole transaction which made me wish to know a little more before I quite committed myself.

+

+

+

+" 'May I ask where you live, sir?' said I.

+

+

+

+" 'Hampshire. Charming rural place. The Copper Beeches, five miles on the far side of Winchester. It is the most lovely country, my dear young lady, and the dearest old country-house.'

+

+

+

+" 'And my duties, sir? I should be glad to know what they would be.'

+

+

+

+" 'One child--one dear little romper just six years old. Oh, if you could see him killing cockroaches with a slipper! Smack! smack! smack! Three gone before you could wink!' He leaned back in his chair and laughed his eyes into his head again.

+

+

+

+"I was a little startled at the nature of the child's amusement, but the father's laughter made me think that perhaps he was joking.

+

+

+

+" 'My sole duties, then,' I asked, 'are to take charge of a single child?'

+

+

+

+" 'No, no, not the sole, not the sole, my dear young lady,' he cried. 'Your duty would be, as I am sure your good sense would suggest, to obey any little commands my wife might give, provided always that they were such commands as a lady might with propriety obey. You see no difficulty, heh?'

+

+

+

+" 'I should be happy to make myself useful.'

+

+

+

+" 'Quite so. In dress now, for example. We are faddy people, you know--faddy but kind-hearted. If you were asked to wear any dress which we might give you, you would not object to our little whim. Heh?'

+

+

+

+" 'No,' said I, considerably astonished at his words.

+

+

+

+" 'Or to sit here, or sit there, that would not be offensive to you?'

+

+

+

+" 'Oh, no.'

+

+

+

+" 'Or to cut your hair quite short before you come to us?'

+

+

+

+"I could hardly believe my ears. As you may observe, Mr. Holmes, my hair is somewhat luxuriant, and of a rather peculiar tint of chestnut. It has been considered artistic. I could not dream of sacrificing it in this offhand fashion.

+

+

+

+" 'I am afraid that that is quite impossible,' said I. He had been watching me eagerly out of his small eyes, and I could see a shadow pass over his face as I spoke.

+

+

+

+" 'I am afraid that it is quite essential,' said he. 'It is a little fancy of my wife's, and ladies' fancies, you know, madam, ladies' fancies must be consulted. And so you won't cut your hair?'

+

+

+

+" 'No, sir, I really could not,' I answered firmly.

+

+

+

+" 'Ah, very well; then that quite settles the matter. It is a pity, because in other respects you would really have done very nicely. In that case, Miss Stoper, I had best inspect a few more of your young ladies.'

+

+

+

+"The manageress had sat all this while busy with her papers without a word to either of us, but she glanced at me now with so much annoyance upon her face that I could not help suspecting that she had lost a handsome commission through my refusal.

+

+

+

+" 'Do you desire your name to be kept upon the books?' she asked.

+

+

+

+" 'If you please, Miss Stoper.'

+

+

+

+" 'Well, really, it seems rather useless, since you refuse the most excellent offers in this fashion,' said she sharply. 'You can hardly expect us to exert ourselves to find another such opening for you. Good-day to you, Miss Hunter.' She struck a gong upon the table, and I was shown out by the page.

+

+

+

+"Well, Mr. Holmes, when I got back to my lodgings and found little enough in the cupboard, and two or three bills upon the table. I began to ask myself whether I had not done a very foolish thing. After all, if these people had strange fads and expected obedience on the most extraordinary matters, they were at least ready to pay for their eccentricity. Very few governesses in England are getting $100 a year. Besides, what use was my hair to me? Many people are improved by wearing it short and perhaps I should be among the number. Next day I was inclined to think that I had made a mistake, and by the day after I was sure of it. I had almost overcome my pride so far as to go back to the agency and inquire whether the place was still open when I received this letter from the gentleman himself. I have it here and I will read it to you:

+

+

+

+

+

+" 'The Copper Beeches, near Winchester.

+

+

+

+" 'DEAR MISS HUNTER:--Miss Stoper has very kindly given me your address, and I write from here to ask you whether you have reconsidered your decision. My wife is very anxious that you should come, for she has been much attracted by my description of you. We are willing to give $30 a quarter, or $120 a year, so as to recompense you for any little inconvenience which our fads may cause you. They are not very exacting, after all. My wife is fond of a particular shade of electric blue and would like you to wear such a dress indoors in the morning. You need not, however, go to the expense of purchasing one, as we have one belonging to my dear daughter Alice (now in Philadelphia), which would, I should think, fit you very well. Then, as to sitting here or there, or amusing yourself in any manner indicated, that need cause you no inconvenience. As regards your hair, it is no doubt a pity, especially as I could not help remarking its beauty during our short interview, but I am afraid that I must remain firm upon this point, and I only hope that the increased salary may recompense you for the loss. Your duties, as far as the child is concerned, are very light. Now do try to come, and I shall meet you with the dog-cart at Winchester. Let me know your train. Yours faithfully,

+

+

+

+

+

+" 'JEPHRO RUCASTLE.'

+

+

+

+"That is the letter which I have just received, Mr. Holmes, and my mind is made up that I will accept it. I thought, however, that before taking the final step I should like to submit the whole matter to your consideration."

+

+

+

+"Well, Miss Hunter, if your mind is made up, that settles the question," said Holmes, smiling.

+

+

+

+"But you would not advise me to refuse?"

+

+

+

+"I confess that it is not the situation which I should like to see a sister of mine apply for."

+

+

+

+"What is the meaning of it all, Mr. Holmes?"

+

+

+

+"Ah, I have no data. I cannot tell. Perhaps you have yourself formed some opinion?"

+

+

+

+"Well, there seems to me to be only one possible solution. Mr. Rucastle seemed to be a very kind, good-natured man. Is it not possible that his wife is a lunatic, that he desires to keep the matter quiet for fear she should be taken to an asylum, and that he humours her fancies in every way in order to prevent an outbreak?"

+

+

+

+"That is a possible solution--in fact, as matters stand, it is the most probable one. But in any case it does not seem to be a nice household for a young lady."

+

+

+

+"But the money, Mr. Holmes, the money!"

+

+

+

+"Well, yes, of course the pay is good--too good. That is what makes me uneasy. Why should they give you $120 a year, when they could have their pick for $40? There must be some strong reason behind."

+

+

+

+"I thought that if I told you the circumstances you would understand afterwards if I wanted your help. I should feel so much stronger if I felt that you were at the back of me."

+

+

+

+"Oh, you may carry that feeling away with you. I assure you that your little problem promises to be the most interesting which has come my way for some months. There is something distinctly novel about some of the features. If you should find yourself in doubt or in danger--"

+

+

+

+"Danger! What danger do you foresee?"

+

+

+

+Holmes shook his head gravely. "It would cease to be a danger if we could define it," said he. "But at any time, day or night, a telegram would bring me down to your help."

+

+

+

+"That is enough." She rose briskly from her chair with the anxiety all swept from her face. "I shall go down to Hampshire quite easy in my mind now. I shall write to Mr. Rucastle at once, sacrifice my poor hair to-night, and start for Winchester to-morrow." With a few grateful words to Holmes she bade us both good-night and bustled off upon her way.

+

+

+

+"At least," said I as we heard her quick, firm steps descending the stairs, "she seems to be a young lady who is very well able to take care of herself."

+

+

+

+"And she would need to be," said Holmes gravely. "I am much mistaken if we do not hear from her before many days are past."

+

+

+

+It was not very long before my friend's prediction was fulfilled. A fortnight went by, during which I frequently found my thoughts turning in her direction and wondering what strange side-alley of human experience this lonely woman had strayed into. The unusual salary, the curious conditions, the light duties, all pointed to something abnormal, though whether a fad or a plot, or whether the man were a philanthropist or a villain, it was quite beyond my powers to determine. As to Holmes, I observed that he sat frequently for half an hour on end, with knitted brows and an abstracted air, but he swept the matter away with a wave of his hand when I mentioned it. "Data! data! data!" he cried impatiently. "I can't make bricks without clay." And yet he would always wind up by muttering that no sister of his should ever have accepted such a situation.

+

+

+

+The telegram which we eventually received came late one night just as I was thinking of turning in and Holmes was settling down to one of those all-night chemical researches which he frequently indulged in, when I would leave him stooping over a retort and a test-tube at night and find him in the same position when I came down to breakfast in the morning. He opened the yellow envelope, and then, glancing at the message, threw it across to me.

+

+

+

+"Just look up the trains in Bradshaw," said he, and turned back to his chemical studies.

+

+

+

+The summons was a brief and urgent one.

+

+

+

+"Please be at the Black Swan Hotel at Winchester at midday to-morrow," it said. "Do come! I am at my wit's end.

+

+

+

+

+

+"HUNTER."

+

+

+

+"Will you come with me?" asked Holmes, glancing up.

+

+

+

+"I should wish to."

+

+

+

+"Just look it up, then."

+

+

+

+"There is a train at half-past nine," said I, glancing over my Bradshaw. "It is due at Winchester at 11:30."

+

+

+

+"That will do very nicely. Then perhaps I had better postpone my analysis of the acetones, as we may need to be at our best in the morning."

+

+

+

+By eleven o'clock the next day we were well upon our way to the old English capital. Holmes had been buried in the morning papers all the way down, but after we had passed the Hampshire border he threw them down and began to admire the scenery. It was an ideal spring day, a light blue sky, flecked with little fleecy white clouds drifting across from west to east. The sun was shining very brightly, and yet there was an exhilarating nip in the air, which set an edge to a man's energy. All over the countryside, away to the rolling hills around Aldershot, the little red and grey roofs of the farm-steadings peeped out from amid the light green of the new foliage.

+

+

+

+"Are they not fresh and beautiful?" I cried with all the enthusiasm of a man fresh from the fogs of Baker Street.

+

+

+

+But Holmes shook his head gravely.

+

+

+

+"Do you know, Watson," said he, "that it is one of the curses of a mind with a turn like mine that I must look at everything with reference to my own special subject. You look at these scattered houses, and you are impressed by their beauty. I look at them, and the only thought which comes to me is a feeling of their isolation and of the impunity with which crime may be committed there."

+

+

+

+"Good heavens!" I cried. "Who would associate crime with these dear old homesteads?"

+

+

+

+"They always fill me with a certain horror. It is my belief, Watson, founded upon my experience, that the lowest and vilest alleys in London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and beautiful countryside."

+

+

+

+"You horrify me!"

+

+

+

+"But the reason is very obvious. The pressure of public opinion can do in the town what the law cannot accomplish. There is no lane so vile that the scream of a tortured child, or the thud of a drunkard's blow, does not beget sympathy and indignation among the neighbours, and then the whole machinery of justice is ever so close that a word of complaint can set it going, and there is but a step between the crime and the dock. But look at these lonely houses, each in its own fields, filled for the most part with poor ignorant folk who know little of the law. Think of the deeds of hellish cruelty, the hidden wickedness which may go on, year in, year out, in such places, and none the wiser. Had this lady who appeals to us for help gone to live in Winchester, I should never have had a fear for her. It is the five miles of country which makes the danger. Still, it is clear that she is not personally threatened."

+

+

+

+"No. If she can come to Winchester to meet us she can get away."

+

+

+

+"Quite so. She has her freedom."

+

+

+

+"What can be the matter, then? Can you suggest no explanation?"

+

+

+

+"I have devised seven separate explanations, each of which would cover the facts as far as we know them. But which of these is correct can only be determined by the fresh information which we shall no doubt find waiting for us. Well, there is the tower of the cathedral, and we shall soon learn all that Miss Hunter has to tell."

+

+

+

+The Black Swan is an inn of repute in the High Street, at no distance from the station, and there we found the young lady waiting for us. She had engaged a sitting-room, and our lunch awaited us upon the table.

+

+

+

+"I am so delighted that you have come," she said earnestly. "It is so very kind of you both; but indeed I do not know what I should do. Your advice will be altogether invaluable to me."

+

+

+

+"Pray tell us what has happened to you."

+

+

+

+"I will do so, and I must be quick, for I have promised Mr. Rucastle to be back before three. I got his leave to come into town this morning, though he little knew for what purpose."

+

+

+

+"Let us have everything in its due order." Holmes thrust his long thin legs out towards the fire and composed himself to listen.

+

+

+

+"In the first place, I may say that I have met, on the whole, with no actual ill-treatment from Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle. It is only fair to them to say that. But I cannot understand them, and I am not easy in my mind about them."

+

+

+

+"What can you not understand?"

+

+

+

+"Their reasons for their conduct. But you shall have it all just as it occurred. When I came down, Mr. Rucastle met me here and drove me in his dog-cart to the Copper Beeches. It is, as he said, beautifully situated, but it is not beautiful in itself, for it is a large square block of a house, whitewashed, but all stained and streaked with damp and bad weather. There are grounds round it, woods on three sides, and on the fourth a field which slopes down to the Southampton highroad, which curves past about a hundred yards from the front door. This ground in front belongs to the house, but the woods all round are part of Lord Southerton's preserves. A clump of copper beeches immediately in front of the hall door has given its name to the place.

+

+

+

+"I was driven over by my employer, who was as amiable as ever, and was introduced by him that evening to his wife and the child. There was no truth, Mr. Holmes, in the conjecture which seemed to us to be probable in your rooms at Baker Street. Mrs. Rucastle is not mad. I found her to be a silent, pale-faced woman, much younger than her husband, not more than thirty, I should think, while he can hardly be less than forty-five. From their conversation I have gathered that they have been married about seven years, that he was a widower, and that his only child by the first wife was the daughter who has gone to Philadelphia. Mr. Rucastle told me in private that the reason why she had left them was that she had an unreasoning aversion to her stepmother. As the daughter could not have been less than twenty, I can quite imagine that her position must have been uncomfortable with her father's young wife.

+

+

+

+"Mrs. Rucastle seemed to me to be colourless in mind as well as in feature. She impressed me neither favourably nor the reverse. She was a nonentity. It was easy to see that she was passionately devoted both to her husband and to her little son. Her light grey eyes wandered continually from one to the other, noting every little want and forestalling it if possible. He was kind to her also in his bluff, boisterous fashion, and on the whole they seemed to be a happy couple. And yet she had some secret sorrow, this woman. She would often be lost in deep thought, with the saddest look upon her face. More than once I have surprised her in tears. I have thought sometimes that it was the disposition of her child which weighed upon her mind, for I have never met so utterly spoiled and so ill-natured a little creature. He is small for his age, with a head which is quite disproportionately large. His whole life appears to be spent in an alternation between savage fits of passion and gloomy intervals of sulking. Giving pain to any creature weaker than himself seems to be his one idea of amusement, and he shows quite remarkable talent in planning the capture of mice, little birds, and insects. But I would rather not talk about the creature, Mr. Holmes, and, indeed, he has little to do with my story."

+

+

+

+"I am glad of all details," remarked my friend, "whether they seem to you to be relevant or not."

+

+

+

+"I shall try not to miss anything of importance. The one unpleasant thing about the house, which struck me at once, was the appearance and conduct of the servants. There are only two, a man and his wife. Toller, for that is his name, is a rough, uncouth man, with grizzled hair and whiskers, and a perpetual smell of drink. Twice since I have been with them he has been quite drunk, and yet Mr. Rucastle seemed to take no notice of it. His wife is a very tall and strong woman with a sour face, as silent as Mrs. Rucastle and much less amiable. They are a most unpleasant couple, but fortunately I spend most of my time in the nursery and my own room, which are next to each other in one corner of the building.

+

+

+

+"For two days after my arrival at the Copper Beeches my life was very quiet; on the third, Mrs. Rucastle came down just after breakfast and whispered something to her husband.

+

+

+

+" 'Oh, yes,' said he, turning to me, 'we are very much obliged to you, Miss Hunter, for falling in with our whims so far as to cut your hair. I assure you that it has not detracted in the tiniest iota from your appearance. We shall now see how the electric-blue dress will become you. You will find it laid out upon the bed in your room, and if you would be so good as to put it on we should both be extremely obliged.'

+

+

+

+"The dress which I found waiting for me was of a peculiar shade of blue. It was of excellent material, a sort of beige, but it bore unmistakable signs of having been worn before. It could not have been a better fit if I had been measured for it. Both Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle expressed a delight at the look of it, which seemed quite exaggerated in its vehemence. They were waiting for me in the drawing-room, which is a very large room, stretching along the entire front of the house, with three long windows reaching down to the floor. A chair had been placed close to the central window, with its back turned towards it. In this I was asked to sit, and then Mr. Rucastle, walking up and down on the other side of the room, began to tell me a series of the funniest stories that I have ever listened to. You cannot imagine how comical he was, and I laughed until I was quite weary. Mrs. Rucastle, however, who has evidently no sense of humour, never so much as smiled, but sat with her hands in her lap, and a sad, anxious look upon her face. After an hour or so, Mr. Rucastle suddenly remarked that it was time to commence the duties of the day, and that I might change my dress and go to little Edward in the nursery.

+

+

+

+"Two days later this same performance was gone through under exactly similar circumstances. Again I changed my dress, again I sat in the window, and again I laughed very heartily at the funny stories of which my employer had an immense repertoire, and which he told inimitably. Then he handed me a yellow-backed novel, and moving my chair a little sideways, that my own shadow might not fall upon the page, he begged me to read aloud to him. I read for about ten minutes, beginning in the heart of a chapter, and then suddenly, in the middle of a sentence, he ordered me to cease and to change my dress.

+

+

+

+"You can easily imagine, Mr. Holmes, how curious I became as to what the meaning of this extraordinary performance could possibly be. They were always very careful, I observed, to turn my face away from the window, so that I became consumed with the desire to see what was going on behind my back. At first it seemed to be impossible, but I soon devised a means. My hand-mirror had been broken, so a happy thought seized me, and I concealed a piece of the glass in my handkerchief. On the next occasion, in the midst of my laughter, I put my handkerchief up to my eyes, and was able with a little management to see all that there was behind me. I confess that I was disappointed. There was nothing. At least that was my first impression. At the second glance, however, I perceived that there was a man standing in the Southampton Road, a small bearded man in a grey suit, who seemed to be looking in my direction. The road is an important highway, and there are usually people there. This man, however, was leaning against the railings which bordered our field and was looking earnestly up. I lowered my handkerchief and glanced at Mrs. Rucastle to find her eyes fixed upon me with a most searching gaze. She said nothing, but I am convinced that she had divined that I had a mirror in my hand and had seen what was behind me. She rose at once.

+

+

+

+" 'Jephro,' said she, 'there is an impertinent fellow upon the road there who stares up at Miss Hunter.'

+

+

+

+" 'No friend of yours, Miss Hunter?' he asked.

+

+

+

+" 'No, I know no one in these parts.'

+

+

+

+" 'Dear me! How very impertinent! Kindly turn round and motion to him to go away.'

+

+

+

+" 'Surely it would be better to take no notice.'

+

+

+

+" 'No, no, we should have him loitering here always. Kindly turn round and wave him away like that.'

+

+

+

+"I did as I was told, and at the same instant Mrs. Rucastle drew down the blind. That was a week ago, and from that time I have not sat again in the window, nor have I worn the blue dress, nor seen the man in the road."

+

+

+

+"Pray continue," said Holmes. "Your narrative promises to be a most interesting one."

+

+

+

+"You will find it rather disconnected, I fear, and there may prove to be little relation between the different incidents of which I speak. On the very first day that I was at the Copper Beeches, Mr. Rucastle took me to a small outhouse which stands near the kitchen door. As we approached it I heard the sharp rattling of a chain, and the sound as of a large animal moving about.

+

+

+

+" 'Look in here!' said Mr. Rucastle, showing me a slit between two planks. 'Is he not a beauty?'

+

+

+

+"I looked through and was conscious of two glowing eyes, and of a vague figure huddled up in the darkness.

+

+

+

+" 'Don't be frightened,' said my employer, laughing at the start which I had given. 'It's only Carlo, my mastiff. I call him mine, but really old Toller, my groom, is the only man who can do anything with him. We feed him once a day, and not too much then, so that he is always as keen as mustard. Toller lets him loose every night, and God help the trespasser whom he lays his fangs upon. For goodness' sake don't you ever on any pretext set your foot over the threshold at night, for it's as much as your life is worth.'

+

+

+

+"The warning was no idle one, for two nights later I happened to look out of my bedroom window about two o'clock in the morning. It was a beautiful moonlight night, and the lawn in front of the house was silvered over and almost as bright as day. I was standing, rapt in the peaceful beauty of the scene, when I was aware that something was moving under the shadow of the copper beeches. As it emerged into the moonshine I saw what it was. It was a giant dog, as large as a calf, tawny tinted, with hanging jowl, black muzzle, and huge projecting bones. It walked slowly across the lawn and vanished into the shadow upon the other side. That dreadful sentinel sent a chill to my heart which I do not think that any burglar could have done.

+

+

+

+"And now I have a very strange experience to tell you. I had, as you know, cut off my hair in London, and I had placed it in a great coil at the bottom of my trunk. One evening, after the child was in bed, I began to amuse myself by examining the furniture of my room and by rearranging my own little things. There was an old chest of drawers in the room, the two upper ones empty and open, the lower one locked. I had filled the first two with my linen, and as I had still much to pack away I was naturally annoyed at not having the use of the third drawer. It struck me that it might have been fastened by a mere oversight, so I took out my bunch of keys and tried to open it. The very first key fitted to perfection, and I drew the drawer open. There was only one thing in it, but I am sure that you would never guess what it was. It was my coil of hair.

+

+

+

+"I took it up and examined it. It was of the same peculiar tint, and the same thickness. But then the impossibility of the thing obtruded itself upon me. How could my hair have been locked in the drawer? With trembling hands I undid my trunk, turned out the contents, and drew from the bottom my own hair. I laid the two tresses together, and I assure you that they were identical. Was it not extraordinary? Puzzle as I would, I could make nothing at all of what it meant. I returned the strange hair to the drawer, and I said nothing of the matter to the Rucastles as I felt that I had put myself in the wrong by opening a drawer which they had locked.

+

+

+

+"I am naturally observant, as you may have remarked, Mr. Holmes, and I soon had a pretty good plan of the whole house in my head. There was one wing, however, which appeared not to be inhabited at all. A door which faced that which led into the quarters of the Tollers opened into this suite, but it was invariably locked. One day, however, as I ascended the stair, I met Mr. Rucastle coming out through this door, his keys in his hand, and a look on his face which made him a very different person to the round, jovial man to whom I was accustomed. His cheeks were red, his brow was all crinkled with anger, and the veins stood out at his temples with passion. He locked the door and hurried past me without a word or a look.

+

+

+

+"This aroused my curiosity, so when I went out for a walk in the grounds with my charge, I strolled round to the side from which I could see the windows of this part of the house. There were four of them in a row, three of which were simply dirty, while the fourth was shuttered up. They were evidently all deserted. As I strolled up and down, glancing at them occasionally, Mr. Rucastle came out to me, looking as merry and jovial as ever.

+

+

+

+" 'Ah!' said he, 'you must not think me rude if I passed you without a word, my dear young lady. I was preoccupied with business matters.'

+

+

+

+"I assured him that I was not offended. 'By the way,' said I, 'you seem to have quite a suite of spare rooms up there, and one of them has the shutters up.'

+

+

+

+"He looked surprised and, as it seemed to me, a little startled at my remark.

+

+

+

+" 'Photography is one of my hobbies,' said he. 'I have made my dark room up there. But, dear me! what an observant young lady we have come upon. Who would have believed it? Who would have ever believed it?' He spoke in a jesting tone, but there was no jest in his eyes as he looked at me. I read suspicion there and annoyance, but no jest.

+

+

+

+"Well, Mr. Holmes, from the moment that I understood that there was something about that suite of rooms which I was not to know, I was all on fire to go over them. It was not mere curiosity, though I have my share of that. It was more a feeling of duty--a feeling that some good might come from my penetrating to this place. They talk of woman's instinct; perhaps it was woman's instinct which gave me that feeling. At any rate, it was there, and I was keenly on the lookout for any chance to pass the forbidden door.

+

+

+

+"It was only yesterday that the chance came. I may tell you that, besides Mr. Rucastle, both Toller and his wife find something to do in these deserted rooms, and I once saw him carrying a large black linen bag with him through the door. Recently he has been drinking hard, and yesterday evening he was very drunk; and when I came upstairs there was the key in the door. I have no doubt at all that he had left it there. Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle were both downstairs, and the child was with them, so that I had an admirable opportunity. I turned the key gently in the lock, opened the door, and slipped through.

+

+

+

+"There was a little passage in front of me, unpapered and uncarpeted, which turned at a right angle at the farther end. Round this corner were three doors in a line, the first and third of which were open. They each led into an empty room, dusty and cheerless, with two windows in the one and one in the other, so thick with dirt that the evening light glimmered dimly through them. The centre door was closed, and across the outside of it had been fastened one of the broad bars of an iron bed, padlocked at one end to a ring in the wall, and fastened at the other with stout cord. The door itself was locked as well, and the key was not there. This barricaded door corresponded clearly with the shuttered window outside, and yet I could see by the glimmer from beneath it that the room was not in darkness. Evidently there was a skylight which let in light from above. As I stood in the passage gazing at the sinister door and wondering what secret it might veil, I suddenly heard the sound of steps within the room and saw a shadow pass backward and forward against the little slit of dim light which shone out from under the door. A mad, unreasoning terror rose up in me at the sight, Mr. Holmes. My overstrung nerves failed me suddenly, and I turned and ran--ran as though some dreadful hand were behind me clutching at the skirt of my dress. I rushed down the passage, through the door, and straight into the arms of Mr. Rucastle, who was waiting outside.

+

+

+

+" 'So,' said he, smiling, 'it was you, then. I thought that it must be when I saw the door open.'

+

+

+

+" 'Oh, I am so frightened!' I panted.

+

+

+

+" 'My dear young lady! my dear young lady!'--you cannot think how caressing and soothing his manner was--'and what has frightened you, my dear young lady?'

+

+

+

+"But his voice was just a little too coaxing. He overdid it. I was keenly on my guard against him.

+

+

+

+" 'I was foolish enough to go into the empty wing,' I answered. 'But it is so lonely and eerie in this dim light that I was frightened and ran out again. Oh, it is so dreadfully still in there!'

+

+

+

+" 'Only that?' said he, looking at me keenly.

+

+

+

+" 'Why, what did you think?' I asked.

+

+

+

+" 'Why do you think that I lock this door?'

+

+

+

+" 'I am sure that I do not know.'

+

+

+

+" 'It is to keep people out who have no business there. Do you see?' He was still smiling in the most amiable manner.

+

+

+

+" 'I am sure if I had known--'

+

+

+

+" 'Well, then, you know now. And if you ever put your foot over that threshold again'--here in an instant the smile hardened into a grin of rage, and he glared down at me with the face of a demon--'I'll throw you to the mastiff.'

+

+

+

+"I was so terrified that I do not know what I did. I suppose that I must have rushed past him into my room. I remember nothing until I found myself lying on my bed trembling all over. Then I thought of you, Mr. Holmes. I could not live there longer without some advice. I was frightened of the house, of the man, of the woman, of the servants, even of the child. They were all horrible to me. If I could only bring you down all would be well. Of course I might have fled from the house, but my curiosity was almost as strong as my fears. My mind was soon made up. I would send you a wire. I put on my hat and cloak, went down to the office, which is about half a mile from the house, and then returned, feeling very much easier. A horrible doubt came into my mind as I approached the door lest the dog might be loose, but I remembered that Toller had drunk himself into a state of insensibility that evening, and I knew that he was the only one in the household who had any influence with the savage creature, or who would venture to set him free. I slipped in in safety and lay awake half the night in my joy at the thought of seeing you. I had no difficulty in getting leave to come into Winchester this morning, but I must be back before three o'clock, for Mr. and Mrs. Rucastle are going on a visit, and will be away all the evening, so that I must look after the child. Now I have told you all my adventures, Mr. Holmes, and I should be very glad if you could tell me what it all means, and, above all, what I should do."

+

+

+

+Holmes and I had listened spellbound to this extraordinary story. My friend rose now and paced up and down the room, his hands in his pockets, and an expression of the most profound gravity upon his face.

+

+

+

+"Is Toller still drunk?" he asked.

+

+

+

+"Yes. I heard his wife tell Mrs. Rucastle that she could do nothing with him."

+

+

+

+"That is well. And the Rucastles go out to-night?"

+

+

+

+"Yes."

+

+

+

+"Is there a cellar with a good strong lock?"

+

+

+

+"Yes, the wine-cellar."

+

+

+

+"You seem to me to have acted all through this matter like a very brave and sensible girl, Miss Hunter. Do you think that you could perform one more feat? I should not ask it of you if I did not think you a quite exceptional woman."

+

+

+

+"I will try. What is it?"

+

+

+

+"We shall be at the Copper Beeches by seven o'clock, my friend and I. The Rucastles will be gone by that time, and Toller will, we hope, be incapable. There only remains Mrs. Toller, who might give the alarm. If you could send her into the cellar on some errand, and then turn the key upon her, you would facilitate matters immensely."

+

+

+

+"I will do it."

+

+

+

+"Excellent! We shall then look thoroughly into the affair. Of course there is only one feasible explanation. You have been brought there to personate someone, and the real person is imprisoned in this chamber. That is obvious. As to who this prisoner is, I have no doubt that it is the daughter, Miss Alice Rucastle, if I remember right, who was said to have gone to America. You were chosen, doubtless, as resembling her in height, figure, and the colour of your hair. Hers had been cut off, very possibly in some illness through which she has passed, and so, of course, yours had to be sacrificed also. By a curious chance you came upon her tresses. The man in the road was undoubtedly some friend of hers--possibly her fiance--and no doubt, as you wore the girl's dress and were so like her, he was convinced from your laughter, whenever he saw you, and afterwards from your gesture, that Miss Rucastle was perfectly happy, and that she no longer desired his attentions. The dog is let loose at night to prevent him from endeavouring to communicate with her. So much is fairly clear. The most serious point in the case is the disposition of the child."

+

+

+

+"What on earth has that to do with it?" I ejaculated.

+

+

+

+"My dear Watson, you as a medical man are continually gaining light as to the tendencies of a child by the study of the parents. Don't you see that the converse is equally valid. I have frequently gained my first real insight into the character of parents by studying their children. This child's disposition is abnormally cruel, merely for cruelty's sake, and whether he derives this from his smiling father, as I should suspect, or from his mother, it bodes evil for the poor girl who is in their power."

+

+

+

+"I am sure that you are right, Mr. Holmes," cried our client. "A thousand things come back to me which make me certain that you have hit it. Oh, let us lose not an instant in bringing help to this poor creature."

+

+

+

+"We must be circumspect, for we are dealing with a very cunning man. We can do nothing until seven o'clock. At that hour we shall be with you, and it will not be long before we solve the mystery."

+

+

+

+We were as good as our word, for it was just seven when we reached the Copper Beeches, having put up our trap at a wayside public-house. The group of trees, with their dark leaves shining like burnished metal in the light of the setting sun, were sufficient to mark the house even had Miss Hunter not been standing smiling on the door-step.

+

+

+

+"Have you managed it?" asked Holmes.

+

+

+

+A loud thudding noise came from somewhere downstairs. "That is Mrs. Toller in the cellar," said she. "Her husband lies snoring on the kitchen rug. Here are his keys, which are the duplicates of Mr. Rucastle's."

+

+

+

+"You have done well indeed!" cried Holmes with enthusiasm. "Now lead the way, and we shall soon see the end of this black business."

+

+

+

+We passed up the stair, unlocked the door, followed on down a passage, and found ourselves in front of the barricade which Miss Hunter had described. Holmes cut the cord and removed the transverse bar. Then he tried the various keys in the lock, but without success. No sound came from within, and at the silence Holmes' face clouded over.

+

+

+

+"I trust that we are not too late," said he. "I think, Miss Hunter, that we had better go in without you. Now, Watson, put your shoulder to it, and we shall see whether we cannot make our way in."

+

+

+

+It was an old rickety door and gave at once before our united strength. Together we rushed into the room. It was empty. There was no furniture save a little pallet bed, a small table, and a basketful of linen. The skylight above was open, and the prisoner gone.

+

+

+

+"There has been some villainy here," said Holmes; "this beauty has guessed Miss Hunter's intentions and has carried his victim off."

+

+

+

+"But how?"

+

+

+

+"Through the skylight. We shall soon see how he managed it." He swung himself up onto the roof. "Ah, yes," he cried, "here's the end of a long light ladder against the eaves. That is how he did it."

+

+

+

+"But it is impossible," said Miss Hunter; "the ladder was not there when the Rucastles went away."

+

+

+

+"He has come back and done it. I tell you that he is a clever and dangerous man. I should not be very much surprised if this were he whose step I hear now upon the stair. I think, Watson, that it would be as well for you to have your pistol ready."

+

+

+

+The words were hardly out of his mouth before a man appeared at the door of the room, a very fat and burly man, with a heavy stick in his hand. Miss Hunter screamed and shrunk against the wall at the sight of him, but Sherlock Holmes sprang forward and confronted him.

+

+

+

+"You villain!" said he, "where's your daughter?"

+

+

+

+The fat man cast his eyes round, and then up at the open skylight.

+

+

+

+"It is for me to ask you that," he shrieked, "you thieves! Spies and thieves! I have caught you, have I? You are in my power. I'll serve you!" He turned and clattered down the stairs as hard as he could go.

+

+

+

+"He's gone for the dog!" cried Miss Hunter.

+

+

+

+"I have my revolver," said I.

+

+

+

+"Better close the front door," cried Holmes, and we all rushed down the stairs together. We had hardly reached the hall when we heard the baying of a hound, and then a scream of agony, with a horrible worrying sound which it was dreadful to listen to. An elderly man with a red face and shaking limbs came staggering out at a side door.

+

+

+

+"My God!" he cried. "Someone has loosed the dog. It's not been fed for two days. Quick, quick, or it'll be too late!"

+

+

+

+Holmes and I rushed out and round the angle of the house, with Toller hurrying behind us. There was the huge famished brute, its black muzzle buried in Rucastle's throat, while he writhed and screamed upon the ground. Running up, I blew its brains out, and it fell over with its keen white teeth still meeting in the great creases of his neck. With much labour we separated them and carried him, living but horribly mangled, into the house. We laid him upon the drawing-room sofa, and having dispatched the sobered Toller to bear the news to his wife, I did what I could to relieve his pain. We were all assembled round him when the door opened, and a tall, gaunt woman entered the room.

+

+

+

+"Mrs. Toller!" cried Miss Hunter.

+

+

+

+"Yes, miss. Mr. Rucastle let me out when he came back before he went up to you. Ah, miss, it is a pity you didn't let me know what you were planning, for I would have told you that your pains were wasted."

+

+

+

+"Ha!" said Holmes, looking keenly at her. "It is clear that Mrs. Toller knows more about this matter than anyone else."

+

+

+

+"Yes, sir, I do, and I am ready enough to tell what I know."

+

+

+

+"Then, pray, sit down, and let us hear it for there are several points on which I must confess that I am still in the dark."

+

+

+

+"I will soon make it clear to you," said she; "and I'd have done so before now if I could ha' got out from the cellar. If there's police-court business over this, you'll remember that I was the one that stood your friend, and that I was Miss Alice's friend too.

+

+

+

+"She was never happy at home, Miss Alice wasn't, from the time that her father married again. She was slighted like and had no say in anything, but it never really became bad for her until after she met Mr. Fowler at a friend's house. As well as I could learn, Miss Alice had rights of her own by will, but she was so quiet and patient, she was, that she never said a word about them but just left everything in Mr. Rucastle's hands. He knew he was safe with her; but when there was a chance of a husband coming forward, who would ask for all that the law would give him, then her father thought it time to put a stop on it. He wanted her to sign a paper, so that whether she married or not, he could use her money. When she wouldn't do it, he kept on worrying her until she got brain-fever, and for six weeks was at death's door. Then she got better at last, all worn to a shadow, and with her beautiful hair cut off; but that didn't make no change in her young man, and he stuck to her as true as man could be."

+

+

+

+"Ah," said Holmes, "I think that what you have been good enough to tell us makes the matter fairly clear, and that I can deduce all that remains. Mr. Rucastle then, I presume, took to this system of imprisonment?"

+

+

+

+"Yes, sir."

+

+

+

+"And brought Miss Hunter down from London in order to get rid of the disagreeable persistence of Mr. Fowler."

+

+

+

+"That was it, sir."

+

+

+

+"But Mr. Fowler being a persevering man, as a good seaman should be, blockaded the house, and having met you succeeded by certain arguments, metallic or otherwise, in convincing you that your interests were the same as his."

+

+

+

+"Mr. Fowler was a very kind-spoken, free-handed gentleman," said Mrs. Toller serenely.

+

+

+

+"And in this way he managed that your good man should have no want of drink, and that a ladder should be ready at the moment when your master had gone out."

+

+

+

+"You have it, sir, just as it happened."

+

+

+

+"I am sure we owe you an apology, Mrs. Toller," said Holmes, "for you have certainly cleared up everything which puzzled us. And here comes the country surgeon and Mrs. Rucastle, so I think, Watson, that we had best escort Miss Hunter back to Winchester, as it seems to me that our locus standi now is rather a questionable one."

+

+

+

+And thus was solved the mystery of the sinister house with the copper beeches in front of the door. Mr. Rucastle survived, but was always a broken man, kept alive solely through the care of his devoted wife. They still live with their old servants, who probably know so much of Rucastle's past life that he finds it difficult to part from them. Mr. Fowler and Miss Rucastle were married, by special license, in Southampton the day after their flight, and he is now the holder of a government appointment in the island of Mauritius. As to Miss Violet Hunter, my friend Holmes, rather to my disappointment, manifested no further interest in her when once she had ceased to be the centre of one of his problems, and she is now the head of a private school at Walsall, where I believe that she has met with considerable success.

+

+

+

+

diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk1/hw1_directory/strap012_1A.cpp b/OLD/ee1301/wk1/hw1_directory/strap012_1A.cpp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..abef32d
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk1/hw1_directory/strap012_1A.cpp
@@ -0,0 +1,21 @@
+#include <iostream>

+#include <cmath>

+#include <iomanip>

+using namespace std;

+

+int main()

+{

+  float r; //Radius

+  float h; //Height

+  

+  cout << "Input the radius of the sphere: ";

+   cin >> r;

+  cout << "Input the height of the fluid: ";

+   cin >> h;

+  

+  cout << fixed << setprecision(2) //Set rounding to 2 decimal places

+    << "Volume of the entire tank: " << ((4.0/3) * M_PI * pow(r, 3)) << endl

+    << "Surface area of the entire tank: " << (4 * M_PI * pow(r, 2)) << endl

+    << "Volume of the fluid: " << (1.0/3) * (M_PI * pow(h, 2) * (3 * r - h )) << endl

+    << "Surface area covered by the fluid: " << (2 * M_PI * r * h) << endl << endl;

+}
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk1/hw1_directory/strap012_1B.cpp b/OLD/ee1301/wk1/hw1_directory/strap012_1B.cpp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..7f5a487
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk1/hw1_directory/strap012_1B.cpp
@@ -0,0 +1,33 @@
+#include <iostream>

+#include <string>

+#include <iomanip>

+using namespace std;

+

+int main()

+{

+  string opt;

+  cout << "Are input components int or float (i/f)? ";

+  cin >> opt;

+  

+  if (opt == "i") {

+    int r;

+    int g;

+    int b;

+    cout << "Input r, g, b: ";

+    cin >> r >> g >> b;

+    cout << fixed << setprecision(2) << "Float representation: " << r / 255.0 << ", " << g / 255.0 << ", " << b / 255.0;

+  }

+    else{ if (opt == "f") {

+       double r;

+       double g;

+       double b;

+       cout << "Input r, g, b: ";

+       cin >> r >> g >> b;

+       cout << fixed << setprecision(0) << "Integer representation: " << r * 255 << ", " << g * 255 << ", " << b * 255;

+    }

+       else{

+        cout << "Invalid option." << endl;

+        return 0;}

+    }

+    cout << endl;

+}
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk1/lab1/strap012_lab1_c_1.cpp b/OLD/ee1301/wk1/lab1/strap012_lab1_c_1.cpp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..362110f
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk1/lab1/strap012_lab1_c_1.cpp
@@ -0,0 +1,24 @@
+#include <iostream>

+#include <string>

+using namespace std;

+

+int main()

+{

+    string name1;

+    string name2;

+    int h1, h2;

+    

+    cout << "Enter your name: ";

+    getline (cin,name1);

+    cout << "Enter your height: ";

+    cin >> h1;

+    cout << "Enter your comrade's name: ";

+    cin.ignore();

+    getline (cin,name2);

+    cout << "Enter your comrade's height: ";

+    cin >> h2;

+    

+    cout << name1 << " and " << name2 << " standing on top of each other are " << h1+h2 << " feet tall!" << endl;

+  

+  

+}

diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk1/lab1/strap012_lab1_c_2.cpp b/OLD/ee1301/wk1/lab1/strap012_lab1_c_2.cpp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..40d13fe
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk1/lab1/strap012_lab1_c_2.cpp
@@ -0,0 +1,13 @@
+#include <iostream>

+#include <string>

+using namespace std;

+

+int main()

+{

+    string first, last;

+    cout << "What is your full name?" << endl;

+    getline (cin,first);

+    //cin.ignore();

+    getline (cin,last);

+    cout << last << ", " << first << endl;

+}

diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk1/lab1/strap012_lab1_s_1.cpp b/OLD/ee1301/wk1/lab1/strap012_lab1_s_1.cpp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..32176b5
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk1/lab1/strap012_lab1_s_1.cpp
@@ -0,0 +1,10 @@
+#include <iostream>

+#include <math.h>

+using namespace std;

+

+int main()

+{

+    int x=20;

+    double h = 1e-14;

+    cout << (pow(x+h, 3)-pow(x,3))/h << endl;

+}
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk1/lab1/strap012_lab1_s_2.cpp b/OLD/ee1301/wk1/lab1/strap012_lab1_s_2.cpp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..0178f67
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk1/lab1/strap012_lab1_s_2.cpp
@@ -0,0 +1,14 @@
+#include <iostream>

+using namespace std;

+

+int main()

+{

+    double tf;

+    cout << "Enter temperature in degrees Celsius: ";

+    cin >> tf;

+    char c = 'F';

+    double tc = tf;

+    char f = 'C';

+    cout << tc << " degrees " << f << " = " << tf * (9/5.0) + 32 <<" degrees " << c << endl;

+}

+

diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk1/lab1/strap012_lab1_s_3.cpp b/OLD/ee1301/wk1/lab1/strap012_lab1_s_3.cpp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..b9a68b1
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk1/lab1/strap012_lab1_s_3.cpp
@@ -0,0 +1,29 @@
+#include <iostream>

+#include <string>

+#include <stdlib.h>

+using namespace std;

+

+int main () {

+	string name, quest, color, assyria, swallowSpeed;

+	cout << "Before you cross this bridge, answer the questions three." << endl << endl << "Question the first: what is your name? ";

+	cin >> name;

+	cout << "What is your quest? ";

+	cin >> quest;

+	int a = rand() % 3 + 1;

+	if (a == 1) {

+		cout << "What is your favorite color? ";

+		cin >> color; }

+	if (a == 2) {

+		cout << "What is the captial of Assyria? ";

+		cin >> assyria; }

+	if (a == 3) {

+		cout << "What is the air speed of an unladen swallow?";

+		getline(cin,swallowSpeed); }

+

+	if (color == "null" || assyria == "Nineveh" || swallowSpeed == "African or European?") {

+		cout << endl << "Go on." << endl; }

+		else {

+			cout << "BEGONE" << endl;

+			return 100; }

+

+}

diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk1/lab1/strap012_lab1_w_0.cpp b/OLD/ee1301/wk1/lab1/strap012_lab1_w_0.cpp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..af1582a
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk1/lab1/strap012_lab1_w_0.cpp
@@ -0,0 +1,13 @@
+#include <iostream>

+using namespace std;

+

+int main()

+{

+   int students;

+   int section;

+    cout << "Number of students: ";

+    cin >> students;

+    cout << "Number of sections: ";

+    cin >> section;

+    cout << "The lecture to lab ratio is " << students/section << ":1." << endl;

+}
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk1/lab1/strap012_lab1_w_1.cpp b/OLD/ee1301/wk1/lab1/strap012_lab1_w_1.cpp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..77780c5
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk1/lab1/strap012_lab1_w_1.cpp
@@ -0,0 +1,9 @@
+#include <iostream>

+#include <string>

+using namespace std;

+

+int main()

+{

+    int x = 5;

+    cout << x << "! = " << x * (x - x / x) * (x - x / x - x / x) * (x / x + x / x) * (x / x) << endl;

+}
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk2/hw2_directory/strap012_HW2A.cpp b/OLD/ee1301/wk2/hw2_directory/strap012_HW2A.cpp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..2877801
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk2/hw2_directory/strap012_HW2A.cpp
@@ -0,0 +1,49 @@
+/*

+20 Feb 2019

+Matthew Strapp

+5449340

+EE1301

+Spring 2019

+Homework 2A

+Useless Counter

+*/

+

+#include <iostream>

+using namespace std;

+int main () {

+  int countOG, i, j;

+  

+do {

+  

+  do {

+    cout << "Enter an integer from -50 to 50: ";

+    cin >> countOG;

+  } while (countOG > 50 || countOG < -50);

+  

+  int count=countOG; //Store original integer for comparison to break loop

+  

+  if (countOG < 0){

+   count*=-1;

+   for (i=count; i>0; i--) {

+    for (j=count; j>0; j--) {

+      cout << count;

+    }

+    count--;

+    cout << endl;

+   }

+  }

+

+  if (countOG > 0) {

+    for (count=1; count<=countOG; count++) {

+      for (i=0; i<count; i++) {

+        cout << count;

+      }

+      cout << endl;

+    }

+  }

+  

+} while (countOG != 0);

+

+  cout << "Goodbye." << endl;

+  return 0;

+}
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk2/hw2_directory/strap012_HW2B.cpp b/OLD/ee1301/wk2/hw2_directory/strap012_HW2B.cpp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..fb6481f
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk2/hw2_directory/strap012_HW2B.cpp
@@ -0,0 +1,101 @@
+/*

+20 Feb 2019

+Matthew Strapp

+5449340

+EE1301

+Spring 2019

+Homework 2B

+Time Travel Calculator

+*/

+

+#include <iostream>

+using namespace std;

+int main()

+{

+

+  bool foo = 0, bar = false; //Workaround to prevent unneeded if statements

+  char Time, travel;                       //"time" is reserved by C++, "Time" is not

+  int hourOG, hourChange, hourNew, intervalChange = 0, timeChange = 0;

+  cout << "Enter current time (A for AM, P for PM): ";

+  cin >> hourOG >> Time;

+  cout << "How many hours forward or backward do you want to move the clock (F for forwards, B for backward): ";

+  cin >> travel >> hourChange;

+  for (int i = hourChange; i >= 0; i--)

+  {

+    if (i != 0)

+    {

+      intervalChange++;

+    }

+    if (travel == 'F')

+    {

+      if (hourOG + hourChange >= 12)

+      {

+        if (hourOG + hourChange == 12)

+        {

+          timeChange++;

+        }

+        else //This else statement is a complete hackjob. It works consistently though.

+        {

+          int temp = (hourOG + hourChange) - 12;

+          bar=true;

+          while (temp>12) {

+            temp-=12;

+            timeChange++;

+          }

+          hourNew=temp;

+     }

+        }

+        timeChange++;

+      }

+

+    if (travel == 'B')

+    {

+      if (hourOG - hourChange <= 0)

+      {

+          int temp = (hourOG - hourChange) + 12;

+          bar=true;

+          while (temp>12) {

+            temp-=12;

+            timeChange++;

+          }

+          if (hourChange<=24) {

+            hourNew=temp;

+          } else {

+            for (int k=(hourChange%24); k>0; k--) {

+              hourNew=temp+12;

+            }

+          }

+        }

+        timeChange++;

+    }

+    if (intervalChange >= 12)

+    {

+      intervalChange = 0;

+      timeChange++;

+    }

+  }

+  for (timeChange; timeChange > 1; timeChange--)

+  {

+    if (Time == 'A')

+    {

+      Time += 15; //15 is the difference in the ASCII table between 'A' and 'P'

+    }

+    else

+    {

+      if (Time == 'P')

+      {

+        Time -= 15;

+      }

+    }

+  }

+  if (travel == 'F' && !bar)

+  {

+    hourNew = hourOG + intervalChange;

+  }

+  if (travel == 'B' && !bar)

+  {

+    hourNew = hourOG - intervalChange;

+  }

+  cout << "The new time is: " << hourNew << " " << Time << "M" << endl;

+  return 0;

+}

diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk2/hw2_directory/strap012_HW2C.cpp b/OLD/ee1301/wk2/hw2_directory/strap012_HW2C.cpp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..4d3d9b3
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk2/hw2_directory/strap012_HW2C.cpp
@@ -0,0 +1,49 @@
+/*

+20 Feb 2019

+Matthew Strapp

+5449340

+EE1301

+Spring 2019

+Homework 2C

+One-armed Bandit

+*/

+

+#include <iostream>

+#include <time.h>

+

+using namespace std;

+int main () {

+    srand (time(NULL)); //This seeds the randomness based on the current time

+    bool win=false;

+    int d=0, spin1, spin2, spin3, spin4;

+  do {

+      do {

+        win=false;      //Reset win from before, otherwise win will always be true after it is true once

+        cout << "How many values do you want on each wheel? ";

+        cin >> d;

+      } while (d==0);   //Without this failsafe, the program does undefined things at d=0, usually crashing

+      

+        spin1= rand () % d + 1;

+        spin2= rand () % d + 1;

+        spin3= rand () % d + 1;

+        spin4= rand () % d + 1;

+        cout << "The wheels spin to give:  " << spin1 << " " << spin2 << " " << spin3 << " " << spin4 << "  ";

+        if (spin1==spin2) { // These nested statements only let the bool "win" be true if all of the spinners match

+            if (spin2==spin3) {

+                if (spin3==spin4) {

+                    win=true;

+                }

+            }

+        }

+        if (win) {

+            cout << "Eureka!";

+        }

+        else {

+            cout << "You lose.";

+            

+        }

+    cout << endl;

+  } while (d!=-1);

+  cout << "OK, goodbye." << endl;

+  return 0;

+}
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk2/lab2/bmr.cpp b/OLD/ee1301/wk2/lab2/bmr.cpp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..b86c36c
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk2/lab2/bmr.cpp
@@ -0,0 +1,26 @@
+#include <iostream>

+using namespace std;

+

+int main () {

+  int age,height,weight,chocolate;

+  double BMR;

+  char sex;

+  cout << "Enter weight in pounds:"; cin >> weight;

+  cout << "Enter height in inches:"; cin >> height;

+  cout << "Enter age in years:"; cin >> age;

+  cout << "Enter Sex(M/F)"; cin >> sex;

+

+  if (sex=='F' || sex=='f'){

+    BMR = 655 + (4.3 * weight) + (4.7 * height) - (4.7 * age);

+    cout << "Your BMR is: " << BMR;

+  }

+

+  if (sex=='M' || sex=='m'){

+    BMR = 66 + (6.3 * weight) + (12.9 * height) - (6.8 * age);

+    cout << "Your BMR is: " << BMR;

+  }

+

+  chocolate = BMR/230;

+  cout << endl << "Number of 230 Calories bars you can have is: " << chocolate << endl;

+  return 0;

+}

diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk2/lab2/calc.cpp b/OLD/ee1301/wk2/lab2/calc.cpp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..9cb2e03
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk2/lab2/calc.cpp
@@ -0,0 +1,28 @@
+#include <iostream>

+using namespace std;

+

+int main () {

+  int a,b;

+  char op;

+  cout << "Enter an equation: ";

+  cin >> a >> op >> b;

+  cout << a << op << b << " = ";

+

+   if (op=='+'){ //Addition

+     cout << a + b;

+   }

+

+   if (op=='-'){ //Subtraction

+     cout << a - b;

+   }

+

+   if (op=='*'){ //Multiplication

+     cout << a * b;

+   }

+

+   if (op=='/'){ //Division

+     cout << a / b;

+   }

+

+   cout << endl;

+ }

diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk2/lab2/greektax.cpp b/OLD/ee1301/wk2/lab2/greektax.cpp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..fba3918
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk2/lab2/greektax.cpp
@@ -0,0 +1,31 @@
+#include <iostream>

+using namespace std;

+int main () {

+  int Income;

+  int Tax=0;

+  cout << "Enter your income: ";

+  cin >> Income;

+  if (Income>10000) { //Income under 10000 is not taxed

+    int k10=Income-30000;

+    if (k10<=0){

+    Tax+=((Income-10000)*.1); //Income between 10000 and 30000 is taxed at 10%

+  }

+    else {

+      Tax+=2000;

+    }

+    if (Income>30000) {

+      int k30=Income-70000;

+      if (k30<=0){

+      Tax+=((Income-30000)*.2); //Income between 30000 and 70000 is taxed at 20%

+    }

+      else {

+        Tax+=8000;

+      }

+      if (Income>70000) {

+        Tax+=((Income-70000)*.3); //Income over 70000 is taxed at 30%

+      }

+    }

+  }

+  cout << "You owe " << Tax << " drachmas in tax." << endl;

+

+}

diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk2/lab2/specrel.cpp b/OLD/ee1301/wk2/lab2/specrel.cpp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..b925e3c
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk2/lab2/specrel.cpp
@@ -0,0 +1,25 @@
+/*

+Date: 13 Feb 2019

+Name: Matthew Strapp

+Student ID number: 5449340

+Course number: EE1301

+Term: Spring 2019

+Lab/assignment number: W-Up 1

+Short Program Description: Special Relativity equation tool

+*/

+

+#include <iostream>

+#include <cmath>

+using namespace std;

+

+int main () {

+	double L,v,c;

+	c=3e+10;

+

+	cout << "Enter L: "; cin >> L;

+	cout << "Enter V: "; cin >> v;

+	cout << "Relative Length = " <<

+	L * sqrt(1-(v*v)/(c*c)) //Relativistic Equation

+	<< endl;

+	return 0;

+}

diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk2/lab2/strap012_lab2_pay_stub.cpp b/OLD/ee1301/wk2/lab2/strap012_lab2_pay_stub.cpp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..d87f156
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk2/lab2/strap012_lab2_pay_stub.cpp
@@ -0,0 +1,50 @@
+/*

+Date: 13 Feb 2019

+Name: Matthew Strapp

+Student ID number: 5449340

+Course number: EE1301

+Term: Spring 2019

+Lab/assignment number: Workout

+Short Program Description: Pay Stub Calculator

+*/

+

+#include <iostream>

+#include <iomanip>

+using namespace std;

+

+int main () {

+  int Dependents, Hours;

+  int OT = 0, Health = 0, Union =0;   //Set values to zero to prevent problems

+  double SocSec, State, Fed, GrossPay, NetPay;

+  cout << "How many hours did you work this week?: ";

+  cin >> Hours;

+    if (Hours < 0) {

+      cout << "Invalid option!" << endl;

+      return 2;

+    }

+  cout << "How many dependents do you have?: ";

+  cin >> Dependents;

+  if (Hours > 40) { //Every hour over 40 constitutes as overtime

+    OT=Hours-40;

+  }

+  if (Dependents >= 3 && Hours > 0) {  //More than 3 dependents carries a fee

+    Health=35;

+  }

+  GrossPay = Hours * 16.78 + OT * 16.78 * 1.5;

+  SocSec = GrossPay * 0.06;

+  Fed = GrossPay * 0.14;

+  State = GrossPay * .05;

+  if (GrossPay>0){

+    Union=10;

+  }

+  NetPay = GrossPay - SocSec - Fed - State - Health - Union;

+  cout << fixed << setprecision(2) << endl << "Your gross (before withholdings) pay is $" << GrossPay << "." << endl

+  << "Social Security withholding: $" << SocSec << endl

+  << "Federal income tax withholding: $" << Fed << endl

+  << "State income tax withholding: $" << State << endl

+  << "Union Dues: $" << Union << endl

+  << "Medical cost: $" << Health << endl

+

+  << "Your net (after witholdings) pay is $" << NetPay << "." << endl;

+

+}

diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk3/hw3_directory/strap012_HW3A.cpp b/OLD/ee1301/wk3/hw3_directory/strap012_HW3A.cpp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..42aae10
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk3/hw3_directory/strap012_HW3A.cpp
@@ -0,0 +1,62 @@
+/*

+27 Feb 2019

+Matthew Strapp

+5449340

+EE1301

+Spring 2019

+Homework 3A

+One-armed Bandit Simulator

+*/

+

+#include <iostream>

+#include <stdlib.h>

+#include <cmath>

+#include <iomanip>

+

+int spin_the_wheels(int d, int w);

+

+int main () {

+  srand(time(NULL));

+  int w, d, winCount, winTest;

+  for (w=3; w<=6; w++) {

+    winCount=0;

+    for (d=9; d<=27; d++) {

+      winCount=0;

+      for (long n=1000000; n>0; n--) { //The simulation is always done 1,000,000 times

+        winTest = spin_the_wheels(d, w);

+        winCount+=winTest;

+      }

+      if (w==6) {

+        std::cout << std::scientific;

+      }

+      std::cout << "w=" << w << ", d=" << d

+           << ": Simulated probability = m/n = " << (winCount / 1000000.0) * 100.0 << "%. "

+           << "Theoretical probability = " << (d / (pow(d, w))) * 100 << "%." << std::endl;

+      d+=2;

+    }

+  }

+}

+

+// Function: spin_the_wheels

+//  ---------------------------

+// Simulates the one-armed bandit from the previous HW

+// d: the number of options on the spinner

+// w: the number of spinners

+// returns: Either 1 for win or 0 for loss

+

+int spin_the_wheels(int d, int w) {

+  int spinOG=0, spinNew=0, win=0;

+  spinOG = ( (rand() % d) + 1); //Original spin is always the same

+  w-=1; //The first wheel was spun as spinOG

+  for (int i=0; i<w; i++) {

+    spinNew = ( (rand() % d) + 1);

+    if (spinOG==spinNew) {

+      win++;

+    }

+  }

+  if (win==w) { //The only win condition is if every wheel matches

+    return 1;

+  } else {

+    return 0;

+  }

+}
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk3/hw3_directory/strap012_HW3B.cpp b/OLD/ee1301/wk3/hw3_directory/strap012_HW3B.cpp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..16785bd
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk3/hw3_directory/strap012_HW3B.cpp
@@ -0,0 +1,65 @@
+/*

+27 Feb 2019

+Matthew Strapp

+5449340

+EE1301

+Spring 2019

+Homework 3B

+Character Detection

+*/

+

+#include <iostream>

+#include <stdlib.h>

+#include <cmath>

+#include <iomanip>

+

+int charTest (char character);

+

+int main () {

+using namespace std;

+    int test;

+    char character;

+    bool isAlphaNumeric=true;

+    while (isAlphaNumeric) {

+      cout << "Enter a single digit or an alphabetic character: ";

+      cin >> character;

+      cout << "You entered " << character << ", ";

+      test = charTest(character);

+      if (test==0) {

+        isAlphaNumeric=false;

+        cout << "which is not a letter or a number.";

+      }

+      if (test==1) {

+        cout << "which is a number.";

+      }

+      if (test==2) {

+        cout << "which is a lower case letter.";

+      }

+      if (test==3) {

+        cout << "which is an upper case letter.";

+      }

+      cout << endl;

+    }

+}

+

+// Function: charTest

+//  ---------------------------

+// Tests to see what kind of character was inputted

+// input: character from prompt in main

+// returns: 1 if number, 2 if lower case, 3 if upper case, 0 if not any of the previous

+

+int charTest (char character) {

+  if (character >= '0' && character <= '9') {

+      return 1;

+    } else {

+        if (character>='a' && character<='z') {

+            return 2;

+        } else {

+            if (character>= 'A' && character<='Z') {

+                return 3;

+            } else {

+                  return 0;

+            }

+        }

+    }

+}
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk3/hw3_directory/strap012_HW3C.cpp b/OLD/ee1301/wk3/hw3_directory/strap012_HW3C.cpp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..6886106
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk3/hw3_directory/strap012_HW3C.cpp
@@ -0,0 +1,51 @@
+/*

+27 Feb 2019

+Matthew Strapp

+5449340

+EE1301

+Spring 2019

+Homework 3C

+Character Detection

+*/

+

+#include <iostream>

+#include <stdlib.h>

+#include <cmath>

+#include <iomanip>

+using namespace std;

+

+void swapCase(char s);

+

+int main() {

+    char character;

+    do { //This loops until '@' is entered

+        cout << "Please enter a character that is an ASCII letter in the range [A-Za-z]: ";

+        cin >> character;

+        if (character!='@') {

+          swapCase(character);

+        }

+    } while (character!='@');

+}

+

+// Function: swapCase

+//  ---------------------------

+// Swaps the case of a latin ASCII character and prints an error if not one

+// s: the character inputted

+// Outputs: Nothing, the function just outputs the response

+

+void swapCase(char s) {

+    char New;

+    cout << "You entered " << s;

+    if ( (s >= 'a' && s <= 'z') || (s >= 'A' && s <= 'Z') ) {

+        cout << ", I respond with ";

+        if (s >= 'A' && s <= 'Z') {

+          New = s + 32; //32 is the difference between capital and lowercase ASCII characters

+        } else {

+            New= s - 32;

+        }

+        cout << New;

+    } else {

+            cout << ", which is not a valid character.";

+        }

+    cout << endl;

+}
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk3/lab3/RootBabylon2.cpp b/OLD/ee1301/wk3/lab3/RootBabylon2.cpp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..1053cab
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk3/lab3/RootBabylon2.cpp
@@ -0,0 +1,40 @@
+#include <iostream>

+#include <iomanip>

+#include <cmath>

+using namespace std;

+

+double gennewGuess(double n, double old_guess) {

+  double real, old;

+  real=sqrt(n);

+  double new_guess = ( old_guess + n / old_guess ) / 2;

+  old=new_guess;

+  if (((new_guess-real)/real)>0.01) { //This will be true if the difference between the real root and guess is more than 1%.

+  //  cout << old << endl;

+    return gennewGuess(n, old);

+  } else {

+  //  cout << old << endl;

+    return new_guess;

+  }

+}

+int main () {

+  double temp;

+  char cont;

+  do {

+  cout << "enter a value: ";

+  cin >> temp;

+  int n=temp;

+  if (temp<=0) {

+    cout << "Please enter a valid input(Positive Integer)." << endl;

+    return sqrt(-1);

+  }

+  //cout << "Guessing..." << endl;

+  temp = gennewGuess(temp, 1.0);

+  cout << fixed << setprecision(0) << "square root of " << n << " is " << temp << endl

+  << "continue? (y/n): ";

+  cin >> cont;

+  if (cont!='n'&&cont!='y') {

+    return -1;

+  }

+} while (cont!='n');

+  // << "Actual Value: " << real << endl;

+}

diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk3/lab3/RootBabylonOG.cpp b/OLD/ee1301/wk3/lab3/RootBabylonOG.cpp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..530a1bf
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk3/lab3/RootBabylonOG.cpp
@@ -0,0 +1,34 @@
+#include <iostream>

+#include <cmath>

+using namespace std;

+

+double gennewGuess(double n, double old_guess) {

+  double new_guess = ( old_guess + ( n / old_guess ) ) / 2;

+  return new_guess;

+  }

+  

+double BabylonRoot(double n) {

+  double real, guess=1; //Initial guess is set to 1

+  real=sqrt(n);

+  do {

+    guess = gennewGuess(n,guess);

+    cout << guess << endl;

+  } while (abs(guess-real)/real>0.01); //Keep guessing unitl within 1% of the actual square root

+  return guess;

+}

+

+int main () {

+  double n, guess;

+  cout << "Enter the Number to find square root: ";

+  cin >> n;

+  if (n<=0) {

+    cout << "Please enter a valid input(Positive Integer)." << endl;

+    return 2;

+  }

+  cout << "Guessing..." << endl;

+  double real=sqrt(n);

+  guess = BabylonRoot(n);

+  cout << "The Final Guess: " << guess << endl

+   << "Actual Value: " << real << endl;

+   return 0;

+}
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk3/lab3/fib.cpp b/OLD/ee1301/wk3/lab3/fib.cpp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..57be3a2
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk3/lab3/fib.cpp
@@ -0,0 +1,21 @@
+#include <iostream>

+using namespace std;

+int main()

+{

+  unsigned long long fib1=0, fib2=1, count, fib3=1;

+  cout << "How many Fibonacci numbers should be computed? ";

+  cin >> count;

+  bool firstRun=true;

+  for (int i=1; i<(count+1); i++) {

+    if (!firstRun) { //The contents are run when i is not 1.

+      fib3=fib1+fib2;

+      fib1=fib2;

+      fib2=fib3;

+    }

+    firstRun=false;

+    cout << fib3 << " ";

+    if (i%10==0 && i!=0)

+      cout << endl;

+  }

+  cout << endl;

+}

diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk3/lab3/gcd.cpp b/OLD/ee1301/wk3/lab3/gcd.cpp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..4e127d9
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk3/lab3/gcd.cpp
@@ -0,0 +1,36 @@
+#include <iostream>

+#include <cmath>

+using namespace std;

+

+int GCD(int a, int b) {

+  int gcd=1;

+  a=abs(a); b=abs(b);

+  if (a>b) {

+    //do nothing

+  } else {

+    if (b>a) {

+     int foo=a; a=b; b=foo;

+   } else {

+      return -1;

+    }

+  }

+  gcd=(a%b);

+  while (gcd!=0) {

+    return GCD(b,gcd);

+  }

+  return b;

+

+}

+int main () {

+  int a=0, b=0;

+  char cont;

+  do {

+    cout << "enter two integer values: ";

+    cin >> a >> b;

+    cout << "greatest common divisor is: " << GCD(a,b) << endl;

+    cout << "continue? (y/n): ";

+    cin >> cont;

+    cout << endl;

+  } while (cont!='n');

+  

+}

diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk3/lab3/multTable.cpp b/OLD/ee1301/wk3/lab3/multTable.cpp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..4253980
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk3/lab3/multTable.cpp
@@ -0,0 +1,18 @@
+#include <iostream>

+using namespace std;

+int main() {

+  int r=1, c=1;

+  for (r; r<=10; r++) {

+    for (c=10; c>0; c--) {

+      int ans = r*c;

+      if (ans!=100) {

+        cout << " ";

+      }

+      if (ans<10) {

+        cout << " ";

+      }

+      cout << ans;

+    }

+  cout << endl;

+  }

+}

diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk3/lab3/mysteryBox.cpp b/OLD/ee1301/wk3/lab3/mysteryBox.cpp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..c1aefee
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk3/lab3/mysteryBox.cpp
@@ -0,0 +1,12 @@
+#include <iostream>

+using namespace std;

+

+int main () {

+  int sum = 0;

+  for(int i=0; i<=100; i++)

+  {

+      if(i % 7 == 0)

+          sum++;

+  }

+cout << sum;

+}

diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk3/lab3/primeFactor.cpp b/OLD/ee1301/wk3/lab3/primeFactor.cpp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..093a0be
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk3/lab3/primeFactor.cpp
@@ -0,0 +1,26 @@
+#include <iostream>

+#include <cmath>

+using namespace std;

+

+void factorFinder (unsigned long long n) {

+  unsigned long long i=2;

+  while (pow(i,2)<=n) {

+    if (n%i==0) {

+      cout << i << "*";

+      n/=i;

+    } else {

+      i++;

+    }

+  }

+  if (n>1) {

+    cout << n << endl;

+  }

+}

+

+int main () {

+  unsigned long long n;

+  cout << "Input a positive integer: ";

+  cin >> n;

+  cout << "Factors: ";

+  factorFinder(n);

+}

diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk3/lab3/strap012_lab3_decimal_roman_conv.cpp b/OLD/ee1301/wk3/lab3/strap012_lab3_decimal_roman_conv.cpp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..f6aa568
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk3/lab3/strap012_lab3_decimal_roman_conv.cpp
@@ -0,0 +1,58 @@
+//Matthew Strapp

+//5449340

+//20 February 2018

+//Lab 3 Workout

+

+#include <iostream>

+using namespace std;

+int main () {

+  int decimal;

+  cout << "Enter an integer value from 1 to 999: ";

+  cin >> decimal;

+  if (decimal<1 || decimal>999) {

+    cout << "       Invalid Input.    Program terminated." << endl;

+    return 1453;

+  } else {

+      cout << "Roman numeral equivalent: ";

+  while (decimal!=0) {

+      if (decimal>900 && decimal<1000) {

+        cout << "CM"; decimal-=900;

+        }

+      if (decimal>=500 && decimal<900) {

+        cout << "D"; decimal-=500;

+        }

+      if (decimal>=400 && decimal<500) {

+        cout << "CD"; decimal-=400;

+        }

+      if (decimal>=100 && decimal<400) {

+        cout << "C"; decimal-=100;

+        }

+      if (decimal>=90 && decimal<100) {

+        cout << "XC"; decimal-=90;

+        }

+      if (decimal>=50 && decimal<90) {

+        cout << "L"; decimal-=50;

+        }

+      if (decimal>=40 && decimal<50) {

+        cout << "XL"; decimal-=40;

+        }

+      if (decimal>=10 && decimal<40) {

+        cout << "X"; decimal-=10;

+        }

+      if (decimal==9) {

+        cout << "IX"; decimal-=9;

+        }

+      if (decimal>=5 && decimal<9) {

+        cout << "V"; decimal-=5;

+        }

+      if (decimal==4) {

+        cout << "IV"; decimal-=4;

+        }

+      if (decimal>=1 && decimal<4) {

+        cout << "I"; decimal-= 1;

+        }

+      }

+    }

+  cout << endl;

+  return 0;

+}

diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk4/hw4_directory/strap012_HW4A.cpp b/OLD/ee1301/wk4/hw4_directory/strap012_HW4A.cpp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..482addf
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk4/hw4_directory/strap012_HW4A.cpp
@@ -0,0 +1,59 @@
+/*

+13 March 2019

+Matthew Strapp

+5449340

+EE1301

+Spring 2019

+Homework 4A

+Making the Grade

+*/

+

+#include <iostream>

+#include <fstream>

+std::ifstream fin;

+std::ofstream fout;

+

+int main () {

+    int score, A, B, C, D, F;

+    A = B = C = D = F = 0;

+    std::string garbage; //Everything except the number is unneeded garbage.

+    fin.open("input_files/grades.txt");

+    if (!fin.is_open() ) {

+        std::cout << "File read failed!\n";

+        return -1;

+    }

+    fout.open("output_files/statistics.csv");

+    if (!fout.is_open())

+    {

+        std::cout << "File write failed!\n";

+        return -2;

+    }

+

+    while (fin >> garbage >> garbage >> score) {

+        getline(fin, garbage);      //Any decimals are not needed and will be culled

+        if (score>90) {

+            A++;

+        } else if (score>80) {

+            B++;

+        } else if (score>70) {

+            C++;

+        } else if (score>60) {

+            D++; 

+        } else {

+            F++;

+        }

+    }

+    std::cout << A << " A" << std::endl

+              << B << " B" << std::endl

+              << C << " C" << std::endl

+              << D << " D" << std::endl

+              << F << " F" << std::endl;

+    fin.close();

+    fout << "Grade, NumStudents" << std::endl

+         << "A," << A << std::endl

+         << "B," << B << std::endl

+         << "C," << C << std::endl

+         << "D," << D << std::endl

+         << "F," << F;

+    fout.close();

+}
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk4/hw4_directory/strap012_HW4B.cpp b/OLD/ee1301/wk4/hw4_directory/strap012_HW4B.cpp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..b421341
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk4/hw4_directory/strap012_HW4B.cpp
@@ -0,0 +1,51 @@
+/*

+13 March 2019

+Matthew Strapp

+5449340

+EE1301

+Spring 2019

+Homework 4B

+Grade Distribution

+*/

+

+#include <iostream>

+#include <fstream>

+std::ifstream fin;

+std::ofstream fout;

+

+int main()

+{

+    std::string Useless;

+    char letter, garbage;

+    int Count, hiCount=0;

+    fin.open("output_files/statistics.csv");

+    if (!fin.is_open()) {

+        std::cout << "File read failed!\n";

+        return -1;

+    }

+    fout.open("output_files/histogram.txt");

+    if (!fout.is_open()) {

+        std::cout << "File write failed!\n";

+        return -2;

+    }

+    fin >> Useless >> Useless;  //The first line in the file is useless

+    while (fin >> letter >> garbage >> Count) {     //The letter and the number of people in that grade is important, the comma is not

+        fout << " " << letter;

+        if (Count>hiCount) {

+            hiCount=Count;

+        }

+        for (int i=Count; i>0; i--) {

+            fout << " X";

+        }

+        fout << std::endl;

+    }

+    fin.close();

+    for (int h=0; h<=(hiCount+1); h++) {

+        fout << "==";

+    }

+    fout << std::endl << "  ";

+    for (int j=1; j<=hiCount; j++) {

+        fout << " " << j;

+    }

+    fout.close();

+}
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk4/hw4_directory/strap012_HW4C.cpp b/OLD/ee1301/wk4/hw4_directory/strap012_HW4C.cpp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..85c0aa5
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk4/hw4_directory/strap012_HW4C.cpp
@@ -0,0 +1,71 @@
+/*

+13 March 2019

+Matthew Strapp

+5449340

+EE1301

+Spring 2019

+Homework 4C

+Most Popular Vowel

+*/

+

+#include <iostream>

+#include <fstream>

+std::ifstream fin;

+std::ofstream fout;

+

+int main()

+{

+    char Char, winner;

+    int A=0, E=0, I=0, O=0, U=0;

+    fin.open("input_files/blahblah.txt");

+    if (!fin.is_open()) {

+        std::cout << "File read failed!\n";

+        return -1;

+    }

+    fout.open("output_files/election_results.txt");

+    if (!fout.is_open())

+    {

+        std::cout << "File write failed!\n";

+        return -2;

+    }

+    while (fin >> Char) {

+        if (Char=='A' || Char=='a') {

+            A++;

+        } if (Char=='E' || Char=='e') {

+            E++;

+        } if (Char=='I' || Char=='i') {

+            I++;

+        } if (Char=='O' || Char=='o') {

+            O++;

+        } if (Char=='U' || Char=='u') {

+            U++;

+        }

+    } fin.close();

+    //This bit compares to see which vowel wins.

+    if (A>E && A>I && A>O && A>U)

+        { winner = 'A'; }

+    if (E > A && E > I && E > O && E > U)

+        { winner = 'E'; }

+    if (I > E && I > A && I > O && I > U)

+        { winner = 'I'; }

+    if (O > E && O > I && O > A && O > U)

+        { winner = 'O'; }

+    if (U > E && U > I && U > O && U > A)

+        { winner = 'U'; }

+

+    std::cout << "The results are in!" << std::endl

+              << "A/a received " << A << " votes" << std::endl

+              << "E/e received " << E << " votes" << std::endl

+              << "I/i received " << I << " votes" << std::endl

+              << "O/o received " << O << " votes" << std::endl

+              << "U/u received " << U << " votes" << std::endl

+              << "The winner is the letter \"" << winner

+              << "\"!" << std::endl;

+

+    fout << "A," << A << std::endl

+         << "E," << E << std::endl

+         << "I," << I << std::endl

+         << "O," << O << std::endl

+         << "U," << U;

+    fout.close();

+}
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk5/hw5_directory/maze.txt b/OLD/ee1301/wk5/hw5_directory/maze.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..aa3c598
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk5/hw5_directory/maze.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,10 @@
+WWWW-O-WWW

+---W------

+--WWWWWW-W

+----------

+WWWWWWWWW-

+----------

+-WW-WW-WW-

+----------

+WW-WW-WW-W

+X---------
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk5/hw5_directory/strap012_HW5A.cpp b/OLD/ee1301/wk5/hw5_directory/strap012_HW5A.cpp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..768e8e2
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk5/hw5_directory/strap012_HW5A.cpp
@@ -0,0 +1,183 @@
+/*

+Date: April 4 2019

+Name: Matthew Strapp

+Student ID number: 5449340

+Course number: EE 1301

+Term: Spring 2019

+Lab/assignment number: HW 5A

+Short Program Description: Maze Runner 2.0

+*/

+

+#include <iostream>

+#include <iomanip>

+#include <fstream>

+#include <string>

+using namespace std;

+ifstream fin;

+ofstream fout;

+

+const char BLANK = '-';

+const char ROBOT = 'X';

+const char GOAL = 'O';

+const char WALL = 'W';

+const int screen_num_lines = 25;

+const int lengthX = 10; // for now we only support square boards

+const int lengthY = 10; // it "should" work with non-square, YMMV

+// Board is described by the following coordinate system:

+// 0 --> +X

+// |

+// |

+// V

+// +Y

+

+void initBoardDefault(char board[lengthX][lengthY], int &xPos, int &yPos);

+void initBoardCustom(char board[lengthX][lengthY], int &xPos, int &yPos);

+void clearScreen();

+void showGrid(char board[lengthX][lengthY]);

+

+bool hasChar(char board[lengthX][lengthY], char findMe);

+void updateGrid(char board[lengthX][lengthY], int &xPos, int &yPos, char action);

+

+int main()

+{

+    srand(time(NULL));

+    char board[lengthX][lengthY] = {0};

+    int xPos = 0, yPos = 0;

+    fin.open("maze.txt"); //maze.txt is in the directory that it is run in

+    if (!fin.is_open())   //If a custom maze does not exist, generate one automatically

+    {

+        initBoardDefault(board, xPos, yPos);

+    }

+    else

+    {

+        initBoardCustom(board, xPos, yPos);

+    }

+    while (hasChar(board, GOAL))

+    {

+        char action;

+        clearScreen();

+        showGrid(board);

+        cout << "Where would you like to go? (l, r, u, d) " << endl;

+        cin >> action;

+

+        updateGrid(board, xPos, yPos, action);

+    }

+

+    clearScreen();

+    showGrid(board);

+    cout << "You found the cookie!  Congratulations!\n";

+

+    return 0;

+}

+

+//The default (no custom file) maze is procedurally generated, sometimes rendering levels impossible to solve.

+//This bug is not as important as finishing the monster that is 5C.

+void initBoardDefault(char board[lengthX][lengthY], int &xPos, int &yPos)

+{

+    for (int curRow = 0; curRow < lengthY; curRow++)

+    {

+        for (int curCol = 0; curCol < lengthX; curCol++)

+        {

+            if ((rand() % 5) + 1 == 4 || (rand() % 10) + 1 == 7)

+            {

+                board[curCol][curRow] = WALL;

+            }

+            else

+            {

+                board[curCol][curRow] = BLANK;

+            }

+        }

+    }

+

+    board[rand() % lengthX][rand() % lengthY] = GOAL;

+    xPos = rand() % lengthX;

+    yPos = rand() % lengthY;

+    board[xPos][yPos] = ROBOT;

+}

+

+void initBoardCustom(char board[lengthX][lengthY], int &xPos, int &yPos)

+{

+    for (int curRow = 0; curRow < lengthY; curRow++)

+    {

+        for (int curCol = 0; curCol < lengthX; curCol++)

+        {

+            fin >> board[curCol][curRow];

+            if (board[curCol][curRow] == 'X')

+            {

+                board[curCol][curRow] = ROBOT;

+                xPos = curCol;

+                yPos = curRow;

+            }

+        }

+    }

+}

+

+bool hasChar(char board[lengthX][lengthY], char findMe)

+{

+    for (int curRow = 0; curRow < lengthY; curRow++)

+    {

+        for (int curCol = 0; curCol < lengthX; curCol++)

+        {

+            if (board[curCol][curRow] == findMe)

+            {

+                return true;

+            }

+        } //end curCol loop

+    }     // end curRow loop

+

+    return false;

+}

+

+void clearScreen()

+{

+    for (int i = 0; i < screen_num_lines; i++)

+    {

+        cout << endl;

+    }

+}

+

+void showGrid(char board[lengthX][lengthY])

+{

+    for (int curRow = 0; curRow < lengthY; curRow++)

+    {

+        for (int curCol = 0; curCol < lengthX; curCol++)

+        {

+            cout << board[curCol][curRow];

+        } // end curCol loop

+        cout << endl;

+    } // end curRow loop

+}

+

+void updateGrid(char board[lengthX][lengthY], int &xPos, int &yPos, char action)

+{

+    int oldX = xPos;

+    int oldY = yPos;

+    if (action == 'l' && xPos > 0)

+    {

+        xPos--;

+    }

+    else if (action == 'r' && xPos < lengthX - 1)

+    {

+        xPos++;

+    }

+    else if (action == 'u' && yPos > 0)

+    {

+        yPos--;

+    }

+    else if (action == 'd' && yPos < lengthY - 1)

+    {

+        yPos++;

+    }

+    //Hit detection

+    if (board[xPos][yPos] == WALL)

+    {

+        xPos = oldX;

+        yPos = oldY;

+        board[xPos][yPos] = WALL;

+    }

+    else

+    {

+        board[oldX][oldY] = BLANK;

+    }

+    board[xPos][yPos] = ROBOT;

+}

diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk5/hw5_directory/strap012_HW5B.cpp b/OLD/ee1301/wk5/hw5_directory/strap012_HW5B.cpp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..f1e0c2c
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk5/hw5_directory/strap012_HW5B.cpp
@@ -0,0 +1,51 @@
+/*

+Date: April 4 2019

+Name: Matthew Strapp

+Student ID number: 5449340

+Course number: EE 1301

+Term: Spring 2019

+Lab/assignment number: HW 5B

+Short Program Description: Random Array

+*/

+

+#include <iostream>

+#include <cstdlib>

+using namespace std;

+

+int main(int argc, char *argv[])

+{

+    if (argc != 4) {

+        cout << "Invalid input!" << endl << "   USAGE: ./rand-array m n max" << endl;

+        return 2;

+    }

+    

+    srand(time(NULL));

+    int m, n, max;

+    m = atoi(argv[1]); //number of rows

+    n = atoi(argv[2]); //number of columns

+    int randArray[m][n];

+    max = atoi(argv[3]); //Maximum number in array

+    

+    //Loop to make the random array

+    for (int curRow = 0; curRow < m; curRow++)

+    {

+        for (int curCol = 0; curCol < n; curCol++)

+        {

+            if (rand() % 2 + 1 == 2) { //Decide the sign of the number

+                randArray[curCol][curRow] = -1 * (rand() % (max+1));

+            } else {

+                randArray[curCol][curRow] = (rand() % (max+1));

+            }

+        }

+    }

+    

+    //Loop to output the array in the console

+    for (int curRow = 0; curRow < m; curRow++)

+    {

+        for (int curCol = 0; curCol < n; curCol++)

+        {

+           cout << randArray[curCol][curRow] << " ";

+        }

+        cout << endl;

+    }

+}
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk5/hw5_directory/strap012_HW5C.cpp b/OLD/ee1301/wk5/hw5_directory/strap012_HW5C.cpp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..2bdda92
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk5/hw5_directory/strap012_HW5C.cpp
@@ -0,0 +1,130 @@
+/*

+Date: April 4 2019

+Name: Matthew Strapp

+Student ID number: 5449340

+Course number: EE 1301

+Term: Spring 2019

+Lab/assignment number: HW 5C

+Short Program Description: Pixel Averaging

+*/

+#include <iostream>

+#include <string>

+#include <sstream>

+using namespace std;

+

+#define SIZE 100

+int maxRow = -1, maxColumn = 0;

+void getInput(int input[SIZE][SIZE]);

+void makeNewArray(int oldArray[SIZE][SIZE], int newArray[SIZE][SIZE]);

+void pixelAverage(int inArray[SIZE][SIZE], int outArray[SIZE][SIZE]);

+void printArray(int array[SIZE][SIZE]);

+

+int main() {

+  int inputArray[SIZE][SIZE] = {0},

+      outputArray[SIZE][SIZE] = {0};

+  getInput(inputArray);

+  makeNewArray(inputArray, outputArray);

+  pixelAverage(inputArray, outputArray);

+  printArray(outputArray);

+}

+

+// Function: getInput

+//  ---------------------------

+// Takes the stream of stdin, puts that into a stringsream and puts that stringsteam into an integer array

+// input: an empty array of SIZE, as defined in line 15.

+void getInput(int input[SIZE][SIZE]) {

+  string test, temp1; int temp2=0;

+  //I would mainly like to thank whatever user on StackOverflow solved my problem

+  while (getline(cin,test,'\n')) {

+    temp2 = -1;

+    istringstream ss(test);

+    while(getline(ss,temp1,' ')) {

+      temp2++;

+      input[maxRow][temp2] = stoi(temp1);

+      }

+      if (temp2>maxColumn) {

+          maxColumn = temp2+1; //1 is added to make the math work.

+      }

+    maxRow++;

+  }

+  maxRow++;

+}

+

+// Function: makeNewArray

+//  ---------------------------

+// Takes the array made in getInput and puts that same array into a new array to manipulate

+// oldArray: Array generated in getInput of SIZE

+// newArray: Array of same dimensions and data

+void makeNewArray(int oldArray[SIZE][SIZE], int newArray[SIZE][SIZE]) {

+  for (int row = 0; row < maxRow; row++) {

+    for (int column = 0; column < maxColumn; column++) {

+      newArray[row][column] = oldArray[row][column];

+    }

+  }

+}

+

+// Function: pixelAverage

+//  ---------------------------

+// The meat of the program, taking the surrounding values, adding them, and divides by the number of surrounding values

+// inArray: Generated in getInput

+// outArray: Generated in makeNewArray

+void pixelAverage(int inArray[SIZE][SIZE], int outArray[SIZE][SIZE]) {

+  int sum = 0, n = 0, average; //n is the number of surrounding pixels

+  for (int row = -1; row < maxRow-1; row++) {

+    for (int column = -1; column < maxColumn-1; column++) {

+      sum=0; n=0; //Sum and n are reset every loop

+      if ( !((row)<0) ) { //True when array is in lower bounds row-wise

+        sum += inArray[row-1][column];

+        n++;

+      }

+      if ( (row+1)<maxRow-1 ) { //True when array is in upper bounds row-wise

+        sum += inArray[row+1][column];

+        n++;

+      }

+      if ( !((column)<0) ) { //True when array is in lower bounds column-wise

+        sum += inArray[row][column-1];

+        n++;

+      }

+      if ( (column+1)<maxColumn-1 ) {//True when array is in upper bounds column-wise

+        sum += inArray[row][column+1];

+        n++;

+      }

+      //All of these if statements are combinations are previous statements for the diagonal aspects

+      if ( !((row)<0) && !((column)<0) ) {

+        sum += inArray[row-1][column-1];

+        n++;

+      }

+      if ( !((row)<0) && ( (column+1)<maxColumn-1 ) ) {

+        sum += inArray[row-1][column+1];

+        n++;

+      }

+      if ( (row+1)<maxRow-1 && (column+1)<maxColumn-1 ) {

+        sum += inArray[row+1][column+1];

+        n++;

+      }

+      if ( (!((column)<0)  && (row+1)<maxRow-1) ) {

+        sum+=inArray[row+1][column-1];

+        n++;

+      }

+      sum+=inArray[row][column];

+      n++;

+      average = sum/n;

+      outArray[row+1][column+1]=average;

+    }

+  }

+}

+

+// Function: printArray

+//  ---------------------------

+// Prints the new array after the pixel averaging

+// array: Array generated in pixelAverage

+void printArray (int array[SIZE][SIZE]) {

+    for (int row = 0; row < maxRow; row++)

+    {

+      for (int column = 0; column < maxColumn; column++)

+      {

+        cout << array[row][column] << " ";

+      }

+      cout << endl;

+    }

+}

diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk5/lab4/arrayCat.cpp b/OLD/ee1301/wk5/lab4/arrayCat.cpp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..d711ba6
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk5/lab4/arrayCat.cpp
@@ -0,0 +1,23 @@
+#include <iostream>

+using namespace std;

+void append (char first[], int l1, char second[], int l2, char result[200]);

+

+int main () {

+  char first[] = {'I', ' ', 'a', 'm', ' '};

+  char second[] = {'i', 'r', 'o', 'n', 'm', 'a', 'n', '\0'};

+  char result[200];

+  append(first, 5, second, 8, result);

+  cout << result << endl;

+}

+

+void append (char first[],int l1, char second[],int l2, char result[200]) {

+  int length=0;

+  for (int i=0; i<l1; i++) {

+    result[length]=first[i];

+    length++;

+  }

+  for (int i=0; i<l2; i++) {

+    result[length]=second[i];

+    length++;

+  }

+}

diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk5/lab4/mysteryBox.cpp b/OLD/ee1301/wk5/lab4/mysteryBox.cpp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..c0c58ab
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk5/lab4/mysteryBox.cpp
@@ -0,0 +1,18 @@
+#include <iostream>

+#include <string>

+using namespace std;

+

+bool mystery(string fstr);

+int main () {

+  string e = "Sargent Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band";

+  cout << mystery(e) << endl;

+}

+

+bool mystery(string fstr) {

+	string rstr;	 // a string is like an array of chars, e.g., char[]

+	for(int i=fstr.length()-1; i>=0 ;i--){

+	    rstr +=  fstr[i];  // fstr[i] gets the char at index i

+   }

+   cout << fstr << endl << rstr << endl;

+   return rstr == fstr;

+}

diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk5/lab4/pOc.cpp b/OLD/ee1301/wk5/lab4/pOc.cpp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..919806f
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk5/lab4/pOc.cpp
@@ -0,0 +1,12 @@
+#include <iostream>

+using namespace std;

+

+int main(int argc, char* argv[])  {

+

+        int i;

+        cout << "You typed the following on the command line:" << endl;

+        for (i = 0; i < argc ; i++) {

+                cout << argv[i] << ", ";

+        }

+        cout << endl;

+}

diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk5/lab4/partner.cpp b/OLD/ee1301/wk5/lab4/partner.cpp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..538163d
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk5/lab4/partner.cpp
@@ -0,0 +1,52 @@
+#include <iostream>

+

+using namespace std;

+

+string requestName();

+double requestHeight(string fullName);

+int requestNumberOfPartners();

+

+

+int main()

+{

+	string fullName[2]; //fullName1, fullName2;

+	double height[2];   //height1, height2;

+

+	fullName[0] = requestName();

+	height[0] = requestHeight(fullName[0]);

+	fullName[1] = requestName();

+	height[1] = requestHeight(fullName[1]);

+

+	cout << "If " << fullName[0] << " and " << fullName[1]

+	     << " form a human tower, their combined height will be "

+	     << (height[0] + height[1]) << endl;

+	

+}

+

+string requestName()

+{

+	string name;

+	cout << "Please enter full name: ";

+	getline(cin, name);

+	return name;

+}

+

+double requestHeight(string fullName)

+{

+	double height;

+	cout << "Please enter " << fullName << "'s height: ";

+	cin >> height;

+	cin.ignore(2, '\n'); // gets rid of \n in the buffer

+	

+	return height;

+}

+

+int requestNumberOfPartners()

+{

+	int numberOfPartners;

+	cout << "How many partners are there?";

+	cin >> numberOfPartners;

+	

+	return numberOfPartners;

+}

+

diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk5/lab4/partner2.cpp b/OLD/ee1301/wk5/lab4/partner2.cpp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..2b6bd36
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk5/lab4/partner2.cpp
@@ -0,0 +1,53 @@
+#include <iostream>

+

+using namespace std;

+

+string requestName();

+double requestHeight(string fullName);

+int requestNumberOfPartners();

+void NotinMain(string fullName[], const int length1, double height[], const int length2);

+

+int main()

+{

+	string fullName[2]; //fullName1, fullName2;

+	double height[2];   //height1, height2;

+

+	fullName[0] = requestName();

+	height[0] = requestHeight(fullName[0]);

+	fullName[1] = requestName();

+	height[1] = requestHeight(fullName[1]);

+	NotinMain(fullName, 2, height, 2);

+}

+

+string requestName()

+{

+	string name;

+	cout << "Please enter full name: ";

+	getline(cin, name);

+	return name;

+}

+

+double requestHeight(string fullName)

+{

+	double height;

+	cout << "Please enter " << fullName << "'s height: ";

+	cin >> height;

+	cin.ignore(2, '\n'); // gets rid of \n in the buffer

+	

+	return height;

+}

+

+int requestNumberOfPartners()

+{

+	int numberOfPartners;

+	cout << "How many partners are there?";

+	cin >> numberOfPartners;

+	

+	return numberOfPartners;

+}

+

+void NotinMain(string fullName[], const int length1, double height[], const int length2) {

+  	cout << "If " << fullName[0] << " and " << fullName[1]

+	     << " form a human tower, their combined height will be "

+	     << (height[0] + height[1]) << endl;

+  }
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk5/lab4/partner3.cpp b/OLD/ee1301/wk5/lab4/partner3.cpp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..75d6d7b
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk5/lab4/partner3.cpp
@@ -0,0 +1,63 @@
+#include <iostream>

+

+using namespace std;

+

+string requestName();

+double requestHeight(string fullName);

+int requestNumberOfPartners();

+void NotinMain(string array1[], double array2[], int numberOfPartners);

+

+int main()

+{

+	int numberOfPartners = requestNumberOfPartners();

+	string fullName[100]; //fullName1, fullName2;

+	double height[100];   //height1, height2;

+

+	// fullName[0] = requestName();

+	// height[0] = requestHeight(fullName[0]);

+	for (int i=0; i<numberOfPartners; i++) {

+		fullName[i] = requestName();

+		height[i] = requestHeight(fullName[i]);

+	}

+	NotinMain(fullName, height, numberOfPartners);

+}

+

+string requestName()

+{

+	string name;

+	cout << "Please enter full name: ";

+	getline(cin, name);

+	return name;

+}

+

+double requestHeight(string fullName)

+{

+	double height;

+	cout << "Please enter " << fullName << "'s height: ";

+	cin >> height;

+	cin.ignore(2, '\n'); // gets rid of \n in the buffer

+

+	return height;

+}

+

+int requestNumberOfPartners()

+{

+	int numberOfPartners;

+	cout << "How many partners are there? ";

+	cin >> numberOfPartners;

+	cin.ignore(2, '\n');

+

+	return numberOfPartners;

+}

+

+void NotinMain(string array1[100], double array2[100], int numberOfPartners) {

+  double heightTotal=0;

+	cout << "If " << array1[0];

+	for (int i=1; i<numberOfPartners-1; i++) {

+		cout << ", " << array1[i];

+		heightTotal += array2[i];

+	}

+		cout << " and " << array1[numberOfPartners-1]

+	     << " form a human tower, their combined height will be "

+	     << (array2[0] + heightTotal + array2[numberOfPartners-1]) << endl;

+  }

diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk5/lab4/strap012_lab4_w_2.cpp b/OLD/ee1301/wk5/lab4/strap012_lab4_w_2.cpp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..5b82cd4
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk5/lab4/strap012_lab4_w_2.cpp
@@ -0,0 +1,54 @@
+#include <iostream>

+using namespace std;

+

+void bsort(int list[], int length);

+void swap (int &a, int &b);

+void printArray (int list[], int length);

+void makeArray (int list[], int length);

+const int n=50;

+

+int main () {

+int list[n];

+makeArray(list,n);

+bsort(list, n);

+printArray(list, n);

+}

+

+//This function makes the array used for the rest of the program.

+void makeArray(int list[], int length) {

+  int temp=100;

+  for (int i=0; i<n; i++) {

+    list[i]=temp;

+    temp--;

+  }

+}

+

+//This function is the algorithm.

+void bsort(int list[], int length) {

+  for (int i=0; i<n; i++) {

+    for (int j=0; j<n-1; j++) {

+      if (list[j]>list[j+1]) {

+        //This is so the bubble can happen

+        swap(list[j], list[j+1]);

+      }

+    }

+  }

+}

+

+//This function simply swaps two values so the bubbling can commence

+void swap (int &a, int &b) {

+  int temp;

+  temp=a; a=b; b=temp;

+}

+

+//This function prints the array at 5 per line.

+void printArray (int list[], int length) {

+  int k=0;

+  for (int j=0; j<(n/10)*2; j++) {

+    for (int i=0; i<5; i++) {

+      cout << list[k] << " ";

+      k++;

+    }

+  cout << endl;

+  }

+}

diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk5/lab4/swappy.cpp b/OLD/ee1301/wk5/lab4/swappy.cpp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..a2810a6
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk5/lab4/swappy.cpp
@@ -0,0 +1,24 @@
+#include <iostream>

+using namespace std;

+

+void swap (int &a, int &b);

+int main(int argc, char* argv[])  {

+        if (argc !=2) {

+          cout << "Incorrect number of arguments! USAGE:" << endl

+	         << "     swappy <string>" << endl;;

+          return 3;

+        }

+        int i;

+        for (i=0; i<10000; i++) {

+          if (argv[1][i]=='\0') {

+            break;

+          }

+        }

+        swap(argv[1][0],argv[1][(i-1)]);

+        cout << argv[1] << endl;

+

+}

+void swap (char &a, char &b) {

+  char temp;

+  temp=a; a=b; b=temp;

+}

diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk5/lab4/time1.cpp b/OLD/ee1301/wk5/lab4/time1.cpp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..0bb9eaa
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk5/lab4/time1.cpp
@@ -0,0 +1,24 @@
+#include <iostream>

+#include <string>

+

+using namespace std;

+

+int timeToMinutes(int hours, int mins);

+int main() {

+  int hours, minutes;

+  char colon, cont = 'y';

+  do {

+    cout << "Enter a time duration (hh:mm) ";

+    cin >> hours >> colon >> minutes;

+    cout << "Total minutes: " << timeToMinutes(hours, minutes) << endl;

+    do {

+      cout << "Continue? (y/n):";

+      cin >> cont;

+    } while ( !( !(cont!='n') != !(cont!='y') ) );

+    //The last logic is a XNOR gate of magic, please do not touch

+  } while ((cont=='y'));

+}

+

+int timeToMinutes(int hours, int mins) {

+  return mins + hours * 60;

+}

diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk5/lab4/time2.cpp b/OLD/ee1301/wk5/lab4/time2.cpp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..0126e23
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk5/lab4/time2.cpp
@@ -0,0 +1,36 @@
+#include <iostream>

+#include <string>

+

+using namespace std;

+

+void minutesToTime(int minute_value, int& hours, int& mins);

+int main() {

+  int hours, mins;

+  char cont = 'y';

+  do {

+    cout << "Enter a number of minutes: ";

+    cin >> mins;

+    minutesToTime(mins, hours, mins);

+    cout << hours << ":";

+    if (mins<10) {

+      cout << '0' << mins << endl;

+    } else {

+      cout << mins << endl;

+    }

+    do {

+      cout << "Continue? (y/n):";

+      cin >> cont;

+    } while ( !( !(cont!='n') != !(cont!='y') ) );

+    //The last logic is a XNOR gate of magic, touching will disturb the magic

+  } while ((cont=='y'));

+}

+

+void minutesToTime(int minute_value, int& hours, int& mins) {

+  mins=minute_value%60;

+  hours=0;

+  for (int i=minute_value/60; i>0; i--) {

+    hours++;

+    if (hours>12)

+      hours=1;

+  }

+}

diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk6/hw6_directory/strap012_HW6A.cpp b/OLD/ee1301/wk6/hw6_directory/strap012_HW6A.cpp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..ac2b7d0
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk6/hw6_directory/strap012_HW6A.cpp
@@ -0,0 +1,215 @@
+//Matthew Strapp

+//EE1301

+//17 April 2019

+//HW 6A: Dice Class

+#include <iostream>

+#include <cstdlib>

+using namespace std;

+

+const int maxNumDie=50;

+

+int* userInputParser(string s);

+

+class Dice {

+private:

+  int min;

+  int max;

+public:

+  int roll() {

+    return rand() % (max-min+1) + min;

+  };

+  Dice() { //Default constructor for debugging purposes

+      min=1;

+      max=1;

+  }

+  Dice(int gotMin, int gotMax){

+      min = gotMin;

+      max = gotMax;

+  };

+};

+

+int main() {

+    int rounds;

+    Dice die;

+    int roll[maxNumDie];

+    int max=0, min=999999, sum=0, sample=0;

+    double avg;

+    srand(time(NULL)); // DO NOT WRITE THIS LINE AGAIN OR ANYWHERE ELSE

+    cout << "What do you want to roll?  ";

+    string s;

+    getline(cin, s);

+    cout << "How many rounds do you want to roll? ";

+    cin >> rounds;

+    int* pairs = userInputParser(s);

+

+    // This will display the array of die information retrieved from user.

+    // Replace the following code when you submit your solution.

+

+    // pairs is an array with the following format:

+    // {num_dice,

+    //  first_die_start,

+    //  first_die_end,

+    //  second_die_start,

+    //  ... }

+    double numRolls=0;

+    for (int j=0; j<rounds; j++) {

+      int curRoll=0;

+      numRolls+=1;

+      for(int i=1; i < pairs[0]; i+=2) {

+        die = Dice(pairs[i], pairs[i + 1]);

+        roll[i-1] = die.roll();

+        curRoll += roll[i-1];

+      }

+

+      if (curRoll > max) {

+        max = curRoll;

+      }

+      if (curRoll < min) {

+        min = curRoll;

+      }

+      sum+=curRoll;

+      sample=curRoll;

+  }

+  avg = sum / numRolls;

+  cout << "Sample roll: " << sample << endl

+       << "Minimum roll: " << min << endl

+       << "Maximum roll: " << max << endl

+       << "Average roll: " << avg << endl;

+

+}

+

+

+int* userInputParser(string s) {

+    static int dice[2*maxNumDie+1] = {0}; // array format:

+    // {num_dice,

+    //  first_die_start,

+    //  first_die_end,

+    //  second_die_start,

+    //  ... }

+    // max of maxNumDie dice supported

+

+    string data[4*maxNumDie];  // Intermediate storage for parsing input string

+

+    // count how many '+'s or 'd's the  roll[i-1] = die[i-1].roll();re are...

+    int parts = 0;

+    for(unsigned int i=0; i < s.length(); i++)

+    {

+        if(s[i] == 'd' || s[i] == '+')

+        {

+            parts++;

+        }

+    }

+    // ... so we know the number of times to decode values

+

+    int index=0;

+    unsigned d = s.find('d');

+    unsigned p = s.find('+');

+    while(d != static_cast<unsigned>(-1) || p != static_cast<unsigned>(-1))

+    {

+        bool dFirst = d < p;

+        if(dFirst)

+        {

+            string before = s.substr(0,d); // part before the 'd' (should be just one number)

+            // figure out what number is after 'd'

+            int count = 0;

+            bool foundDigit=false;

+            for(int i=0; i< static_cast<signed>(s.length()-d-1); i++)

+            {

+                if(isdigit(s[count+d+1]))

+                {

+                    foundDigit=true;

+                }

+                if(!isdigit(s[count+d+1]) && foundDigit)

+                {

+                    break;

+                }

+                count++;

+            }

+            string after = s.substr(d+1,count); //should be just the number after 'd'

+

+            // store these two parts

+            data[index] = before;

+            data[index+1] = after;

+            index+=2;

+

+

+            // remove this part from the string s

+            s = s.substr(d+count+1); // discard these two parts

+        }

+        else // same idea for the '+'

+        {

+            // figure out what number is after '+'

+            int count = 0;

+            bool foundDigit=false;

+            for(int i=0; i< static_cast<signed>(s.length()-p-1); i++)

+            {

+                if(isdigit(s[count+p+1]))

+                {

+                    foundDigit=true;

+                }

+                if(!isdigit(s[count+p+1]) && foundDigit)

+                {

+                    break;

+                }

+                count++;

+            }

+            string after = s.substr(p+1,count); //should be just the number after '+'

+

+            // store this part

+            data[index] = "+";

+            data[index+1] = after;

+            index+=2;

+

+

+            // remove this part from the string s

+            s = s.substr(p+count+1); // discard these two parts

+        }

+

+        // update d and p for next loop interation

+        d = s.find('d');

+        p = s.find('+');

+

+    }

+

+    // now we need to figure out how many dice there are (as 2d4 is 2 dice)

+    // we will treat "+2" as a die that rolls [2,2]

+    int diceCount = 0;

+    for(int i=0; i < parts*2; i+=2)

+    {

+        if(data[i][0] == '+')

+        {

+            diceCount++;

+        }

+        else

+        {

+            diceCount+=atoi(data[i].c_str());

+        }

+    }

+

+    dice[0] = diceCount*2+1; // put size in first index

+

+    int ind=1; // index for the "dice" array (as not same as data array)

+    for(int i=0; i < parts*2; i+=2)

+    {

+        // if we have a +, add a "Dice" that has a range of 0

+        if(data[i][0] == '+')

+        {

+            dice[ind] = atoi(data[i+1].c_str());

+            dice[ind+1] = atoi(data[i+1].c_str());

+

+            ind+=2;

+        }

+        else // otherwise add however many of the dice requested

+        {

+            for(int j=0; j < atoi(data[i].c_str()); j++)

+            {

+                dice[ind] = 1;

+                dice[ind+1] = atoi(data[i+1].c_str());

+

+                ind += 2;

+            }

+        }

+    }

+

+    return dice;

+}

diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk6/hw6_directory/strap012_HW6B.cpp b/OLD/ee1301/wk6/hw6_directory/strap012_HW6B.cpp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..17a37fd
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk6/hw6_directory/strap012_HW6B.cpp
@@ -0,0 +1,35 @@
+//Matthew Strapp

+//EE1301

+//17 April 2019

+//HW 6B: Recursion and ff(x)

+#include <iostream>

+

+int ff(int x);

+int main() {

+  int x, y;

+  do {

+    std::cout << "Please enter a value of x: ";

+    std::cin >> x;

+  } while (x<0);

+  std::cout << "Beginning calculation of ff(x)...\n";

+  y = ff(x);

+  std::cout << "Calcuation complete, ff(x) = " << y << std::endl;

+}

+

+// This function either returns 1 when x is one of two recrusive conditions depending on if x is even or odd.

+int ff(int x) {

+  if (x > 1) {

+    if (x%2 == 0) {

+      // x is even

+      std::cout << "Calling ff(" << x/2 << ")\n";

+      return x*ff(x/2);

+    } else {

+      // x is odd but not 1

+      std::cout << "Calling ff(" << x-2 << ")\n";

+      return x*ff(x-2);

+    }

+  } else {

+    // x is 1 (or 0)

+    return 1;

+  }

+}

diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk6/lab5/Bug.cpp b/OLD/ee1301/wk6/lab5/Bug.cpp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..b4ef154
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk6/lab5/Bug.cpp
@@ -0,0 +1,12 @@
+#include "Bug.hpp"

+

+int main() {

+  Bug buggy(10);

+  buggy.display();

+  buggy.move();

+  buggy.display();

+  buggy.turn();

+  buggy.display();

+  buggy.move();

+  buggy.display();

+}

diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk6/lab5/Bug.hpp b/OLD/ee1301/wk6/lab5/Bug.hpp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..cc704ab
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk6/lab5/Bug.hpp
@@ -0,0 +1,28 @@
+#include <iostream>

+

+#ifndef BUG_H

+

+#define BUG_H

+class Bug {

+private:

+  int position, dir;

+public:

+  Bug() {

+    position=0;

+    dir=1;

+  }

+  Bug(int pos) {

+    position=pos;

+    dir=1;

+  }

+  void move() {

+    position+=dir;

+  }

+  void turn() {

+    dir*=-1;

+  }

+  void display() {

+    std::cout << "position = " << position << ", direction = " << dir << std::endl;

+  }

+};

+#endif

diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk6/lab5/momentum.cpp b/OLD/ee1301/wk6/lab5/momentum.cpp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..dfbaeee
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk6/lab5/momentum.cpp
@@ -0,0 +1,28 @@
+#include <iostream>

+

+double momentum (double velocity, double mass);

+

+int main() {

+  double velocity[3];

+  double mass;

+  std::cout << "Please enter velocity (x y z) [m/s]: ";

+  std::cin >> velocity[0] >> velocity[1] >> velocity [2];

+  std::cout << "Please enter mass [kg]: ";

+  std::cin >> mass;

+  

+  double* vector;

+  vector = new double[3];

+  std::cout << "Momentum: <";

+  for (int i=0; i<=2; i++) {

+    vector[i]=momentum(velocity[i], mass);

+    std::cout << vector[i];

+    if ((i<2))

+      std::cout << ",";

+  }

+  delete[] vector;

+  std::cout << ">" << std::endl;

+}

+

+double momentum(double velocity, double mass) {

+  return velocity * mass;

+}
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk6/lab5/strap012_lab5_w_1.cpp b/OLD/ee1301/wk6/lab5/strap012_lab5_w_1.cpp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..9f5e285
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk6/lab5/strap012_lab5_w_1.cpp
@@ -0,0 +1,75 @@
+#include <iostream>

+//#include <time.h>     //Needed if using MinGW

+

+class DeckOfCards {

+private:

+  int index=0, deck[52];

+public:

+  DeckOfCards();

+  void shuffle();

+  int dealCard();

+};

+

+void showHand(int hand[], const int size);

+int main() {

+  srand(time(NULL));

+  const int size=4;   //Size can be changed for larger hands

+  DeckOfCards deck;

+  int hand[size];

+  for (int i=0; i<13; i++) {

+    for (int j=0; j<size; j++) {

+      hand[j]=deck.dealCard();

+    }

+    showHand(hand, size);

+  }

+}

+

+//Prints out hand shuffled from before

+void showHand(int hand[], const int size) {

+  for (int i=0; i<size; i++) {

+  //Switch case needed for showing face cards and aces

+    switch(hand[i]%13) {

+      case 0: std::cout << 'A';

+        break;

+      case 10: std::cout << 'J';

+        break;

+      case 11: std::cout << 'Q';

+        break;

+      case 12: std::cout << 'K';

+        break;

+      default: std::cout << hand[i]%13+1;

+    }

+    std::cout << " ";

+  }

+  std::cout << std::endl;

+}

+

+//Deck initialized with 1-52 and shuffled

+DeckOfCards::DeckOfCards() {

+  for(int i=0; i<51; i++) {

+    deck[i]=i+1;

+  }

+  shuffle();

+}

+

+//Implementation of Knuth Shuffle

+void DeckOfCards::shuffle() {

+  int j=0, temp=0;

+  for (int i=50; i>1; i--) {

+    j = rand() % 50 + 1;

+    if (j < i) {

+      temp=deck[i]; deck[i]=deck[j]; deck[j]=temp;

+    }

+  }

+}

+

+//Function to deal the card when asked by grabbing from the deck and shuffling if such card does not exist.

+//Returns the card drawn from the deck

+int DeckOfCards::dealCard() {

+  index++;

+  if (index>=52) {

+    index=0;

+    shuffle();

+  }

+  return deck[index];

+}
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk6/lab5/vectorArray.cpp b/OLD/ee1301/wk6/lab5/vectorArray.cpp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..92d23bd
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk6/lab5/vectorArray.cpp
@@ -0,0 +1,43 @@
+#include <iostream>

+

+double randVec();

+double momentum (double velocity);

+int main() {

+  srand(time(NULL));

+  double sum[3]={0,0,0};

+  double* randVel;  double* momArray;

+  randVel = new double[1000];

+  momArray = new double[1000];

+  for (int i=0; i<1000; i++) {

+    randVel[i]=randVec();

+    momArray[i]=momentum(randVel[i]);

+    int j=i%3;

+    sum[j]+=momArray[i];

+  }

+  std::cout << '<' << sum[0]/1000.0 << ',' <<  sum[1]/1000.0 << ',' << sum[2]/1000.0 << '>' << std::endl;

+  delete[] randVel;

+  delete[] momArray;

+}

+

+

+double randVec() {

+  double vector[3];

+  for (int i=0; i<3; i++) {

+    if (rand()%2+1==1) {

+      vector[i]=rand()%100+1.0;

+    } else {

+      vector[i]=rand()%100*-1.0+1.0;

+    }

+  }

+  return *vector;

+}

+

+double momentum(double velocity) {

+  double mass;

+  if (rand()%2+1==0) {

+    mass=rand()%10+1.0;

+  } else {

+    mass=rand()%10*-1.0+1.0;

+  }

+  return mass*velocity;

+}
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk6/lab5/wUp.cpp b/OLD/ee1301/wk6/lab5/wUp.cpp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..0cb3957
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk6/lab5/wUp.cpp
@@ -0,0 +1,27 @@
+#include <iostream>

+using namespace std;

+

+class Point

+{

+   public:

+void showPoint( );

+Point( );

+Point(int newX, int newY) {

+	xlocation = newX;

+	ylocation = newY;

+}

+int	xlocation;

+int ylocation;

+} ;

+

+

+int main() {

+  int a(1);

+  int b(2);

+  int *p1;

+  p1 = &a;

+  Point *p2 = new Point(*p1, b);

+  *p1 = p2->ylocation;

+  p2->xlocation = 10;

+  cout << p2->xlocation << ' ' << *p1 << ' ' << b << ' ' << a << endl;

+}
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk6/lab5/warmup.txt b/OLD/ee1301/wk6/lab5/warmup.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..e18288c
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk6/lab5/warmup.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,15 @@
+1)

+  a. Line 5 constructs the class with no values.

+  b. It'll work, but it might not work well.

+  c. No.

+  d. Point(int newX, int newY);

+2)

+  a. This changes the value xlocation and ylocation in the Point class to 3 and 10 respectively.

+      This changes the default values.

+  b. The object p1 of the class Point is initialized with an xlocation of 3 and a ylocation of 6.

+  c. The declaration is incorrect.

+  d. Line 6 is a function of return type Point with no input.

+  e. Point p2;

+3)

+  a. 10 2 2 2

+  b. The array is not deleted (memory leak)

diff --git a/OLD/ee1301/wk7/hw7_directory/strap012_HW7A.cpp b/OLD/ee1301/wk7/hw7_directory/strap012_HW7A.cpp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..ec0d0d9
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee1301/wk7/hw7_directory/strap012_HW7A.cpp
@@ -0,0 +1,253 @@
+//Matthew Strapp

+//EE1301

+//HW7A: The house database

+//8 May 2019

+

+

+#include <iostream>

+#include <fstream>

+#include <string>

+

+using namespace std;

+class houseData {

+public:

+    //id,value,bedrooms,bathrooms,sqft,yr_built,zipcode

+    long int id = 0;

+    int price = 0;

+    int bedrooms = 0;

+    int bathrooms = 0;

+    int sqft = 0;

+    int yr_built = 0;

+    int zipcode = 0;

+    houseData *nextZip = nullptr;

+    void printShort();

+    void printRecord();

+

+    };

+

+void ProcHeader(ifstream &file);

+houseData* ReadRecord(ifstream &file);

+houseData* Scanlist(houseData* head, int Zipcode);

+void DelRecord(houseData *record);

+void bsort(int list[], int length);

+void swap (int &a, int &b);

+void printAllHousesByZip(houseData* head);

+

+int main(int argc, char* argv[]) {

+    houseData* head = nullptr;

+    houseData* tail = nullptr;

+

+    ifstream fin;

+    if(argc > 1) {

+        fin.open(argv[1]);  // Small file to test with

+    } else {

+        //fin.open("./house-info-v4-short.csv");  // Small file to test with

+        fin.open("./house-info-v4.csv");  // Use this file for final

+    }

+

+    if(fin.is_open()) {

+        ProcHeader(fin);  // Just dumps header

+

+        int numRec = 0;

+        while(!fin.eof()) {

+            houseData* tempHouse = ReadRecord(fin);

+            if(tempHouse != nullptr) {

+                if (head == nullptr) { //Make head of list if one does not exist

+                  head=tempHouse;

+                  tail=tempHouse;

+                  tempHouse=nullptr;

+                } else {

+                  tail->nextZip=tempHouse;

+                  tail=tempHouse;

+                }

+                //tempHouse->printRecord();

+                //tempHouse->printShort();

+                //initHouseData[numRec] = tempHouse;  // DO NOT store data like this!

+                numRec++;

+                if (numRec%1000==0 && numRec!=0) {

+                  cout << "Still working...num records processed: " << numRec << endl;

+                }

+            }

+        }

+

+

+        houseData* currentZipFind = head;

+          int zipSort[10000]; bool newZip=true; int currentUnique=0;

+          for (int i=0; i<9999; i++) {zipSort[i]=0;}

+          while(currentZipFind!=nullptr) {

+          for (int i=0; i<999; i++) {

+            //Find a new zipcode to average

+            if (currentZipFind->zipcode==zipSort[i]) {

+              //Only find unique ZIPs

+              newZip=false;

+              break;

+            }

+            newZip=true;

+          }

+          if ( (newZip) ) {

+            zipSort[currentUnique]=currentZipFind->zipcode;

+            //cout << zipSort[currentUnique] << endl;

+            currentUnique++;

+          }

+          currentZipFind = currentZipFind->nextZip;

+        }

+        bsort(zipSort, 10000);  //Sort array of zipcodes by bubblesort.

+

+        houseData* findAvg = head;

+          int costPerZip[10000]={0}, totalPerZip[10000]={0};

+          //Set all of the values to zero

+          for (int i=0; i<9999; i++) {costPerZip[i]=0; totalPerZip[i]=0;}

+          

+          while (findAvg!=nullptr) {

+            for(int j=0; j<9999; j++) {

+              if (zipSort[j]==findAvg->zipcode) {

+                costPerZip[j]+=findAvg->price;

+                totalPerZip[j]++;

+                break; //Break for loop

+              }

+            } //end for

+            findAvg=findAvg->nextZip;

+          } //end while

+          for (int k=0; k<9999; k++) {

+            if (zipSort[k]!=0) {

+              cout << zipSort[k] << ":average price=" << costPerZip[k]/totalPerZip[k] << endl;

+            }

+          }

+

+        //printAllHousesByZip(head);

+

+        //This loop will also have to change in your

+        // final program (see HINT 1).

+

+        DelRecord(head);

+

+        fin.close();

+

+    } else {

+        cout << "File missing!" << endl;

+        return 1;

+    }

+

+    return 0;

+}

+void ProcHeader(ifstream &file) {

+    int endOfHeader = 0;

+    char curChar;

+

+    while(!endOfHeader) {

+        curChar = file.get();

+

+        if (curChar == '\n') {

+            //End of line found

+            endOfHeader = 1;

+        }

+    }

+}

+

+//Bubble sort the zipcode algorithm

+void bsort(int list[], int length) {

+  for (int i=0; i<length; i++) {

+    for (int j=0; j<length-1; j++) {

+      if (list[j]>list[j+1]) {

+        //This is so the bubble can happen

+        swap(list[j], list[j+1]);

+      }

+    }

+  }

+}

+

+//This function simply swaps two values so the bubbling can commence

+void swap (int &a, int &b) {

+  int temp;

+  temp=a; a=b; b=temp;

+}

+

+houseData* ReadRecord(ifstream &file) {

+    int b = 0;

+    int endOfHeader = 0;

+    int c = 0;

+    long int tempData[7] = {0};

+    houseData* localHouseData = new houseData();

+    string tempString = " ";

+

+    while(!endOfHeader) {

+        char curChar;

+

+        //Get the next character in file

+        curChar = file.get();

+

+        //Check what the character is

+        if (curChar == EOF) {

+            return nullptr;

+        } else if (curChar == '\n') {

+            //Final symbol of row found: put in array and end loop

+            tempString.append(1,'\0');

+            tempData[c++] = stol(tempString);

+            endOfHeader = 1;

+        } else if (curChar == ',') {

+            //End of current symbol found: put in array

+            tempString.append(1,'\0');

+            tempData[c++] = stol(tempString);

+            tempString.clear();

+        } else {

+            // Append to array

+            tempString.append(1,curChar);

+            b++;

+        }

+    }

+

+    localHouseData->id = tempData[0];

+    localHouseData->price = tempData[1];

+    localHouseData->bedrooms = tempData[2];

+    localHouseData->bathrooms = tempData[3];

+    localHouseData->sqft = tempData[4];

+    localHouseData->yr_built = tempData[5];

+    localHouseData->zipcode = tempData[6];

+

+    return localHouseData;

+}

+

+houseData* Scanlist(houseData* head, int Zipcode) {

+  houseData* previous; houseData* current;

+  previous=head;

+  current=head->nextZip;

+  while ((current!=NULL) && !(current->zipcode >= Zipcode)) {

+    previous=current;

+    current=current->nextZip;

+  }

+  return previous;

+}

+

+void houseData::printRecord() {

+    cout <<  "Printing House Record:" << endl;

+    cout << "ID:" << id << endl;

+    cout << "Price:" << price << endl;

+    cout << "Bedrooms:" << bedrooms << endl;

+    cout << "Bathrooms:" << bathrooms << endl;

+    cout << "Square Feet:" << sqft << endl;

+    cout << "Year Built:" << yr_built << endl;

+    cout << "Zipcode:" << zipcode << endl;

+}

+

+void DelRecord(houseData *record) {

+  houseData* next;

+  while (record!=NULL) {

+    next=record->nextZip;

+    delete record;

+    record = next;

+  }

+

+}

+

+void houseData::printShort() {

+    cout << id << "," << zipcode << endl;

+}

+

+void printAllHousesByZip(houseData* head){

+    cout << endl << "Printing List of All Houses by Zip:" << endl;

+    houseData* current = head;

+    while(current != nullptr) {

+        current->printShort();

+        current = current->nextZip;

+    }

+}

diff --git a/OLD/ee2301/README.md b/OLD/ee2301/README.md
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..56450fb
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee2301/README.md
@@ -0,0 +1,3 @@
+# IMPORTANT I GUESS
+
+This is not actual HW, just stuff I might have used.
diff --git a/OLD/ee2301/baseConvert.cpp b/OLD/ee2301/baseConvert.cpp
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..d675741
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee2301/baseConvert.cpp
@@ -0,0 +1,57 @@
+// C program to convert a number from any base
+// to decimal
+#include <stdio.h>
+#include <string.h>
+#include <iostream>
+
+// To return value of a char. For example, 2 is
+// returned for '2'. 10 is returned for 'A', 11
+// for 'B'
+int val(char c)
+{
+    if (c >= '0' && c <= '9')
+        return (int)c - '0';
+    else
+        return (int)c - 'A' + 10;
+}
+
+// Function to convert a number from given base 'b'
+// to decimal
+int toDeci(char *str, int base)
+{
+    int len = strlen(str);
+    int power = 1; // Initialize power of base
+    int num = 0;   // Initialize result
+    int i;
+
+    // Decimal equivalent is str[len-1]*1 +
+    // str[len-1]*base + str[len-1]*(base^2) + ...
+    for (i = len - 1; i >= 0; i--)
+    {
+        // A digit in input number must be
+        // less than number's base
+        if (val(str[i]) >= base)
+        {
+            printf("Invalid Number");
+            return -1;
+        }
+
+        num += val(str[i]) * power;
+        power = power * base;
+    }
+
+    return num;
+}
+
+// Driver code
+int main()
+{
+    char str[] = "11A";
+    int base = 16;
+    printf("Please enter number followed by base: ");
+    std::cin >> str >> base;
+    printf("Decimal equivalent of %s in base %d is"
+           " %d\n",
+           str, base, toDeci(str, base));
+    return 0;
+}
diff --git a/OLD/ee2301/collatz.py b/OLD/ee2301/collatz.py
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..14873be
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee2301/collatz.py
@@ -0,0 +1,21 @@
+def collatzCount(number):
+    for n in range (1,number+1):
+        collatzConjecture(n)
+        #print("\n")
+
+def collatzConjecture(n):
+    #print(n, end = ' ')
+    if n is 1:
+        return 1
+    else:
+        if n%2:
+            return collatzConjecture(int((n*3)+1))
+        else:
+            return collatzConjecture(int(n/2))
+        raise AssertionError
+
+
+try:
+    collatzCount(10000)
+except AssertionError:
+    print("The Collatz Conjecture is false!")
diff --git a/OLD/ee2301/hw4.v b/OLD/ee2301/hw4.v
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..e69de29
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/ee2301/hw4.v
diff --git a/OLD/math2373/FinalGraph.png b/OLD/math2373/FinalGraph.png
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..5303c6b
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/math2373/FinalGraph.png
diff --git a/OLD/math2373/lab1.txt b/OLD/math2373/lab1.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..75b2264
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/math2373/lab1.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,466 @@
+27+48
+
+
+    75
+
+27-48
+
+
+   -21
+
+27*48
+
+
+        1296
+
+sqrt(16)
+
+
+     4
+
+27/48
+
+
+    0.5625
+
+16.5*(38.5+71/40)
+
+
+  664.5375
+
+2^5
+
+
+    32
+
+5*3^2
+
+
+    45
+
+(5*3)^2
+
+
+   225
+
+5*(3^2)
+
+
+    45
+
+x=7
+
+
+     7
+
+y=9
+
+
+     9
+
+x+y
+
+
+
+    16
+ 
+x*y
+
+
+
+    63
+
+x/y
+
+
+
+    0.7778
+
+x^2
+
+
+
+    49
+
+x=25
+
+
+    25
+
+y=40
+
+
+    40
+
+x+y
+
+
+
+    65
+
+x*y
+
+
+
+        1000
+
+x/y
+
+
+
+    0.6250
+
+(8*x)/5
+
+
+    40
+
+6*x+9*y
+
+
+   510
+
+4+5
+
+     9
+
+ans+10
+
+
+    19
+
+ans+100
+
+
+   119
+
+x=1, y=3, 3*x+7*y, 9*y, (5*y)/(2*x+y)
+
+     1
+
+
+     3
+
+
+    24
+
+
+    27
+
+
+     3
+
+who
+
+ans  x    y    
+
+dog=3
+
+DOG=7
+
+
+who
+
+DOG  ans  dog  x    y    
+
+clear dog
+
+who
+
+Your variables are:
+
+DOG  ans  x    y    
+
+clear
+
+who
+
+pi
+
+
+
+    3.1416
+
+5+pi
+
+
+
+    8.1416
+
+5*pi
+
+
+
+   15.7080
+
+sqrt(25)
+
+
+
+     5
+
+sqrt(24)
+
+
+
+    4.8990
+
+sqrt(-9)
+
+
+
+   0.0000 + 3.0000i
+
+exp(1)
+
+
+
+    2.7183
+
+exp(5)
+
+
+
+  148.4132
+
+sinh(3)
+
+
+
+   10.0179
+
+cosh(5)
+
+
+
+   74.2099
+
+sinh(sqrt(5))
+
+
+
+    4.6248
+
+tan(sqrt(5))
+
+
+
+   -1.2746
+
+cos(pi)
+
+
+
+    -1
+
+sin(pi/3)
+
+
+
+    0.8660
+
+x=sin(1), y=cos(2)
+
+x =
+
+    0.8415
+
+
+y =
+
+   -0.4161
+
+x+y, x*y
+
+
+
+    0.4253
+
+
+
+
+   -0.3502
+
+log(8),log(100),asin(.5)+log(5)
+
+
+
+    2.0794
+
+
+
+
+    4.6052
+
+
+
+
+    2.1330
+
+w=5-8i, z=3+4i
+
+w =
+
+   5.0000 - 8.0000i
+
+
+z =
+
+   3.0000 + 4.0000i
+
+4*z+w,z/w
+
+
+
+  17.0000 + 8.0000i
+
+
+
+
+  -0.1910 + 0.4944i
+
+pi
+
+
+
+    3.1416
+
+format long
+pi
+
+
+
+   3.141592653589793
+
+format short
+pi
+
+
+
+    3.1416
+
+6/14
+
+
+
+    0.4286
+
+format rational
+6/14
+
+
+
+       3/7     
+
+format short
+2^20
+
+
+
+     1048576
+
+2^20;
+[4 3 7 8 10 13]
+
+
+
+     4     3     7     8    10    13
+
+[4; 3; 7; 8; 10; 13]
+
+
+
+     4
+     3
+     7
+     8
+    10
+    13
+
+[4 3 7; 8 10 13]
+
+
+
+     4     3     7
+     8    10    13
+
+[4 3; 7 8; 10 13]
+
+
+
+     4     3
+     7     8
+    10    13
+
+x=[3 12 7], y=[-2 4 9]
+
+x =
+
+     3    12     7
+
+
+y =
+
+    -2     4     9
+
+x+y,3*x
+
+
+
+     1    16    16
+
+
+
+
+     9    36    21
+
+clear
+ 
+a=[3 5 7 9]
+
+a =
+
+     3     5     7     9
+
+b=[8,-2,4,11]
+
+b =
+
+     8    -2     4    11
+
+a-5*b
+
+
+
+   -37    15   -13   -46
+
+dot(a,b)
+
+
+
+   141
+
+x=[4 3 2 9], y=[7 5 11 6]
+
+x =
+
+     4     3     2     9
+
+
+y =
+
+     7     5    11     6
+
+x.*y
+
+
+
+    28    15    22    54
+
+x.^2
+
+
+
+    16     9     4    81
+
+diary off
diff --git a/OLD/math2373/lab2.txt b/OLD/math2373/lab2.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..689a36b
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/math2373/lab2.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,1024 @@
+format rational
+A=[2 -1 4 -5 19; -1 3 -2 -1 -18; 0 1 5 -6 12; 3 -8 1 0 29]
+
+A =
+
+       2             -1              4             -5             19       
+      -1              3             -2             -1            -18       
+       0              1              5             -6             12       
+       3             -8              1              0             29       
+
+ 
+
+A(1,:)=A(1,:)+A(2,:)
+
+A =
+
+       1              2              2             -6              1       
+      -1              3             -2             -1            -18       
+       0              1              5             -6             12       
+       3             -8              1              0             29       
+
+
+A(2,:)=A(2,:)+A(1,:)
+
+A =
+
+       1              2              2             -6              1       
+       0              5              0             -7            -17       
+       0              1              5             -6             12       
+       3             -8              1              0             29       
+
+A(4,:)=A(4,:)-3*A(1,:)
+
+A =
+
+       1              2              2             -6              1       
+       0              5              0             -7            -17       
+       0              1              5             -6             12       
+       0            -14             -5             18             26       
+
+A(2,:)=A(2,:)-4*A(3,:)
+
+A =
+
+       1              2              2             -6              1       
+       0              1            -20             17            -65       
+       0              1              5             -6             12       
+       0            -14             -5             18             26       
+
+A(3,:)=A(2,:)-A(3,:)
+
+A =
+
+       1              2              2             -6              1       
+       0              1            -20             17            -65       
+       0              0            -25             23            -77       
+       0            -14             -5             18             26       
+
+
+A(4,:)=A(2,:)+14*A(2,:)
+
+A =
+
+       1              2              2             -6              1       
+       0              1            -20             17            -65       
+       0              0            -25             23            -77       
+       0             15           -300            255           -975       
+
+A(4,:)=A(2,:)-14*A(2,:)
+
+A =
+
+       1              2              2             -6              1       
+       0              1            -20             17            -65       
+       0              0            -25             23            -77       
+       0            -13            260           -221            845       
+
+A =
+ A =
+    ↑
+{Error: Invalid expression. Check for missing or extra characters.
+} 
+A = Aog
+
+A =
+
+       2             -1              4             -5             19       
+      -1              3             -2             -1            -18       
+       0              1              5             -6             12       
+       3             -8              1              0             29       
+
+A(1,:)=A(1,:)+A(2,:)
+
+A =
+
+       1              2              2             -6              1       
+      -1              3             -2             -1            -18       
+       0              1              5             -6             12       
+       3             -8              1              0             29       
+
+A(2,:)=A(2,:)+A(1,:)
+
+A =
+
+       1              2              2             -6              1       
+       0              5              0             -7            -17       
+       0              1              5             -6             12       
+       3             -8              1              0             29       
+
+A(4,:)=A(4,:)-3*A(1,:)
+
+A =
+
+       1              2              2             -6              1       
+       0              5              0             -7            -17       
+       0              1              5             -6             12       
+       0            -14             -5             18             26       
+
+Aog2=a
+{Undefined function or variable 'a'.
+} 
+Aog2=A
+
+Aog2 =
+
+       1              2              2             -6              1       
+       0              5              0             -7            -17       
+       0              1              5             -6             12       
+       0            -14             -5             18             26       
+
+A(2,:)=A(2,:)-4*A(3,:)
+
+A =
+
+       1              2              2             -6              1       
+       0              1            -20             17            -65       
+       0              1              5             -6             12       
+       0            -14             -5             18             26       
+
+A(3,:)=A(2,:)-A(3,:)
+
+A =
+
+       1              2              2             -6              1       
+       0              1            -20             17            -65       
+       0              0            -25             23            -77       
+       0            -14             -5             18             26       
+
+A(4,:)=A(4,:)+14*A(2,:)
+
+A =
+
+       1              2              2             -6              1       
+       0              1            -20             17            -65       
+       0              0            -25             23            -77       
+       0              0           -285            256           -884       
+
+Aog3=A
+
+Aog3 =
+
+       1              2              2             -6              1       
+       0              1            -20             17            -65       
+       0              0            -25             23            -77       
+       0              0           -285            256           -884       
+
+A(3,:)=A(3,:)/-25
+
+A =
+
+       1              2              2             -6              1       
+       0              1            -20             17            -65       
+       0              0              1            -23/25          77/25    
+       0              0           -285            256           -884       
+
+A(4,:)=A(4,:)+285*A(3,:)
+
+A =
+
+       1              2              2             -6              1       
+       0              1            -20             17            -65       
+       0              0              1            -23/25          77/25    
+       0              0              0            -31/5          -31/5     
+
+A(4,:)=A(4,:)*5
+
+A =
+
+       1              2              2             -6              1       
+       0              1            -20             17            -65       
+       0              0              1            -23/25          77/25    
+       0              0              0            -31            -31       
+
+A(4,:)=A(4,:)/-31
+
+A =
+
+       1              2              2             -6              1       
+       0              1            -20             17            -65       
+       0              0              1            -23/25          77/25    
+       0              0              0              1              1       
+
+Aref=A
+
+Aref =
+
+       1              2              2             -6              1       
+       0              1            -20             17            -65       
+       0              0              1            -23/25          77/25    
+       0              0              0              1              1       
+
+A(1,:)=A(1,:)-2*A(2,:)
+
+A =
+
+       1              0             42            -40            131       
+       0              1            -20             17            -65       
+       0              0              1            -23/25          77/25    
+       0              0              0              1              1       
+
+A(1,:)=A(1,:)-42*A(3,:)
+
+A =
+
+       1              0              0            -34/25          41/25    
+       0              1            -20             17            -65       
+       0              0              1            -23/25          77/25    
+       0              0              0              1              1       
+
+A(2,:)=A(2,:)-20*A(3,:)
+
+A =
+
+       1              0              0            -34/25          41/25    
+       0              1            -40            177/5         -633/5     
+       0              0              1            -23/25          77/25    
+       0              0              0              1              1       
+
+A(2,:)=A(2,:)+20*A(3,:)
+
+A =
+
+       1              0              0            -34/25          41/25    
+       0              1            -20             17            -65       
+       0              0              1            -23/25          77/25    
+       0              0              0              1              1       
+
+A(2,:)=A(2,:)+20*A(3,:)
+
+A =
+
+       1              0              0            -34/25          41/25    
+       0              1              0             -7/5          -17/5     
+       0              0              1            -23/25          77/25    
+       0              0              0              1              1       
+
+A(1,:)=A(1,:)+(34/25)*A(5,:)
+{Index in position 1 exceeds array bounds (must not exceed 4).
+} 
+A(1,:)=A(1,:)+(34/25)*A(4,:)
+
+A =
+
+       1              0              0              *              3       
+       0              1              0             -7/5          -17/5     
+       0              0              1            -23/25          77/25    
+       0              0              0              1              1       
+
+A(2,:)=A(2,:)+(7/5)*A(4,:)
+
+A =
+
+       1              0              0              *              3       
+       0              1              0              *             -2       
+       0              0              1            -23/25          77/25    
+       0              0              0              1              1       
+
+A(3,:)=A(3,:)+(23/5)*A(4,:)
+
+A =
+
+       1              0              0              *              3       
+       0              1              0              *             -2       
+       0              0              1             92/25         192/25    
+       0              0              0              1              1       
+
+A(3,:)=A(3,:)-(23/5)*A(4,:)
+
+A =
+
+       1              0              0              *              3       
+       0              1              0              *             -2       
+       0              0              1            -23/25          77/25    
+       0              0              0              1              1       
+
+A(3,:)=A(3,:)-(23/5)*A(4,:)
+
+A =
+
+       1              0              0              *              3       
+       0              1              0              *             -2       
+       0              0              1           -138/25         -38/25    
+       0              0              0              1              1       
+
+A(3,:)=A(3,:)+(23/5)*A(4,:)
+
+A =
+
+       1              0              0              *              3       
+       0              1              0              *             -2       
+       0              0              1            -23/25          77/25    
+       0              0              0              1              1       
+
+A(3,:)=A(3,:)-(23/5)*A(4,:)
+
+A =
+
+       1              0              0              *              3       
+       0              1              0              *             -2       
+       0              0              1           -138/25         -38/25    
+       0              0              0              1              1       
+
+A(3,:)=A(3,:)+(23/5)*A(4,:)
+
+A =
+
+       1              0              0              *              3       
+       0              1              0              *             -2       
+       0              0              1            -23/25          77/25    
+       0              0              0              1              1       
+
+A(3,:)=A(3,:)+(23/25)*A(4,:)
+
+A =
+
+       1              0              0              *              3       
+       0              1              0              *             -2       
+       0              0              1              *              4       
+       0              0              0              1              1       
+
+Aans=A
+
+Aans =
+
+       1              0              0              *              3       
+       0              1              0              *             -2       
+       0              0              1              *              4       
+       0              0              0              1              1       
+
+diary off
+rref(Aog)
+
+ans =
+
+       1              0              0              0              3       
+       0              1              0              0             -2       
+       0              0              1              0              4       
+       0              0              0              1              1       
+
+diary off
+format rational
+A=[-2 1 9 1; 3 3 -4 2; 1 4 5 5]
+
+A =
+
+  Columns 1 through 3
+
+      -2              1              9       
+       3              3             -4       
+       1              4              5       
+
+  Column 4
+
+       1       
+       2       
+       5       
+
+Asave=A
+
+Asave =
+
+  Columns 1 through 3
+
+      -2              1              9       
+       3              3             -4       
+       1              4              5       
+
+  Column 4
+
+       1       
+       2       
+       5       
+
+a=A
+
+a =
+
+  Columns 1 through 3
+
+      -2              1              9       
+       3              3             -4       
+       1              4              5       
+
+  Column 4
+
+       1       
+       2       
+       5       
+
+a([1 3],:)=a([3 1],:)
+
+a =
+
+  Columns 1 through 3
+
+       1              4              5       
+       3              3             -4       
+      -2              1              9       
+
+  Column 4
+
+       5       
+       2       
+       1       
+
+a(2,:)=a(2,:)-3+a(1,:)
+
+a =
+
+  Columns 1 through 3
+
+       1              4              5       
+       1              4             -2       
+      -2              1              9       
+
+  Column 4
+
+       5       
+       4       
+       1       
+
+a(2,:)=a(2,:)+3-a(1,:)
+
+a =
+
+  Columns 1 through 3
+
+       1              4              5       
+       3              3             -4       
+      -2              1              9       
+
+  Column 4
+
+       5       
+       2       
+       1       
+
+a(2,:)=a(2,:)-3*a(1,:)
+
+a =
+
+  Columns 1 through 3
+
+       1              4              5       
+       0             -9            -19       
+      -2              1              9       
+
+  Column 4
+
+       5       
+     -13       
+       1       
+
+a(3,:)=a(3,:)+2*a(1,:)
+
+a =
+
+  Columns 1 through 3
+
+       1              4              5       
+       0             -9            -19       
+       0              9             19       
+
+  Column 4
+
+       5       
+     -13       
+      11       
+
+a(2,:)=a(2,:)/-9
+
+a =
+
+  Columns 1 through 3
+
+       1              4              5       
+       0              1             19/9     
+       0              9             19       
+
+  Column 4
+
+       5       
+      13/9     
+      11       
+
+a(3,:)=a(3,:)-9*a(2,:)
+
+a =
+
+  Columns 1 through 3
+
+       1              4              5       
+       0              1             19/9     
+       0              0              0       
+
+  Column 4
+
+       5       
+      13/9     
+      -2       
+
+ref2=a
+
+ref2 =
+
+  Columns 1 through 3
+
+       1              4              5       
+       0              1             19/9     
+       0              0              0       
+
+  Column 4
+
+       5       
+      13/9     
+      -2       
+
+a=[2 3 -4 1 2; 3 -1 -1 2 4; 1 -7 5 -1 6]
+
+a =
+
+  Columns 1 through 3
+
+       2              3             -4       
+       3             -1             -1       
+       1             -7              5       
+
+  Columns 4 through 5
+
+       1              2       
+       2              4       
+      -1              6       
+
+a([1 3],:)=a([3 1],:)
+
+a =
+
+  Columns 1 through 3
+
+       1             -7              5       
+       3             -1             -1       
+       2              3             -4       
+
+  Columns 4 through 5
+
+      -1              6       
+       2              4       
+       1              2       
+
+a(2,:)=a(2,:)-3*a(1,:)
+
+a =
+
+  Columns 1 through 3
+
+       1             -7              5       
+       0             20            -16       
+       2              3             -4       
+
+  Columns 4 through 5
+
+      -1              6       
+       5            -14       
+       1              2       
+
+a(3,:)=a(3,:)-2*a(1,:)
+
+a =
+
+  Columns 1 through 3
+
+       1             -7              5       
+       0             20            -16       
+       0             17            -14       
+
+  Columns 4 through 5
+
+      -1              6       
+       5            -14       
+       3            -10       
+
+a(2,:)=a(2,:)/20
+
+a =
+
+  Columns 1 through 3
+
+       1             -7              5       
+       0              1             -4/5     
+       0             17            -14       
+
+  Columns 4 through 5
+
+      -1              6       
+       1/4           -7/10    
+       3            -10       
+
+a(3,:)=a(3,:)-17*a(2,:)
+
+a =
+
+  Columns 1 through 3
+
+       1             -7              5       
+       0              1             -4/5     
+       0              0             -2/5     
+
+  Columns 4 through 5
+
+      -1              6       
+       1/4           -7/10    
+      -5/4           19/10    
+
+a(3,:)=a(3,:)*(-5/2)
+
+a =
+
+  Columns 1 through 3
+
+       1             -7              5       
+       0              1             -4/5     
+       0              0              1       
+
+  Columns 4 through 5
+
+      -1              6       
+       1/4           -7/10    
+      25/8          -19/4     
+
+A=[2 3 -4 1 2; 3 -1 -1 2 4; 1 -7 5 -1 6]
+
+A =
+
+  Columns 1 through 3
+
+       2              3             -4       
+       3             -1             -1       
+       1             -7              5       
+
+  Columns 4 through 5
+
+       1              2       
+       2              4       
+      -1              6       
+
+rref(A)
+
+ans =
+
+  Columns 1 through 3
+
+       1              0              0       
+       0              1              0       
+       0              0              1       
+
+  Columns 4 through 5
+
+      21/8           -7/4     
+      11/4           -9/2     
+      25/8          -19/4     
+
+a
+
+a =
+
+  Columns 1 through 3
+
+       1             -7              5       
+       0              1             -4/5     
+       0              0              1       
+
+  Columns 4 through 5
+
+      -1              6       
+       1/4           -7/10    
+      25/8          -19/4     
+
+a(1,:)=a(1,:)+7*a(2,:)
+
+a =
+
+  Columns 1 through 3
+
+       1              0             -3/5     
+       0              1             -4/5     
+       0              0              1       
+
+  Columns 4 through 5
+
+       3/4           11/10    
+       1/4           -7/10    
+      25/8          -19/4     
+
+a(1,:)=a(1,:)+(3/5)*a(3,:)
+
+a =
+
+  Columns 1 through 3
+
+       1              0              *       
+       0              1             -4/5     
+       0              0              1       
+
+  Columns 4 through 5
+
+      21/8           -7/4     
+       1/4           -7/10    
+      25/8          -19/4     
+
+a(2,:)=a(2,:)+(4/5)*a(3,:)
+
+a =
+
+  Columns 1 through 3
+
+       1              0              *       
+       0              1              *       
+       0              0              1       
+
+  Columns 4 through 5
+
+      21/8           -7/4     
+      11/4           -9/2     
+      25/8          -19/4     
+
+rref(A)
+
+ans =
+
+  Columns 1 through 3
+
+       1              0              0       
+       0              1              0       
+       0              0              1       
+
+  Columns 4 through 5
+
+      21/8           -7/4     
+      11/4           -9/2     
+      25/8          -19/4     
+
+rref3=a
+
+rref3 =
+
+  Columns 1 through 3
+
+       1              0              *       
+       0              1              *       
+       0              0              1       
+
+  Columns 4 through 5
+
+      21/8           -7/4     
+      11/4           -9/2     
+      25/8          -19/4     
+
+rref3a=a
+
+rref3a =
+
+  Columns 1 through 3
+
+       1              0              *       
+       0              1              *       
+       0              0              1       
+
+  Columns 4 through 5
+
+      21/8           -7/4     
+      11/4           -9/2     
+      25/8          -19/4     
+
+delete rref3
+[Warning: File 'rref3' not found.] 
+remove rref3
+{Undefined function 'remove' for input arguments of
+type 'char'.
+} 
+a=[2 3 -4 4; 8 11 -7 8; 2 2 -4 -3]
+
+a =
+
+  Columns 1 through 3
+
+       2              3             -4       
+       8             11             -7       
+       2              2             -4       
+
+  Column 4
+
+       4       
+       8       
+      -3       
+
+A=a
+
+A =
+
+  Columns 1 through 3
+
+       2              3             -4       
+       8             11             -7       
+       2              2             -4       
+
+  Column 4
+
+       4       
+       8       
+      -3       
+
+rref(A)
+
+ans =
+
+  Columns 1 through 3
+
+       1              0              0       
+       0              1              0       
+       0              0              1       
+
+  Column 4
+
+    -157/18    
+       7       
+      -1/9     
+
+a
+
+a =
+
+  Columns 1 through 3
+
+       2              3             -4       
+       8             11             -7       
+       2              2             -4       
+
+  Column 4
+
+       4       
+       8       
+      -3       
+
+a(1,:)=a(1,:)/2
+
+a =
+
+  Columns 1 through 3
+
+       1              3/2           -2       
+       8             11             -7       
+       2              2             -4       
+
+  Column 4
+
+       2       
+       8       
+      -3       
+
+a(2,:)=a(2,:)-8*a(1,:)
+
+a =
+
+  Columns 1 through 3
+
+       1              3/2           -2       
+       0             -1              9       
+       2              2             -4       
+
+  Column 4
+
+       2       
+      -8       
+      -3       
+
+a(3,:)=a(3,:)-2*a(1,:)
+
+a =
+
+  Columns 1 through 3
+
+       1              3/2           -2       
+       0             -1              9       
+       0             -1              0       
+
+  Column 4
+
+       2       
+      -8       
+      -7       
+
+a(2,:)=a(2,:)/-1
+
+a =
+
+  Columns 1 through 3
+
+       1              3/2           -2       
+       0              1             -9       
+       0             -1              0       
+
+  Column 4
+
+       2       
+       8       
+      -7       
+
+a(3,:)=a(3,:)+1*a(2,:)
+
+a =
+
+  Columns 1 through 3
+
+       1              3/2           -2       
+       0              1             -9       
+       0              0             -9       
+
+  Column 4
+
+       2       
+       8       
+       1       
+
+a(3,:)=a(3,:)/-9
+
+a =
+
+  Columns 1 through 3
+
+       1              3/2           -2       
+       0              1             -9       
+       0              0              1       
+
+  Column 4
+
+       2       
+       8       
+      -1/9     
+
+a(1,:)=a(1,:)-(3/2)*a(2,:)
+
+a =
+
+  Columns 1 through 3
+
+       1              0             23/2     
+       0              1             -9       
+       0              0              1       
+
+  Column 4
+
+     -10       
+       8       
+      -1/9     
+
+a(2,:)=a(2,:)+9*a(3,:)
+
+a =
+
+  Columns 1 through 3
+
+       1              0             23/2     
+       0              1              0       
+       0              0              1       
+
+  Column 4
+
+     -10       
+       7       
+      -1/9     
+
+a(1,:)=a(1,:)-(23/2)*a(3,:)
+
+a =
+
+  Columns 1 through 3
+
+       1              0              0       
+       0              1              0       
+       0              0              1       
+
+  Column 4
+
+    -157/18    
+       7       
+      -1/9     
+
+rref3b=a
+
+rref3b =
+
+  Columns 1 through 3
+
+       1              0              0       
+       0              1              0       
+       0              0              1       
+
+  Column 4
+
+    -157/18    
+       7       
+      -1/9     
+
+diary off
diff --git a/OLD/math2373/lab3.txt b/OLD/math2373/lab3.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..5ddc15a
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/math2373/lab3.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,12 @@
+ezplot(y=t^3-9*t, [-4,4,-30,30])
+ ezplot(y=t^3-9*t, [-4,4,-30,30])
+         ↑
+{Error: Incorrect use of '=' operator. To assign a value to a variable,
+use '='. To compare values for equality, use '=='.
+} 
+ezplot('y=t^3-9*t', [-4,4,-30,30])
+hold on
+ezplot('y=t^3-(49/4)*t', [-4,4,-30,30])
+ezplot('y=t^3-16*t', [-4,4,-30,30])
+hold off
+ezplot('y=1+cos(t)', [0,10,-2,4])
diff --git a/OLD/math2373/lab4.txt b/OLD/math2373/lab4.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..6360716
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/math2373/lab4.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,173 @@
+v.*w
+
+ans =
+
+    10    36    32   -12    42
+
+v*w
+{Error using <a href="matlab:matlab.internal.language.introspective.errorDocCallback('mtimes')" style="font-weight:bold"> * </a>
+Incorrect dimensions for matrix multiplication. Check that the number of columns in the first
+matrix matches the number of rows in the second matrix. To perform elementwise
+multiplication, use '.*'.
+} 
+v.^3
+
+ans =
+
+     8    27    64    -8   216
+
+v./w
+
+ans =
+
+    0.4000    0.2500    0.5000   -0.3333    0.8571
+
+a = [0,1,2,3,4,5]
+
+a =
+
+     0     1     2     3     4     5
+
+b=a.^3-9*a.^2+18*a
+
+b =
+
+     0    10     8     0    -8   -10
+
+plot(a,b)
+c=(0:0.1:5);
+d=c.^3-9*c.^2+18*c;
+plot(c,d);
+c,d
+
+c =
+
+  Columns 1 through 9
+
+         0    0.1000    0.2000    0.3000    0.4000    0.5000    0.6000    0.7000    0.8000
+
+  Columns 10 through 18
+
+    0.9000    1.0000    1.1000    1.2000    1.3000    1.4000    1.5000    1.6000    1.7000
+
+  Columns 19 through 27
+
+    1.8000    1.9000    2.0000    2.1000    2.2000    2.3000    2.4000    2.5000    2.6000
+
+  Columns 28 through 36
+
+    2.7000    2.8000    2.9000    3.0000    3.1000    3.2000    3.3000    3.4000    3.5000
+
+  Columns 37 through 45
+
+    3.6000    3.7000    3.8000    3.9000    4.0000    4.1000    4.2000    4.3000    4.4000
+
+  Columns 46 through 51
+
+    4.5000    4.6000    4.7000    4.8000    4.9000    5.0000
+
+
+d =
+
+  Columns 1 through 9
+
+         0    1.7110    3.2480    4.6170    5.8240    6.8750    7.7760    8.5330    9.1520
+
+  Columns 10 through 18
+
+    9.6390   10.0000   10.2410   10.3680   10.3870   10.3040   10.1250    9.8560    9.5030
+
+  Columns 19 through 27
+
+    9.0720    8.5690    8.0000    7.3710    6.6880    5.9570    5.1840    4.3750    3.5360
+
+  Columns 28 through 36
+
+    2.6730    1.7920    0.8990         0   -0.8990   -1.7920   -2.6730   -3.5360   -4.3750
+
+  Columns 37 through 45
+
+   -5.1840   -5.9570   -6.6880   -7.3710   -8.0000   -8.5690   -9.0720   -9.5030   -9.8560
+
+  Columns 46 through 51
+
+  -10.1250  -10.3040  -10.3870  -10.3680  -10.2410  -10.0000
+
+e =(-2:0.2:6);
+g = e.^3-5*e.^2-4*e+20
+
+g =
+
+  Columns 1 through 9
+
+         0    5.1680    9.5040   13.0560   15.8720   18.0000   19.4880   20.3840   20.7360
+
+  Columns 10 through 18
+
+   20.5920   20.0000   19.0080   17.6640   16.0160   14.1120   12.0000    9.7280    7.3440
+
+  Columns 19 through 27
+
+    4.8960    2.4320         0   -2.3520   -4.5760   -6.6240   -8.4480  -10.0000  -11.2320
+
+  Columns 28 through 36
+
+  -12.0960  -12.5440  -12.5280  -12.0000  -10.9120   -9.2160   -6.8640   -3.8080         0
+
+  Columns 37 through 41
+
+    4.6080   10.0640   16.4160   23.7120   32.0000
+
+plot(e,g)
+d = (0, 2, 4, 5, 6, 8)
+ d = (0, 2, 4, 5, 6, 8)
+       ↑
+{Error: Invalid expression. When calling a function or indexing a variable, use parentheses.
+Otherwise, check for mismatched delimiters.
+} 
+d = [0, 2, 4, 5, 6, 8]
+
+d =
+
+     0     2     4     5     6     8
+
+f = [0, 20, 30, 50, 70, 100];
+plot(d,f,’r:p’);
+ plot(d,f,’r:p’);
+          ↑
+{Error: Invalid text character. Check for unsupported symbol, invisible character, or
+pasting of non-ASCII characters.
+} 
+plot(d,f,'r:p');
+plot(d,f,'b:s');
+plot(d,f,’b:p’);
+ plot(d,f,’b:p’);
+          ↑
+{Error: Invalid text character. Check for unsupported symbol,
+invisible character, or pasting of non-ASCII characters.
+} 
+xlabel('Dog years');
+ylabel('Human years');
+title('The passage of time')
+plot(d,f,'b:p');
+q = [0,2,4,5,6,8]
+
+q =
+
+     0     2     4     5     6     8
+
+q = [0,2,4,5,6,8];
+r = [0,20,30,30,50,100];
+plot(d,f,'r:p');
+hold on
+lsline
+hold off
+plot(q,r,'r:p');
+lsline;
+man
+{Undefined function or variable 'man'.
+} 
+xlabel('Decades of Life')
+ylabel('Likliness of Death');
+title('Funny Graph Title');
+diary off
diff --git a/OLD/math2373/lab4/graph1lab5.pdf b/OLD/math2373/lab4/graph1lab5.pdf
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..adfb584
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/math2373/lab4/graph1lab5.pdf
diff --git a/OLD/math2373/lab4/graph2lab5.png b/OLD/math2373/lab4/graph2lab5.png
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..7900a8a
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/math2373/lab4/graph2lab5.png
diff --git a/OLD/math2373/lab4/graph3lab5.png b/OLD/math2373/lab4/graph3lab5.png
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..3d36211
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/math2373/lab4/graph3lab5.png
diff --git a/OLD/math2373/lab4/graph4lab5.png b/OLD/math2373/lab4/graph4lab5.png
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..98ab9d8
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/math2373/lab4/graph4lab5.png
diff --git a/OLD/math2373/lab4/graph5lab5.png b/OLD/math2373/lab4/graph5lab5.png
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..60f8dcc
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/math2373/lab4/graph5lab5.png
diff --git a/OLD/math2373/lab4/graph6lab5.png b/OLD/math2373/lab4/graph6lab5.png
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..21b765e
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/math2373/lab4/graph6lab5.png
diff --git a/OLD/math2373/lab4/testt.png b/OLD/math2373/lab4/testt.png
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..278d4dc
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/math2373/lab4/testt.png
diff --git a/OLD/math2373/lab5/lab4.txt b/OLD/math2373/lab5/lab4.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..b45f0f3
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/math2373/lab5/lab4.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,59 @@
+N=10; sum_of_fourths; y
+
+y =
+
+  Columns 1 through 5
+
+           0           1          17          98         354
+
+  Columns 6 through 10
+
+         979        2275        4676        8772       15333
+
+  Column 11
+
+       25333
+
+N=10; sum_of_nn; y
+
+y =
+
+    1.2913
+
+N=10; sum_of_nn; y
+
+y =
+
+    1.2913
+
+N=10; multseries; y
+
+y =
+
+    3.0677
+
+N=100; multseries; y
+
+y =
+
+    3.1338
+
+N=1000; multseries; y
+
+y =
+
+    3.1408
+
+N=10000; multseries; y
+
+y =
+
+    3.1415
+
+N=100000; multseries; y
+
+y =
+
+    3.1416
+
+diary off
diff --git a/OLD/math2373/lab5/multseries.m b/OLD/math2373/lab5/multseries.m
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..d4b06d6
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/math2373/lab5/multseries.m
@@ -0,0 +1,4 @@
+y=2;
+for n=1:N
+    y=y*((2*n)*(2*n))/((2*n-1)*(2*n+1));
+end
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/OLD/math2373/lab5/sum_of_fourths.m b/OLD/math2373/lab5/sum_of_fourths.m
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..80c535f
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/math2373/lab5/sum_of_fourths.m
@@ -0,0 +1,4 @@
+y(1)=0;
+for n=1:N
+    y(n+1)=y(n)+n^4;
+end
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/OLD/math2373/lab5/sum_of_nn.m b/OLD/math2373/lab5/sum_of_nn.m
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..dd191b7
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/math2373/lab5/sum_of_nn.m
@@ -0,0 +1,4 @@
+y=0;
+for n=1:N
+    y=y+1/(n^n);
+end
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/OLD/math2373/lab6/alltogethernow.png b/OLD/math2373/lab6/alltogethernow.png
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..acd239f
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/math2373/lab6/alltogethernow.png
diff --git a/OLD/math2373/lab6/approx.m b/OLD/math2373/lab6/approx.m
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..8fb87f2
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/math2373/lab6/approx.m
@@ -0,0 +1,6 @@
+z=8-2*2-7*exp(-2/2);%exact solution at t=2
+for k=1:5
+    N=5*2^(k-1);eulerN;
+    %difference between Euler approximation and exact solution at t=2.
+    error(k)=y(N+1)-z;
+end
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/OLD/math2373/lab6/badEstimate.png b/OLD/math2373/lab6/badEstimate.png
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..cba0f75
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/math2373/lab6/badEstimate.png
diff --git a/OLD/math2373/lab6/euler5.m b/OLD/math2373/lab6/euler5.m
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..2de61e3
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/math2373/lab6/euler5.m
@@ -0,0 +1,5 @@
+h=2/5; t(1)=0; y(1)=1;
+for n=1:5
+    t(n+1)=t(n)+h;
+    y(n+1)=y(n)+(-y(n)+t(n))*h;
+end
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/OLD/math2373/lab6/eulerN.m b/OLD/math2373/lab6/eulerN.m
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..13a7cbc
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/math2373/lab6/eulerN.m
@@ -0,0 +1,5 @@
+h=2/N; t(1)=0; y(1)=1;
+for n=1:N
+    t(n+1)=t(n)+h;
+    y(n+1)=y(n)+(-0.5*y(n)-t(n)+2)*h;
+end
\ No newline at end of file
diff --git a/OLD/math2373/lab6/fullEuler.png b/OLD/math2373/lab6/fullEuler.png
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..6e70356
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/math2373/lab6/fullEuler.png
diff --git a/OLD/math2373/lab6/lab6.txt b/OLD/math2373/lab6/lab6.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..e11acb6
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/math2373/lab6/lab6.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,3337 @@
+N=10; eulerN; plot(t,y);
+hold on
+N=5; eulerN; plot(t,y);
+clear
+N=5; eulerN; plot(t,y);
+hold on
+N=10; eulerN; plot(t,y);
+N=20; eulerN; plot(t,y);
+N=40; eulerN; plot(t,y);
+N=80; eulerN; plot(t,y);
+x=0:0.001:2
+
+x =
+
+  Columns 1 through 6
+
+         0    0.0010    0.0020    0.0030    0.0040    0.0050
+
+  Columns 7 through 12
+
+    0.0060    0.0070    0.0080    0.0090    0.0100    0.0110
+
+  Columns 13 through 18
+
+    0.0120    0.0130    0.0140    0.0150    0.0160    0.0170
+
+  Columns 19 through 24
+
+    0.0180    0.0190    0.0200    0.0210    0.0220    0.0230
+
+  Columns 25 through 30
+
+    0.0240    0.0250    0.0260    0.0270    0.0280    0.0290
+
+  Columns 31 through 36
+
+    0.0300    0.0310    0.0320    0.0330    0.0340    0.0350
+
+  Columns 37 through 42
+
+    0.0360    0.0370    0.0380    0.0390    0.0400    0.0410
+
+  Columns 43 through 48
+
+    0.0420    0.0430    0.0440    0.0450    0.0460    0.0470
+
+  Columns 49 through 54
+
+    0.0480    0.0490    0.0500    0.0510    0.0520    0.0530
+
+  Columns 55 through 60
+
+    0.0540    0.0550    0.0560    0.0570    0.0580    0.0590
+
+  Columns 61 through 66
+
+    0.0600    0.0610    0.0620    0.0630    0.0640    0.0650
+
+  Columns 67 through 72
+
+    0.0660    0.0670    0.0680    0.0690    0.0700    0.0710
+
+  Columns 73 through 78
+
+    0.0720    0.0730    0.0740    0.0750    0.0760    0.0770
+
+  Columns 79 through 84
+
+    0.0780    0.0790    0.0800    0.0810    0.0820    0.0830
+
+  Columns 85 through 90
+
+    0.0840    0.0850    0.0860    0.0870    0.0880    0.0890
+
+  Columns 91 through 96
+
+    0.0900    0.0910    0.0920    0.0930    0.0940    0.0950
+
+  Columns 97 through 102
+
+    0.0960    0.0970    0.0980    0.0990    0.1000    0.1010
+
+  Columns 103 through 108
+
+    0.1020    0.1030    0.1040    0.1050    0.1060    0.1070
+
+  Columns 109 through 114
+
+    0.1080    0.1090    0.1100    0.1110    0.1120    0.1130
+
+  Columns 115 through 120
+
+    0.1140    0.1150    0.1160    0.1170    0.1180    0.1190
+
+  Columns 121 through 126
+
+    0.1200    0.1210    0.1220    0.1230    0.1240    0.1250
+
+  Columns 127 through 132
+
+    0.1260    0.1270    0.1280    0.1290    0.1300    0.1310
+
+  Columns 133 through 138
+
+    0.1320    0.1330    0.1340    0.1350    0.1360    0.1370
+
+  Columns 139 through 144
+
+    0.1380    0.1390    0.1400    0.1410    0.1420    0.1430
+
+  Columns 145 through 150
+
+    0.1440    0.1450    0.1460    0.1470    0.1480    0.1490
+
+  Columns 151 through 156
+
+    0.1500    0.1510    0.1520    0.1530    0.1540    0.1550
+
+  Columns 157 through 162
+
+    0.1560    0.1570    0.1580    0.1590    0.1600    0.1610
+
+  Columns 163 through 168
+
+    0.1620    0.1630    0.1640    0.1650    0.1660    0.1670
+
+  Columns 169 through 174
+
+    0.1680    0.1690    0.1700    0.1710    0.1720    0.1730
+
+  Columns 175 through 180
+
+    0.1740    0.1750    0.1760    0.1770    0.1780    0.1790
+
+  Columns 181 through 186
+
+    0.1800    0.1810    0.1820    0.1830    0.1840    0.1850
+
+  Columns 187 through 192
+
+    0.1860    0.1870    0.1880    0.1890    0.1900    0.1910
+
+  Columns 193 through 198
+
+    0.1920    0.1930    0.1940    0.1950    0.1960    0.1970
+
+  Columns 199 through 204
+
+    0.1980    0.1990    0.2000    0.2010    0.2020    0.2030
+
+  Columns 205 through 210
+
+    0.2040    0.2050    0.2060    0.2070    0.2080    0.2090
+
+  Columns 211 through 216
+
+    0.2100    0.2110    0.2120    0.2130    0.2140    0.2150
+
+  Columns 217 through 222
+
+    0.2160    0.2170    0.2180    0.2190    0.2200    0.2210
+
+  Columns 223 through 228
+
+    0.2220    0.2230    0.2240    0.2250    0.2260    0.2270
+
+  Columns 229 through 234
+
+    0.2280    0.2290    0.2300    0.2310    0.2320    0.2330
+
+  Columns 235 through 240
+
+    0.2340    0.2350    0.2360    0.2370    0.2380    0.2390
+
+  Columns 241 through 246
+
+    0.2400    0.2410    0.2420    0.2430    0.2440    0.2450
+
+  Columns 247 through 252
+
+    0.2460    0.2470    0.2480    0.2490    0.2500    0.2510
+
+  Columns 253 through 258
+
+    0.2520    0.2530    0.2540    0.2550    0.2560    0.2570
+
+  Columns 259 through 264
+
+    0.2580    0.2590    0.2600    0.2610    0.2620    0.2630
+
+  Columns 265 through 270
+
+    0.2640    0.2650    0.2660    0.2670    0.2680    0.2690
+
+  Columns 271 through 276
+
+    0.2700    0.2710    0.2720    0.2730    0.2740    0.2750
+
+  Columns 277 through 282
+
+    0.2760    0.2770    0.2780    0.2790    0.2800    0.2810
+
+  Columns 283 through 288
+
+    0.2820    0.2830    0.2840    0.2850    0.2860    0.2870
+
+  Columns 289 through 294
+
+    0.2880    0.2890    0.2900    0.2910    0.2920    0.2930
+
+  Columns 295 through 300
+
+    0.2940    0.2950    0.2960    0.2970    0.2980    0.2990
+
+  Columns 301 through 306
+
+    0.3000    0.3010    0.3020    0.3030    0.3040    0.3050
+
+  Columns 307 through 312
+
+    0.3060    0.3070    0.3080    0.3090    0.3100    0.3110
+
+  Columns 313 through 318
+
+    0.3120    0.3130    0.3140    0.3150    0.3160    0.3170
+
+  Columns 319 through 324
+
+    0.3180    0.3190    0.3200    0.3210    0.3220    0.3230
+
+  Columns 325 through 330
+
+    0.3240    0.3250    0.3260    0.3270    0.3280    0.3290
+
+  Columns 331 through 336
+
+    0.3300    0.3310    0.3320    0.3330    0.3340    0.3350
+
+  Columns 337 through 342
+
+    0.3360    0.3370    0.3380    0.3390    0.3400    0.3410
+
+  Columns 343 through 348
+
+    0.3420    0.3430    0.3440    0.3450    0.3460    0.3470
+
+  Columns 349 through 354
+
+    0.3480    0.3490    0.3500    0.3510    0.3520    0.3530
+
+  Columns 355 through 360
+
+    0.3540    0.3550    0.3560    0.3570    0.3580    0.3590
+
+  Columns 361 through 366
+
+    0.3600    0.3610    0.3620    0.3630    0.3640    0.3650
+
+  Columns 367 through 372
+
+    0.3660    0.3670    0.3680    0.3690    0.3700    0.3710
+
+  Columns 373 through 378
+
+    0.3720    0.3730    0.3740    0.3750    0.3760    0.3770
+
+  Columns 379 through 384
+
+    0.3780    0.3790    0.3800    0.3810    0.3820    0.3830
+
+  Columns 385 through 390
+
+    0.3840    0.3850    0.3860    0.3870    0.3880    0.3890
+
+  Columns 391 through 396
+
+    0.3900    0.3910    0.3920    0.3930    0.3940    0.3950
+
+  Columns 397 through 402
+
+    0.3960    0.3970    0.3980    0.3990    0.4000    0.4010
+
+  Columns 403 through 408
+
+    0.4020    0.4030    0.4040    0.4050    0.4060    0.4070
+
+  Columns 409 through 414
+
+    0.4080    0.4090    0.4100    0.4110    0.4120    0.4130
+
+  Columns 415 through 420
+
+    0.4140    0.4150    0.4160    0.4170    0.4180    0.4190
+
+  Columns 421 through 426
+
+    0.4200    0.4210    0.4220    0.4230    0.4240    0.4250
+
+  Columns 427 through 432
+
+    0.4260    0.4270    0.4280    0.4290    0.4300    0.4310
+
+  Columns 433 through 438
+
+    0.4320    0.4330    0.4340    0.4350    0.4360    0.4370
+
+  Columns 439 through 444
+
+    0.4380    0.4390    0.4400    0.4410    0.4420    0.4430
+
+  Columns 445 through 450
+
+    0.4440    0.4450    0.4460    0.4470    0.4480    0.4490
+
+  Columns 451 through 456
+
+    0.4500    0.4510    0.4520    0.4530    0.4540    0.4550
+
+  Columns 457 through 462
+
+    0.4560    0.4570    0.4580    0.4590    0.4600    0.4610
+
+  Columns 463 through 468
+
+    0.4620    0.4630    0.4640    0.4650    0.4660    0.4670
+
+  Columns 469 through 474
+
+    0.4680    0.4690    0.4700    0.4710    0.4720    0.4730
+
+  Columns 475 through 480
+
+    0.4740    0.4750    0.4760    0.4770    0.4780    0.4790
+
+  Columns 481 through 486
+
+    0.4800    0.4810    0.4820    0.4830    0.4840    0.4850
+
+  Columns 487 through 492
+
+    0.4860    0.4870    0.4880    0.4890    0.4900    0.4910
+
+  Columns 493 through 498
+
+    0.4920    0.4930    0.4940    0.4950    0.4960    0.4970
+
+  Columns 499 through 504
+
+    0.4980    0.4990    0.5000    0.5010    0.5020    0.5030
+
+  Columns 505 through 510
+
+    0.5040    0.5050    0.5060    0.5070    0.5080    0.5090
+
+  Columns 511 through 516
+
+    0.5100    0.5110    0.5120    0.5130    0.5140    0.5150
+
+  Columns 517 through 522
+
+    0.5160    0.5170    0.5180    0.5190    0.5200    0.5210
+
+  Columns 523 through 528
+
+    0.5220    0.5230    0.5240    0.5250    0.5260    0.5270
+
+  Columns 529 through 534
+
+    0.5280    0.5290    0.5300    0.5310    0.5320    0.5330
+
+  Columns 535 through 540
+
+    0.5340    0.5350    0.5360    0.5370    0.5380    0.5390
+
+  Columns 541 through 546
+
+    0.5400    0.5410    0.5420    0.5430    0.5440    0.5450
+
+  Columns 547 through 552
+
+    0.5460    0.5470    0.5480    0.5490    0.5500    0.5510
+
+  Columns 553 through 558
+
+    0.5520    0.5530    0.5540    0.5550    0.5560    0.5570
+
+  Columns 559 through 564
+
+    0.5580    0.5590    0.5600    0.5610    0.5620    0.5630
+
+  Columns 565 through 570
+
+    0.5640    0.5650    0.5660    0.5670    0.5680    0.5690
+
+  Columns 571 through 576
+
+    0.5700    0.5710    0.5720    0.5730    0.5740    0.5750
+
+  Columns 577 through 582
+
+    0.5760    0.5770    0.5780    0.5790    0.5800    0.5810
+
+  Columns 583 through 588
+
+    0.5820    0.5830    0.5840    0.5850    0.5860    0.5870
+
+  Columns 589 through 594
+
+    0.5880    0.5890    0.5900    0.5910    0.5920    0.5930
+
+  Columns 595 through 600
+
+    0.5940    0.5950    0.5960    0.5970    0.5980    0.5990
+
+  Columns 601 through 606
+
+    0.6000    0.6010    0.6020    0.6030    0.6040    0.6050
+
+  Columns 607 through 612
+
+    0.6060    0.6070    0.6080    0.6090    0.6100    0.6110
+
+  Columns 613 through 618
+
+    0.6120    0.6130    0.6140    0.6150    0.6160    0.6170
+
+  Columns 619 through 624
+
+    0.6180    0.6190    0.6200    0.6210    0.6220    0.6230
+
+  Columns 625 through 630
+
+    0.6240    0.6250    0.6260    0.6270    0.6280    0.6290
+
+  Columns 631 through 636
+
+    0.6300    0.6310    0.6320    0.6330    0.6340    0.6350
+
+  Columns 637 through 642
+
+    0.6360    0.6370    0.6380    0.6390    0.6400    0.6410
+
+  Columns 643 through 648
+
+    0.6420    0.6430    0.6440    0.6450    0.6460    0.6470
+
+  Columns 649 through 654
+
+    0.6480    0.6490    0.6500    0.6510    0.6520    0.6530
+
+  Columns 655 through 660
+
+    0.6540    0.6550    0.6560    0.6570    0.6580    0.6590
+
+  Columns 661 through 666
+
+    0.6600    0.6610    0.6620    0.6630    0.6640    0.6650
+
+  Columns 667 through 672
+
+    0.6660    0.6670    0.6680    0.6690    0.6700    0.6710
+
+  Columns 673 through 678
+
+    0.6720    0.6730    0.6740    0.6750    0.6760    0.6770
+
+  Columns 679 through 684
+
+    0.6780    0.6790    0.6800    0.6810    0.6820    0.6830
+
+  Columns 685 through 690
+
+    0.6840    0.6850    0.6860    0.6870    0.6880    0.6890
+
+  Columns 691 through 696
+
+    0.6900    0.6910    0.6920    0.6930    0.6940    0.6950
+
+  Columns 697 through 702
+
+    0.6960    0.6970    0.6980    0.6990    0.7000    0.7010
+
+  Columns 703 through 708
+
+    0.7020    0.7030    0.7040    0.7050    0.7060    0.7070
+
+  Columns 709 through 714
+
+    0.7080    0.7090    0.7100    0.7110    0.7120    0.7130
+
+  Columns 715 through 720
+
+    0.7140    0.7150    0.7160    0.7170    0.7180    0.7190
+
+  Columns 721 through 726
+
+    0.7200    0.7210    0.7220    0.7230    0.7240    0.7250
+
+  Columns 727 through 732
+
+    0.7260    0.7270    0.7280    0.7290    0.7300    0.7310
+
+  Columns 733 through 738
+
+    0.7320    0.7330    0.7340    0.7350    0.7360    0.7370
+
+  Columns 739 through 744
+
+    0.7380    0.7390    0.7400    0.7410    0.7420    0.7430
+
+  Columns 745 through 750
+
+    0.7440    0.7450    0.7460    0.7470    0.7480    0.7490
+
+  Columns 751 through 756
+
+    0.7500    0.7510    0.7520    0.7530    0.7540    0.7550
+
+  Columns 757 through 762
+
+    0.7560    0.7570    0.7580    0.7590    0.7600    0.7610
+
+  Columns 763 through 768
+
+    0.7620    0.7630    0.7640    0.7650    0.7660    0.7670
+
+  Columns 769 through 774
+
+    0.7680    0.7690    0.7700    0.7710    0.7720    0.7730
+
+  Columns 775 through 780
+
+    0.7740    0.7750    0.7760    0.7770    0.7780    0.7790
+
+  Columns 781 through 786
+
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+  Columns 793 through 798
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+  Columns 805 through 810
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+  Columns 811 through 816
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+  Columns 817 through 822
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+    0.8220    0.8230    0.8240    0.8250    0.8260    0.8270
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+  Columns 829 through 834
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+  Columns 835 through 840
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+  Columns 841 through 846
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+  Columns 847 through 852
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+  Columns 859 through 864
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+  Columns 865 through 870
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+  Columns 871 through 876
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+  Columns 901 through 906
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+  Columns 949 through 954
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+  Columns 961 through 966
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+  Columns 1081 through 1086
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+  Columns 1117 through 1122
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+  Columns 1123 through 1128
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+  Columns 1129 through 1134
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+  Columns 1135 through 1140
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+    1.1340    1.1350    1.1360    1.1370    1.1380    1.1390
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+  Columns 1141 through 1146
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+    1.1400    1.1410    1.1420    1.1430    1.1440    1.1450
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+  Columns 1147 through 1152
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+  Columns 1171 through 1176
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+    1.1700    1.1710    1.1720    1.1730    1.1740    1.1750
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+  Columns 1177 through 1182
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+  Columns 1183 through 1188
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+  Columns 1189 through 1194
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+  Columns 1195 through 1200
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+    1.1940    1.1950    1.1960    1.1970    1.1980    1.1990
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+  Columns 1201 through 1206
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+    1.2000    1.2010    1.2020    1.2030    1.2040    1.2050
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+  Columns 1207 through 1212
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+    1.2060    1.2070    1.2080    1.2090    1.2100    1.2110
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+  Columns 1213 through 1218
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+    1.2120    1.2130    1.2140    1.2150    1.2160    1.2170
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+  Columns 1219 through 1224
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+    1.2180    1.2190    1.2200    1.2210    1.2220    1.2230
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+  Columns 1225 through 1230
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+    1.2240    1.2250    1.2260    1.2270    1.2280    1.2290
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+  Columns 1231 through 1236
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+    1.2300    1.2310    1.2320    1.2330    1.2340    1.2350
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+  Columns 1237 through 1242
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+    1.2360    1.2370    1.2380    1.2390    1.2400    1.2410
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+  Columns 1243 through 1248
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+    1.2420    1.2430    1.2440    1.2450    1.2460    1.2470
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+  Columns 1249 through 1254
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+    1.2480    1.2490    1.2500    1.2510    1.2520    1.2530
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+  Columns 1255 through 1260
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+    1.2540    1.2550    1.2560    1.2570    1.2580    1.2590
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+  Columns 1261 through 1266
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+  Columns 1267 through 1272
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+  Columns 1273 through 1278
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+  Columns 1279 through 1284
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+  Columns 1285 through 1290
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+  Columns 1291 through 1296
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+  Columns 1297 through 1302
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+  Columns 1303 through 1308
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+    1.3140    1.3150    1.3160    1.3170    1.3180    1.3190
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+  Columns 1321 through 1326
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+  Columns 1327 through 1332
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+  Columns 1333 through 1338
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+  Columns 1339 through 1344
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+  Columns 1351 through 1356
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+  Columns 1357 through 1362
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+  Columns 1363 through 1368
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+  Columns 1369 through 1374
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+  Columns 1375 through 1380
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+  Columns 1381 through 1386
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+  Columns 1387 through 1392
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+  Columns 1393 through 1398
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+  Columns 1429 through 1434
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+  Columns 1441 through 1446
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+  Columns 1459 through 1464
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+  Columns 1465 through 1470
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+  Columns 1471 through 1476
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+  Columns 1501 through 1506
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+  Columns 1507 through 1512
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+    1.5120    1.5130    1.5140    1.5150    1.5160    1.5170
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+  Columns 1519 through 1524
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+  Columns 1525 through 1530
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+    1.5240    1.5250    1.5260    1.5270    1.5280    1.5290
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+  Columns 1531 through 1536
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+  Columns 1537 through 1542
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+  Columns 1549 through 1554
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+  Columns 1555 through 1560
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+  Columns 1561 through 1566
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+  Columns 1585 through 1590
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+  Columns 1603 through 1608
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+  Columns 1615 through 1620
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+  Columns 1621 through 1626
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+  Columns 1633 through 1638
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+  Columns 1639 through 1644
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+  Columns 1645 through 1650
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+  Columns 1651 through 1656
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+    1.6500    1.6510    1.6520    1.6530    1.6540    1.6550
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+  Columns 1657 through 1662
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+    1.6560    1.6570    1.6580    1.6590    1.6600    1.6610
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+  Columns 1663 through 1668
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+    1.6620    1.6630    1.6640    1.6650    1.6660    1.6670
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+  Columns 1669 through 1674
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+    1.6680    1.6690    1.6700    1.6710    1.6720    1.6730
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+  Columns 1675 through 1680
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+    1.6740    1.6750    1.6760    1.6770    1.6780    1.6790
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+  Columns 1681 through 1686
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+    1.6800    1.6810    1.6820    1.6830    1.6840    1.6850
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+  Columns 1687 through 1692
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+    1.6860    1.6870    1.6880    1.6890    1.6900    1.6910
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+  Columns 1693 through 1698
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+    1.6920    1.6930    1.6940    1.6950    1.6960    1.6970
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+  Columns 1699 through 1704
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+    1.6980    1.6990    1.7000    1.7010    1.7020    1.7030
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+  Columns 1705 through 1710
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+    1.7040    1.7050    1.7060    1.7070    1.7080    1.7090
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+  Columns 1711 through 1716
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+    1.7100    1.7110    1.7120    1.7130    1.7140    1.7150
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+  Columns 1717 through 1722
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+    1.7160    1.7170    1.7180    1.7190    1.7200    1.7210
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+  Columns 1723 through 1728
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+    1.7220    1.7230    1.7240    1.7250    1.7260    1.7270
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+  Columns 1729 through 1734
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+    1.7280    1.7290    1.7300    1.7310    1.7320    1.7330
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+  Columns 1735 through 1740
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+    1.7340    1.7350    1.7360    1.7370    1.7380    1.7390
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+  Columns 1741 through 1746
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+    1.7400    1.7410    1.7420    1.7430    1.7440    1.7450
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+  Columns 1747 through 1752
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+    1.7460    1.7470    1.7480    1.7490    1.7500    1.7510
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+  Columns 1753 through 1758
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+    1.7520    1.7530    1.7540    1.7550    1.7560    1.7570
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+  Columns 1759 through 1764
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+    1.7580    1.7590    1.7600    1.7610    1.7620    1.7630
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+  Columns 1765 through 1770
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+    1.7640    1.7650    1.7660    1.7670    1.7680    1.7690
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+  Columns 1771 through 1776
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+    1.7700    1.7710    1.7720    1.7730    1.7740    1.7750
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+  Columns 1777 through 1782
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+    1.7760    1.7770    1.7780    1.7790    1.7800    1.7810
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+  Columns 1783 through 1788
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+    1.7820    1.7830    1.7840    1.7850    1.7860    1.7870
+
+  Columns 1789 through 1794
+
+    1.7880    1.7890    1.7900    1.7910    1.7920    1.7930
+
+  Columns 1795 through 1800
+
+    1.7940    1.7950    1.7960    1.7970    1.7980    1.7990
+
+  Columns 1801 through 1806
+
+    1.8000    1.8010    1.8020    1.8030    1.8040    1.8050
+
+  Columns 1807 through 1812
+
+    1.8060    1.8070    1.8080    1.8090    1.8100    1.8110
+
+  Columns 1813 through 1818
+
+    1.8120    1.8130    1.8140    1.8150    1.8160    1.8170
+
+  Columns 1819 through 1824
+
+    1.8180    1.8190    1.8200    1.8210    1.8220    1.8230
+
+  Columns 1825 through 1830
+
+    1.8240    1.8250    1.8260    1.8270    1.8280    1.8290
+
+  Columns 1831 through 1836
+
+    1.8300    1.8310    1.8320    1.8330    1.8340    1.8350
+
+  Columns 1837 through 1842
+
+    1.8360    1.8370    1.8380    1.8390    1.8400    1.8410
+
+  Columns 1843 through 1848
+
+    1.8420    1.8430    1.8440    1.8450    1.8460    1.8470
+
+  Columns 1849 through 1854
+
+    1.8480    1.8490    1.8500    1.8510    1.8520    1.8530
+
+  Columns 1855 through 1860
+
+    1.8540    1.8550    1.8560    1.8570    1.8580    1.8590
+
+  Columns 1861 through 1866
+
+    1.8600    1.8610    1.8620    1.8630    1.8640    1.8650
+
+  Columns 1867 through 1872
+
+    1.8660    1.8670    1.8680    1.8690    1.8700    1.8710
+
+  Columns 1873 through 1878
+
+    1.8720    1.8730    1.8740    1.8750    1.8760    1.8770
+
+  Columns 1879 through 1884
+
+    1.8780    1.8790    1.8800    1.8810    1.8820    1.8830
+
+  Columns 1885 through 1890
+
+    1.8840    1.8850    1.8860    1.8870    1.8880    1.8890
+
+  Columns 1891 through 1896
+
+    1.8900    1.8910    1.8920    1.8930    1.8940    1.8950
+
+  Columns 1897 through 1902
+
+    1.8960    1.8970    1.8980    1.8990    1.9000    1.9010
+
+  Columns 1903 through 1908
+
+    1.9020    1.9030    1.9040    1.9050    1.9060    1.9070
+
+  Columns 1909 through 1914
+
+    1.9080    1.9090    1.9100    1.9110    1.9120    1.9130
+
+  Columns 1915 through 1920
+
+    1.9140    1.9150    1.9160    1.9170    1.9180    1.9190
+
+  Columns 1921 through 1926
+
+    1.9200    1.9210    1.9220    1.9230    1.9240    1.9250
+
+  Columns 1927 through 1932
+
+    1.9260    1.9270    1.9280    1.9290    1.9300    1.9310
+
+  Columns 1933 through 1938
+
+    1.9320    1.9330    1.9340    1.9350    1.9360    1.9370
+
+  Columns 1939 through 1944
+
+    1.9380    1.9390    1.9400    1.9410    1.9420    1.9430
+
+  Columns 1945 through 1950
+
+    1.9440    1.9450    1.9460    1.9470    1.9480    1.9490
+
+  Columns 1951 through 1956
+
+    1.9500    1.9510    1.9520    1.9530    1.9540    1.9550
+
+  Columns 1957 through 1962
+
+    1.9560    1.9570    1.9580    1.9590    1.9600    1.9610
+
+  Columns 1963 through 1968
+
+    1.9620    1.9630    1.9640    1.9650    1.9660    1.9670
+
+  Columns 1969 through 1974
+
+    1.9680    1.9690    1.9700    1.9710    1.9720    1.9730
+
+  Columns 1975 through 1980
+
+    1.9740    1.9750    1.9760    1.9770    1.9780    1.9790
+
+  Columns 1981 through 1986
+
+    1.9800    1.9810    1.9820    1.9830    1.9840    1.9850
+
+  Columns 1987 through 1992
+
+    1.9860    1.9870    1.9880    1.9890    1.9900    1.9910
+
+  Columns 1993 through 1998
+
+    1.9920    1.9930    1.9940    1.9950    1.9960    1.9970
+
+  Columns 1999 through 2001
+
+    1.9980    1.9990    2.0000
+
+x=0:0.001:2;
+y=8-2*x-7*exp(-x/2); graph(x,y);
+{Error using <a href="matlab:matlab.internal.language.introspective.errorDocCallback('matlab.internal.graph.MLGraph')" style="font-weight:bold">matlab.internal.graph.MLGraph</a>
+Source must be a dense double array of positive integer node
+indices.
+
+Error in <a href="matlab:matlab.internal.language.introspective.errorDocCallback('matlab.internal.graph.constructFromEdgeList', '/soft/MATLAB/R2018a/toolbox/matlab/graphfun/+matlab/+internal/+graph/constructFromEdgeList.m', 136)" style="font-weight:bold">matlab.internal.graph.constructFromEdgeList</a> (<a href="matlab: opentoline('/soft/MATLAB/R2018a/toolbox/matlab/graphfun/+matlab/+internal/+graph/constructFromEdgeList.m',136,0)">line 136</a>)
+    G = underlyingCtor(s, t, totalNodes);
+
+Error in <a href="matlab:matlab.internal.language.introspective.errorDocCallback('graph', '/soft/MATLAB/R2018a/toolbox/matlab/graphfun/@graph/graph.m', 298)" style="font-weight:bold">graph</a> (<a href="matlab: opentoline('/soft/MATLAB/R2018a/toolbox/matlab/graphfun/@graph/graph.m',298,0)">line 298</a>)
+                matlab.internal.graph.constructFromEdgeList(...
+} 
+clear x,y
+
+y =
+
+  Columns 1 through 6
+
+    1.0000    1.0015    1.0030    1.0045    1.0060    1.0075
+
+  Columns 7 through 12
+
+    1.0090    1.0105    1.0119    1.0134    1.0149    1.0164
+
+  Columns 13 through 18
+
+    1.0179    1.0194    1.0208    1.0223    1.0238    1.0252
+
+  Columns 19 through 24
+
+    1.0267    1.0282    1.0297    1.0311    1.0326    1.0340
+
+  Columns 25 through 30
+
+    1.0355    1.0370    1.0384    1.0399    1.0413    1.0428
+
+  Columns 31 through 36
+
+    1.0442    1.0457    1.0471    1.0486    1.0500    1.0514
+
+  Columns 37 through 42
+
+    1.0529    1.0543    1.0557    1.0572    1.0586    1.0600
+
+  Columns 43 through 48
+
+    1.0615    1.0629    1.0643    1.0657    1.0672    1.0686
+
+  Columns 49 through 54
+
+    1.0700    1.0714    1.0728    1.0742    1.0757    1.0771
+
+  Columns 55 through 60
+
+    1.0785    1.0799    1.0813    1.0827    1.0841    1.0855
+
+  Columns 61 through 66
+
+    1.0869    1.0883    1.0897    1.0911    1.0925    1.0938
+
+  Columns 67 through 72
+
+    1.0952    1.0966    1.0980    1.0994    1.1008    1.1021
+
+  Columns 73 through 78
+
+    1.1035    1.1049    1.1063    1.1076    1.1090    1.1104
+
+  Columns 79 through 84
+
+    1.1117    1.1131    1.1145    1.1158    1.1172    1.1186
+
+  Columns 85 through 90
+
+    1.1199    1.1213    1.1226    1.1240    1.1253    1.1267
+
+  Columns 91 through 96
+
+    1.1280    1.1294    1.1307    1.1320    1.1334    1.1347
+
+  Columns 97 through 102
+
+    1.1361    1.1374    1.1387    1.1401    1.1414    1.1427
+
+  Columns 103 through 108
+
+    1.1440    1.1454    1.1467    1.1480    1.1493    1.1507
+
+  Columns 109 through 114
+
+    1.1520    1.1533    1.1546    1.1559    1.1572    1.1585
+
+  Columns 115 through 120
+
+    1.1598    1.1611    1.1625    1.1638    1.1651    1.1664
+
+  Columns 121 through 126
+
+    1.1676    1.1689    1.1702    1.1715    1.1728    1.1741
+
+  Columns 127 through 132
+
+    1.1754    1.1767    1.1780    1.1792    1.1805    1.1818
+
+  Columns 133 through 138
+
+    1.1831    1.1844    1.1856    1.1869    1.1882    1.1894
+
+  Columns 139 through 144
+
+    1.1907    1.1920    1.1932    1.1945    1.1958    1.1970
+
+  Columns 145 through 150
+
+    1.1983    1.1995    1.2008    1.2020    1.2033    1.2045
+
+  Columns 151 through 156
+
+    1.2058    1.2070    1.2083    1.2095    1.2108    1.2120
+
+  Columns 157 through 162
+
+    1.2132    1.2145    1.2157    1.2170    1.2182    1.2194
+
+  Columns 163 through 168
+
+    1.2206    1.2219    1.2231    1.2243    1.2255    1.2268
+
+  Columns 169 through 174
+
+    1.2280    1.2292    1.2304    1.2316    1.2328    1.2341
+
+  Columns 175 through 180
+
+    1.2353    1.2365    1.2377    1.2389    1.2401    1.2413
+
+  Columns 181 through 186
+
+    1.2425    1.2437    1.2449    1.2461    1.2473    1.2485
+
+  Columns 187 through 192
+
+    1.2496    1.2508    1.2520    1.2532    1.2544    1.2556
+
+  Columns 193 through 198
+
+    1.2568    1.2579    1.2591    1.2603    1.2615    1.2626
+
+  Columns 199 through 204
+
+    1.2638    1.2650    1.2661    1.2673    1.2685    1.2696
+
+  Columns 205 through 210
+
+    1.2708    1.2720    1.2731    1.2743    1.2754    1.2766
+
+  Columns 211 through 216
+
+    1.2777    1.2789    1.2800    1.2812    1.2823    1.2835
+
+  Columns 217 through 222
+
+    1.2846    1.2857    1.2869    1.2880    1.2892    1.2903
+
+  Columns 223 through 228
+
+    1.2914    1.2926    1.2937    1.2948    1.2959    1.2971
+
+  Columns 229 through 234
+
+    1.2982    1.2993    1.3004    1.3016    1.3027    1.3038
+
+  Columns 235 through 240
+
+    1.3049    1.3060    1.3071    1.3082    1.3093    1.3105
+
+  Columns 241 through 246
+
+    1.3116    1.3127    1.3138    1.3149    1.3160    1.3171
+
+  Columns 247 through 252
+
+    1.3182    1.3192    1.3203    1.3214    1.3225    1.3236
+
+  Columns 253 through 258
+
+    1.3247    1.3258    1.3269    1.3279    1.3290    1.3301
+
+  Columns 259 through 264
+
+    1.3312    1.3323    1.3333    1.3344    1.3355    1.3365
+
+  Columns 265 through 270
+
+    1.3376    1.3387    1.3397    1.3408    1.3419    1.3429
+
+  Columns 271 through 276
+
+    1.3440    1.3450    1.3461    1.3472    1.3482    1.3493
+
+  Columns 277 through 282
+
+    1.3503    1.3514    1.3524    1.3534    1.3545    1.3555
+
+  Columns 283 through 288
+
+    1.3566    1.3576    1.3587    1.3597    1.3607    1.3618
+
+  Columns 289 through 294
+
+    1.3628    1.3638    1.3648    1.3659    1.3669    1.3679
+
+  Columns 295 through 300
+
+    1.3689    1.3700    1.3710    1.3720    1.3730    1.3740
+
+  Columns 301 through 306
+
+    1.3750    1.3761    1.3771    1.3781    1.3791    1.3801
+
+  Columns 307 through 312
+
+    1.3811    1.3821    1.3831    1.3841    1.3851    1.3861
+
+  Columns 313 through 318
+
+    1.3871    1.3881    1.3891    1.3901    1.3911    1.3920
+
+  Columns 319 through 324
+
+    1.3930    1.3940    1.3950    1.3960    1.3970    1.3979
+
+  Columns 325 through 330
+
+    1.3989    1.3999    1.4009    1.4018    1.4028    1.4038
+
+  Columns 331 through 336
+
+    1.4047    1.4057    1.4067    1.4076    1.4086    1.4096
+
+  Columns 337 through 342
+
+    1.4105    1.4115    1.4124    1.4134    1.4143    1.4153
+
+  Columns 343 through 348
+
+    1.4162    1.4172    1.4181    1.4191    1.4200    1.4210
+
+  Columns 349 through 354
+
+    1.4219    1.4229    1.4238    1.4247    1.4257    1.4266
+
+  Columns 355 through 360
+
+    1.4275    1.4285    1.4294    1.4303    1.4313    1.4322
+
+  Columns 361 through 366
+
+    1.4331    1.4340    1.4350    1.4359    1.4368    1.4377
+
+  Columns 367 through 372
+
+    1.4386    1.4395    1.4404    1.4414    1.4423    1.4432
+
+  Columns 373 through 378
+
+    1.4441    1.4450    1.4459    1.4468    1.4477    1.4486
+
+  Columns 379 through 384
+
+    1.4495    1.4504    1.4513    1.4522    1.4531    1.4540
+
+  Columns 385 through 390
+
+    1.4549    1.4557    1.4566    1.4575    1.4584    1.4593
+
+  Columns 391 through 396
+
+    1.4602    1.4610    1.4619    1.4628    1.4637    1.4645
+
+  Columns 397 through 402
+
+    1.4654    1.4663    1.4672    1.4680    1.4689    1.4697
+
+  Columns 403 through 408
+
+    1.4706    1.4715    1.4723    1.4732    1.4741    1.4749
+
+  Columns 409 through 414
+
+    1.4758    1.4766    1.4775    1.4783    1.4792    1.4800
+
+  Columns 415 through 420
+
+    1.4809    1.4817    1.4826    1.4834    1.4842    1.4851
+
+  Columns 421 through 426
+
+    1.4859    1.4867    1.4876    1.4884    1.4892    1.4901
+
+  Columns 427 through 432
+
+    1.4909    1.4917    1.4926    1.4934    1.4942    1.4950
+
+  Columns 433 through 438
+
+    1.4959    1.4967    1.4975    1.4983    1.4991    1.4999
+
+  Columns 439 through 444
+
+    1.5007    1.5016    1.5024    1.5032    1.5040    1.5048
+
+  Columns 445 through 450
+
+    1.5056    1.5064    1.5072    1.5080    1.5088    1.5096
+
+  Columns 451 through 456
+
+    1.5104    1.5112    1.5120    1.5128    1.5136    1.5143
+
+  Columns 457 through 462
+
+    1.5151    1.5159    1.5167    1.5175    1.5183    1.5190
+
+  Columns 463 through 468
+
+    1.5198    1.5206    1.5214    1.5222    1.5229    1.5237
+
+  Columns 469 through 474
+
+    1.5245    1.5252    1.5260    1.5268    1.5275    1.5283
+
+  Columns 475 through 480
+
+    1.5291    1.5298    1.5306    1.5313    1.5321    1.5329
+
+  Columns 481 through 486
+
+    1.5336    1.5344    1.5351    1.5359    1.5366    1.5374
+
+  Columns 487 through 492
+
+    1.5381    1.5388    1.5396    1.5403    1.5411    1.5418
+
+  Columns 493 through 498
+
+    1.5425    1.5433    1.5440    1.5447    1.5455    1.5462
+
+  Columns 499 through 504
+
+    1.5469    1.5477    1.5484    1.5491    1.5498    1.5506
+
+  Columns 505 through 510
+
+    1.5513    1.5520    1.5527    1.5534    1.5542    1.5549
+
+  Columns 511 through 516
+
+    1.5556    1.5563    1.5570    1.5577    1.5584    1.5591
+
+  Columns 517 through 522
+
+    1.5598    1.5605    1.5612    1.5619    1.5626    1.5633
+
+  Columns 523 through 528
+
+    1.5640    1.5647    1.5654    1.5661    1.5668    1.5675
+
+  Columns 529 through 534
+
+    1.5682    1.5689    1.5696    1.5702    1.5709    1.5716
+
+  Columns 535 through 540
+
+    1.5723    1.5730    1.5736    1.5743    1.5750    1.5757
+
+  Columns 541 through 546
+
+    1.5763    1.5770    1.5777    1.5784    1.5790    1.5797
+
+  Columns 547 through 552
+
+    1.5804    1.5810    1.5817    1.5823    1.5830    1.5837
+
+  Columns 553 through 558
+
+    1.5843    1.5850    1.5856    1.5863    1.5869    1.5876
+
+  Columns 559 through 564
+
+    1.5882    1.5889    1.5895    1.5902    1.5908    1.5914
+
+  Columns 565 through 570
+
+    1.5921    1.5927    1.5934    1.5940    1.5946    1.5953
+
+  Columns 571 through 576
+
+    1.5959    1.5965    1.5972    1.5978    1.5984    1.5990
+
+  Columns 577 through 582
+
+    1.5997    1.6003    1.6009    1.6015    1.6022    1.6028
+
+  Columns 583 through 588
+
+    1.6034    1.6040    1.6046    1.6052    1.6058    1.6065
+
+  Columns 589 through 594
+
+    1.6071    1.6077    1.6083    1.6089    1.6095    1.6101
+
+  Columns 595 through 600
+
+    1.6107    1.6113    1.6119    1.6125    1.6131    1.6137
+
+  Columns 601 through 606
+
+    1.6143    1.6149    1.6155    1.6160    1.6166    1.6172
+
+  Columns 607 through 612
+
+    1.6178    1.6184    1.6190    1.6196    1.6201    1.6207
+
+  Columns 613 through 618
+
+    1.6213    1.6219    1.6224    1.6230    1.6236    1.6242
+
+  Columns 619 through 624
+
+    1.6247    1.6253    1.6259    1.6264    1.6270    1.6276
+
+  Columns 625 through 630
+
+    1.6281    1.6287    1.6293    1.6298    1.6304    1.6309
+
+  Columns 631 through 636
+
+    1.6315    1.6320    1.6326    1.6331    1.6337    1.6342
+
+  Columns 637 through 642
+
+    1.6348    1.6353    1.6359    1.6364    1.6370    1.6375
+
+  Columns 643 through 648
+
+    1.6380    1.6386    1.6391    1.6396    1.6402    1.6407
+
+  Columns 649 through 654
+
+    1.6412    1.6418    1.6423    1.6428    1.6434    1.6439
+
+  Columns 655 through 660
+
+    1.6444    1.6449    1.6455    1.6460    1.6465    1.6470
+
+  Columns 661 through 666
+
+    1.6475    1.6480    1.6486    1.6491    1.6496    1.6501
+
+  Columns 667 through 672
+
+    1.6506    1.6511    1.6516    1.6521    1.6526    1.6531
+
+  Columns 673 through 678
+
+    1.6536    1.6541    1.6546    1.6551    1.6556    1.6561
+
+  Columns 679 through 684
+
+    1.6566    1.6571    1.6576    1.6581    1.6586    1.6591
+
+  Columns 685 through 690
+
+    1.6596    1.6600    1.6605    1.6610    1.6615    1.6620
+
+  Columns 691 through 696
+
+    1.6625    1.6629    1.6634    1.6639    1.6644    1.6648
+
+  Columns 697 through 702
+
+    1.6653    1.6658    1.6662    1.6667    1.6672    1.6676
+
+  Columns 703 through 708
+
+    1.6681    1.6686    1.6690    1.6695    1.6700    1.6704
+
+  Columns 709 through 714
+
+    1.6709    1.6713    1.6718    1.6722    1.6727    1.6731
+
+  Columns 715 through 720
+
+    1.6736    1.6740    1.6745    1.6749    1.6754    1.6758
+
+  Columns 721 through 726
+
+    1.6763    1.6767    1.6771    1.6776    1.6780    1.6785
+
+  Columns 727 through 732
+
+    1.6789    1.6793    1.6798    1.6802    1.6806    1.6811
+
+  Columns 733 through 738
+
+    1.6815    1.6819    1.6823    1.6828    1.6832    1.6836
+
+  Columns 739 through 744
+
+    1.6840    1.6844    1.6849    1.6853    1.6857    1.6861
+
+  Columns 745 through 750
+
+    1.6865    1.6869    1.6873    1.6878    1.6882    1.6886
+
+  Columns 751 through 756
+
+    1.6890    1.6894    1.6898    1.6902    1.6906    1.6910
+
+  Columns 757 through 762
+
+    1.6914    1.6918    1.6922    1.6926    1.6930    1.6934
+
+  Columns 763 through 768
+
+    1.6938    1.6941    1.6945    1.6949    1.6953    1.6957
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+  Columns 769 through 774
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+    1.6961    1.6965    1.6968    1.6972    1.6976    1.6980
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+  Columns 775 through 780
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+    1.6984    1.6987    1.6991    1.6995    1.6999    1.7002
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+  Columns 781 through 786
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+    1.7006    1.7010    1.7013    1.7017    1.7021    1.7024
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+  Columns 787 through 792
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+    1.7028    1.7032    1.7035    1.7039    1.7042    1.7046
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+  Columns 793 through 798
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+    1.7050    1.7053    1.7057    1.7060    1.7064    1.7067
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+  Columns 799 through 804
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+    1.7071    1.7074    1.7078    1.7081    1.7084    1.7088
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+  Columns 805 through 810
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+    1.7091    1.7095    1.7098    1.7102    1.7105    1.7108
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+  Columns 811 through 816
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+    1.7112    1.7115    1.7118    1.7122    1.7125    1.7128
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+  Columns 817 through 822
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+    1.7131    1.7135    1.7138    1.7141    1.7144    1.7148
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+  Columns 823 through 828
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+    1.7151    1.7154    1.7157    1.7160    1.7164    1.7167
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+  Columns 829 through 834
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+    1.7170    1.7173    1.7176    1.7179    1.7182    1.7185
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+  Columns 835 through 840
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+    1.7189    1.7192    1.7195    1.7198    1.7201    1.7204
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+  Columns 841 through 846
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+    1.7207    1.7210    1.7213    1.7216    1.7219    1.7222
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+  Columns 847 through 852
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+    1.7224    1.7227    1.7230    1.7233    1.7236    1.7239
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+  Columns 853 through 858
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+    1.7242    1.7245    1.7248    1.7250    1.7253    1.7256
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+  Columns 859 through 864
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+    1.7259    1.7262    1.7264    1.7267    1.7270    1.7273
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+  Columns 865 through 870
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+    1.7275    1.7278    1.7281    1.7283    1.7286    1.7289
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+  Columns 871 through 876
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+    1.7291    1.7294    1.7297    1.7299    1.7302    1.7305
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+  Columns 877 through 882
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+    1.7307    1.7310    1.7312    1.7315    1.7317    1.7320
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+  Columns 883 through 888
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+    1.7323    1.7325    1.7328    1.7330    1.7332    1.7335
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+  Columns 889 through 894
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+    1.7337    1.7340    1.7342    1.7345    1.7347    1.7350
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+  Columns 895 through 900
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+    1.7352    1.7354    1.7357    1.7359    1.7361    1.7364
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+  Columns 901 through 906
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+    1.7366    1.7368    1.7371    1.7373    1.7375    1.7377
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+  Columns 907 through 912
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+    1.7380    1.7382    1.7384    1.7386    1.7389    1.7391
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+  Columns 913 through 918
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+    1.7393    1.7395    1.7397    1.7400    1.7402    1.7404
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+  Columns 919 through 924
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+    1.7406    1.7408    1.7410    1.7412    1.7414    1.7416
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+  Columns 925 through 930
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+    1.7418    1.7420    1.7423    1.7425    1.7427    1.7429
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+  Columns 931 through 936
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+    1.7431    1.7433    1.7434    1.7436    1.7438    1.7440
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+  Columns 937 through 942
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+    1.7442    1.7444    1.7446    1.7448    1.7450    1.7452
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+  Columns 943 through 948
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+    1.7454    1.7455    1.7457    1.7459    1.7461    1.7463
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+  Columns 949 through 954
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+    1.7464    1.7466    1.7468    1.7470    1.7472    1.7473
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+  Columns 955 through 960
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+    1.7475    1.7477    1.7478    1.7480    1.7482    1.7483
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+  Columns 961 through 966
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+    1.7485    1.7487    1.7488    1.7490    1.7492    1.7493
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+  Columns 967 through 972
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+    1.7495    1.7496    1.7498    1.7500    1.7501    1.7503
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+  Columns 973 through 978
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+    1.7504    1.7506    1.7507    1.7509    1.7510    1.7512
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+  Columns 979 through 984
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+    1.7513    1.7515    1.7516    1.7518    1.7519    1.7520
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+  Columns 985 through 990
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+    1.7522    1.7523    1.7525    1.7526    1.7527    1.7529
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+  Columns 991 through 996
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+    1.7530    1.7531    1.7533    1.7534    1.7535    1.7537
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+  Columns 997 through 1002
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+    1.7538    1.7539    1.7540    1.7542    1.7543    1.7544
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+  Columns 1003 through 1008
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+    1.7545    1.7546    1.7548    1.7549    1.7550    1.7551
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+  Columns 1009 through 1014
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+    1.7552    1.7553    1.7555    1.7556    1.7557    1.7558
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+  Columns 1015 through 1020
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+    1.7559    1.7560    1.7561    1.7562    1.7563    1.7564
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+  Columns 1021 through 1026
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+    1.7565    1.7566    1.7567    1.7568    1.7569    1.7570
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+  Columns 1027 through 1032
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+    1.7571    1.7572    1.7573    1.7574    1.7575    1.7576
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+  Columns 1033 through 1038
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+    1.7577    1.7578    1.7579    1.7579    1.7580    1.7581
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+  Columns 1039 through 1044
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+    1.7582    1.7583    1.7584    1.7584    1.7585    1.7586
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+  Columns 1045 through 1050
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+    1.7587    1.7587    1.7588    1.7589    1.7590    1.7590
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+  Columns 1051 through 1056
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+    1.7591    1.7592    1.7593    1.7593    1.7594    1.7595
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+  Columns 1057 through 1062
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+    1.7595    1.7596    1.7596    1.7597    1.7598    1.7598
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+  Columns 1063 through 1068
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+    1.7599    1.7599    1.7600    1.7601    1.7601    1.7602
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+  Columns 1069 through 1074
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+    1.7602    1.7603    1.7603    1.7604    1.7604    1.7605
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+  Columns 1075 through 1080
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+    1.7605    1.7606    1.7606    1.7606    1.7607    1.7607
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+  Columns 1081 through 1086
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+    1.7608    1.7608    1.7608    1.7609    1.7609    1.7609
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+  Columns 1087 through 1092
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+    1.7610    1.7610    1.7610    1.7611    1.7611    1.7611
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+  Columns 1093 through 1098
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+    1.7612    1.7612    1.7612    1.7612    1.7613    1.7613
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+  Columns 1099 through 1104
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+    1.7613    1.7613    1.7614    1.7614    1.7614    1.7614
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+  Columns 1105 through 1110
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+    1.7614    1.7614    1.7614    1.7615    1.7615    1.7615
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+  Columns 1111 through 1116
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+    1.7615    1.7615    1.7615    1.7615    1.7615    1.7615
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+  Columns 1117 through 1122
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+    1.7615    1.7615    1.7615    1.7615    1.7615    1.7615
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+  Columns 1123 through 1128
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+    1.7615    1.7615    1.7615    1.7615    1.7615    1.7615
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+  Columns 1129 through 1134
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+    1.7615    1.7615    1.7615    1.7615    1.7615    1.7614
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+  Columns 1135 through 1140
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+    1.7614    1.7614    1.7614    1.7614    1.7614    1.7613
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+  Columns 1141 through 1146
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+    1.7613    1.7613    1.7613    1.7613    1.7612    1.7612
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+  Columns 1147 through 1152
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+    1.7612    1.7612    1.7611    1.7611    1.7611    1.7610
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+  Columns 1153 through 1158
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+    1.7610    1.7610    1.7609    1.7609    1.7609    1.7608
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+  Columns 1159 through 1164
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+    1.7608    1.7608    1.7607    1.7607    1.7606    1.7606
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+  Columns 1165 through 1170
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+    1.7605    1.7605    1.7605    1.7604    1.7604    1.7603
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+  Columns 1171 through 1176
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+    1.7603    1.7602    1.7602    1.7601    1.7601    1.7600
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+  Columns 1177 through 1182
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+    1.7599    1.7599    1.7598    1.7598    1.7597    1.7596
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+  Columns 1183 through 1188
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+    1.7596    1.7595    1.7595    1.7594    1.7593    1.7593
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+  Columns 1189 through 1194
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+    1.7592    1.7591    1.7591    1.7590    1.7589    1.7588
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+  Columns 1195 through 1200
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+    1.7588    1.7587    1.7586    1.7586    1.7585    1.7584
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+  Columns 1201 through 1206
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+    1.7583    1.7582    1.7582    1.7581    1.7580    1.7579
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+  Columns 1207 through 1212
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+    1.7578    1.7577    1.7577    1.7576    1.7575    1.7574
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+  Columns 1213 through 1218
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+    1.7573    1.7572    1.7571    1.7570    1.7569    1.7568
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+  Columns 1219 through 1224
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+    1.7567    1.7566    1.7565    1.7564    1.7563    1.7562
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+  Columns 1225 through 1230
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+    1.7561    1.7560    1.7559    1.7558    1.7557    1.7556
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+  Columns 1231 through 1236
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+    1.7555    1.7554    1.7553    1.7552    1.7551    1.7550
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+  Columns 1237 through 1242
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+    1.7549    1.7547    1.7546    1.7545    1.7544    1.7543
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+  Columns 1243 through 1248
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+    1.7542    1.7540    1.7539    1.7538    1.7537    1.7535
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+  Columns 1249 through 1254
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+    1.7534    1.7533    1.7532    1.7530    1.7529    1.7528
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+  Columns 1255 through 1260
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+    1.7527    1.7525    1.7524    1.7523    1.7521    1.7520
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+  Columns 1261 through 1266
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+    1.7519    1.7517    1.7516    1.7514    1.7513    1.7512
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+  Columns 1267 through 1272
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+    1.7510    1.7509    1.7507    1.7506    1.7505    1.7503
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+  Columns 1273 through 1278
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+    1.7502    1.7500    1.7499    1.7497    1.7496    1.7494
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+  Columns 1279 through 1284
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+    1.7493    1.7491    1.7490    1.7488    1.7486    1.7485
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+  Columns 1285 through 1290
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+    1.7483    1.7482    1.7480    1.7478    1.7477    1.7475
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+  Columns 1291 through 1296
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+    1.7474    1.7472    1.7470    1.7469    1.7467    1.7465
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+  Columns 1297 through 1302
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+    1.7464    1.7462    1.7460    1.7459    1.7457    1.7455
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+  Columns 1303 through 1308
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+    1.7453    1.7452    1.7450    1.7448    1.7446    1.7444
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+  Columns 1309 through 1314
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+    1.7443    1.7441    1.7439    1.7437    1.7435    1.7434
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+  Columns 1315 through 1320
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+    1.7432    1.7430    1.7428    1.7426    1.7424    1.7422
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+  Columns 1321 through 1326
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+  Columns 1327 through 1332
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+    1.7409    1.7407    1.7405    1.7403    1.7401    1.7399
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+  Columns 1333 through 1338
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+    1.7397    1.7395    1.7393    1.7391    1.7389    1.7387
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+  Columns 1339 through 1344
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+    1.7385    1.7382    1.7380    1.7378    1.7376    1.7374
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+  Columns 1345 through 1350
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+    1.7372    1.7370    1.7368    1.7366    1.7363    1.7361
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+  Columns 1351 through 1356
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+    1.7359    1.7357    1.7355    1.7352    1.7350    1.7348
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+  Columns 1357 through 1362
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+    1.7346    1.7344    1.7341    1.7339    1.7337    1.7335
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+  Columns 1363 through 1368
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+    1.7332    1.7330    1.7328    1.7325    1.7323    1.7321
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+  Columns 1369 through 1374
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+  Columns 1375 through 1380
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+    1.7304    1.7302    1.7299    1.7297    1.7295    1.7292
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+  Columns 1381 through 1386
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+    1.7290    1.7287    1.7285    1.7282    1.7280    1.7277
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+  Columns 1387 through 1392
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+    1.7275    1.7272    1.7270    1.7267    1.7265    1.7262
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+  Columns 1393 through 1398
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+  Columns 1399 through 1404
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+    1.7244    1.7242    1.7239    1.7236    1.7234    1.7231
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+  Columns 1405 through 1410
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+    1.7228    1.7226    1.7223    1.7220    1.7218    1.7215
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+  Columns 1411 through 1416
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+    1.7212    1.7210    1.7207    1.7204    1.7202    1.7199
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+  Columns 1417 through 1422
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+    1.7196    1.7193    1.7190    1.7188    1.7185    1.7182
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+  Columns 1423 through 1428
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+    1.7179    1.7176    1.7174    1.7171    1.7168    1.7165
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+  Columns 1429 through 1434
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+    1.7162    1.7159    1.7157    1.7154    1.7151    1.7148
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+  Columns 1435 through 1440
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+    1.7145    1.7142    1.7139    1.7136    1.7133    1.7130
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+  Columns 1441 through 1446
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+    1.7127    1.7124    1.7121    1.7118    1.7115    1.7112
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+  Columns 1447 through 1452
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+    1.7109    1.7106    1.7103    1.7100    1.7097    1.7094
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+  Columns 1453 through 1458
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+    1.7091    1.7088    1.7085    1.7082    1.7079    1.7076
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+  Columns 1459 through 1464
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+  Columns 1465 through 1470
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+    1.7054    1.7051    1.7047    1.7044    1.7041    1.7038
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+  Columns 1471 through 1476
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+    1.7035    1.7031    1.7028    1.7025    1.7022    1.7018
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+  Columns 1477 through 1482
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+    1.7015    1.7012    1.7009    1.7005    1.7002    1.6999
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+  Columns 1483 through 1488
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+    1.6995    1.6992    1.6989    1.6985    1.6982    1.6979
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+  Columns 1489 through 1494
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+    1.6975    1.6972    1.6969    1.6965    1.6962    1.6958
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+  Columns 1495 through 1500
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+    1.6955    1.6952    1.6948    1.6945    1.6941    1.6938
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+  Columns 1501 through 1506
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+    1.6934    1.6931    1.6927    1.6924    1.6920    1.6917
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+  Columns 1507 through 1512
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+    1.6913    1.6910    1.6906    1.6903    1.6899    1.6896
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+  Columns 1513 through 1518
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+    1.6892    1.6889    1.6885    1.6881    1.6878    1.6874
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+  Columns 1519 through 1524
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+    1.6871    1.6867    1.6863    1.6860    1.6856    1.6852
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+  Columns 1525 through 1530
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+    1.6849    1.6845    1.6841    1.6838    1.6834    1.6830
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+  Columns 1531 through 1536
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+    1.6827    1.6823    1.6819    1.6815    1.6812    1.6808
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+  Columns 1537 through 1542
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+    1.6804    1.6800    1.6797    1.6793    1.6789    1.6785
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+  Columns 1543 through 1548
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+    1.6781    1.6778    1.6774    1.6770    1.6766    1.6762
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+  Columns 1549 through 1554
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+    1.6758    1.6755    1.6751    1.6747    1.6743    1.6739
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+  Columns 1555 through 1560
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+    1.6735    1.6731    1.6727    1.6723    1.6719    1.6716
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+  Columns 1561 through 1566
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+    1.6712    1.6708    1.6704    1.6700    1.6696    1.6692
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+  Columns 1567 through 1572
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+  Columns 1573 through 1578
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+    1.6664    1.6659    1.6655    1.6651    1.6647    1.6643
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+  Columns 1579 through 1584
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+    1.6639    1.6635    1.6631    1.6627    1.6623    1.6618
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+  Columns 1585 through 1590
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+    1.6614    1.6610    1.6606    1.6602    1.6598    1.6594
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+  Columns 1591 through 1596
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+    1.6589    1.6585    1.6581    1.6577    1.6572    1.6568
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+  Columns 1597 through 1602
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+    1.6564    1.6560    1.6556    1.6551    1.6547    1.6543
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+  Columns 1603 through 1608
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+    1.6538    1.6534    1.6530    1.6526    1.6521    1.6517
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+  Columns 1609 through 1614
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+    1.6513    1.6508    1.6504    1.6499    1.6495    1.6491
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+  Columns 1615 through 1620
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+    1.6486    1.6482    1.6478    1.6473    1.6469    1.6464
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+  Columns 1621 through 1626
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+    1.6460    1.6456    1.6451    1.6447    1.6442    1.6438
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+  Columns 1627 through 1632
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+    1.6433    1.6429    1.6424    1.6420    1.6415    1.6411
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+  Columns 1633 through 1638
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+    1.6406    1.6402    1.6397    1.6393    1.6388    1.6384
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+  Columns 1639 through 1644
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+    1.6379    1.6374    1.6370    1.6365    1.6361    1.6356
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+  Columns 1645 through 1650
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+    1.6351    1.6347    1.6342    1.6338    1.6333    1.6328
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+  Columns 1651 through 1656
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+    1.6324    1.6319    1.6314    1.6310    1.6305    1.6300
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+  Columns 1657 through 1662
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+    1.6295    1.6291    1.6286    1.6281    1.6277    1.6272
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+  Columns 1663 through 1668
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+    1.6267    1.6262    1.6258    1.6253    1.6248    1.6243
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+  Columns 1669 through 1674
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+    1.6238    1.6234    1.6229    1.6224    1.6219    1.6214
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+  Columns 1675 through 1680
+
+    1.6209    1.6205    1.6200    1.6195    1.6190    1.6185
+
+  Columns 1681 through 1686
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+    1.6180    1.6175    1.6170    1.6166    1.6161    1.6156
+
+  Columns 1687 through 1692
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+    1.6151    1.6146    1.6141    1.6136    1.6131    1.6126
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+  Columns 1693 through 1698
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+    1.6121    1.6116    1.6111    1.6106    1.6101    1.6096
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+  Columns 1699 through 1704
+
+    1.6091    1.6086    1.6081    1.6076    1.6071    1.6066
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+  Columns 1705 through 1710
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+    1.6061    1.6056    1.6051    1.6045    1.6040    1.6035
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+  Columns 1711 through 1716
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+    1.6030    1.6025    1.6020    1.6015    1.6010    1.6005
+
+  Columns 1717 through 1722
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+    1.5999    1.5994    1.5989    1.5984    1.5979    1.5973
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+  Columns 1723 through 1728
+
+    1.5968    1.5963    1.5958    1.5953    1.5947    1.5942
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+  Columns 1729 through 1734
+
+    1.5937    1.5932    1.5926    1.5921    1.5916    1.5911
+
+  Columns 1735 through 1740
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+    1.5905    1.5900    1.5895    1.5889    1.5884    1.5879
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+  Columns 1741 through 1746
+
+    1.5873    1.5868    1.5863    1.5857    1.5852    1.5847
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+  Columns 1747 through 1752
+
+    1.5841    1.5836    1.5830    1.5825    1.5820    1.5814
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+  Columns 1753 through 1758
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+    1.5809    1.5803    1.5798    1.5793    1.5787    1.5782
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+  Columns 1759 through 1764
+
+    1.5776    1.5771    1.5765    1.5760    1.5754    1.5749
+
+  Columns 1765 through 1770
+
+    1.5743    1.5738    1.5732    1.5727    1.5721    1.5716
+
+  Columns 1771 through 1776
+
+    1.5710    1.5704    1.5699    1.5693    1.5688    1.5682
+
+  Columns 1777 through 1782
+
+    1.5677    1.5671    1.5665    1.5660    1.5654    1.5648
+
+  Columns 1783 through 1788
+
+    1.5643    1.5637    1.5632    1.5626    1.5620    1.5615
+
+  Columns 1789 through 1794
+
+    1.5609    1.5603    1.5597    1.5592    1.5586    1.5580
+
+  Columns 1795 through 1800
+
+    1.5575    1.5569    1.5563    1.5557    1.5552    1.5546
+
+  Columns 1801 through 1806
+
+    1.5540    1.5534    1.5529    1.5523    1.5517    1.5511
+
+  Columns 1807 through 1812
+
+    1.5505    1.5500    1.5494    1.5488    1.5482    1.5476
+
+  Columns 1813 through 1818
+
+    1.5470    1.5465    1.5459    1.5453    1.5447    1.5441
+
+  Columns 1819 through 1824
+
+    1.5435    1.5429    1.5423    1.5417    1.5411    1.5406
+
+  Columns 1825 through 1830
+
+    1.5400    1.5394    1.5388    1.5382    1.5376    1.5370
+
+  Columns 1831 through 1836
+
+    1.5364    1.5358    1.5352    1.5346    1.5340    1.5334
+
+  Columns 1837 through 1842
+
+    1.5328    1.5322    1.5316    1.5310    1.5304    1.5298
+
+  Columns 1843 through 1848
+
+    1.5292    1.5285    1.5279    1.5273    1.5267    1.5261
+
+  Columns 1849 through 1854
+
+    1.5255    1.5249    1.5243    1.5237    1.5231    1.5224
+
+  Columns 1855 through 1860
+
+    1.5218    1.5212    1.5206    1.5200    1.5194    1.5187
+
+  Columns 1861 through 1866
+
+    1.5181    1.5175    1.5169    1.5163    1.5156    1.5150
+
+  Columns 1867 through 1872
+
+    1.5144    1.5138    1.5131    1.5125    1.5119    1.5113
+
+  Columns 1873 through 1878
+
+    1.5106    1.5100    1.5094    1.5088    1.5081    1.5075
+
+  Columns 1879 through 1884
+
+    1.5069    1.5062    1.5056    1.5050    1.5043    1.5037
+
+  Columns 1885 through 1890
+
+    1.5031    1.5024    1.5018    1.5012    1.5005    1.4999
+
+  Columns 1891 through 1896
+
+    1.4992    1.4986    1.4980    1.4973    1.4967    1.4960
+
+  Columns 1897 through 1902
+
+    1.4954    1.4947    1.4941    1.4935    1.4928    1.4922
+
+  Columns 1903 through 1908
+
+    1.4915    1.4909    1.4902    1.4896    1.4889    1.4883
+
+  Columns 1909 through 1914
+
+    1.4876    1.4870    1.4863    1.4857    1.4850    1.4844
+
+  Columns 1915 through 1920
+
+    1.4837    1.4830    1.4824    1.4817    1.4811    1.4804
+
+  Columns 1921 through 1926
+
+    1.4797    1.4791    1.4784    1.4778    1.4771    1.4764
+
+  Columns 1927 through 1932
+
+    1.4758    1.4751    1.4744    1.4738    1.4731    1.4725
+
+  Columns 1933 through 1938
+
+    1.4718    1.4711    1.4704    1.4698    1.4691    1.4684
+
+  Columns 1939 through 1944
+
+    1.4678    1.4671    1.4664    1.4657    1.4651    1.4644
+
+  Columns 1945 through 1950
+
+    1.4637    1.4630    1.4624    1.4617    1.4610    1.4603
+
+  Columns 1951 through 1956
+
+    1.4597    1.4590    1.4583    1.4576    1.4569    1.4562
+
+  Columns 1957 through 1962
+
+    1.4556    1.4549    1.4542    1.4535    1.4528    1.4521
+
+  Columns 1963 through 1968
+
+    1.4514    1.4508    1.4501    1.4494    1.4487    1.4480
+
+  Columns 1969 through 1974
+
+    1.4473    1.4466    1.4459    1.4452    1.4445    1.4438
+
+  Columns 1975 through 1980
+
+    1.4431    1.4425    1.4418    1.4411    1.4404    1.4397
+
+  Columns 1981 through 1986
+
+    1.4390    1.4383    1.4376    1.4369    1.4362    1.4355
+
+  Columns 1987 through 1992
+
+    1.4348    1.4341    1.4333    1.4326    1.4319    1.4312
+
+  Columns 1993 through 1998
+
+    1.4305    1.4298    1.4291    1.4284    1.4277    1.4270
+
+  Columns 1999 through 2001
+
+    1.4263    1.4256    1.4248
+
+clear y
+x=0:0.01:2
+
+x =
+
+  Columns 1 through 6
+
+         0    0.0100    0.0200    0.0300    0.0400    0.0500
+
+  Columns 7 through 12
+
+    0.0600    0.0700    0.0800    0.0900    0.1000    0.1100
+
+  Columns 13 through 18
+
+    0.1200    0.1300    0.1400    0.1500    0.1600    0.1700
+
+  Columns 19 through 24
+
+    0.1800    0.1900    0.2000    0.2100    0.2200    0.2300
+
+  Columns 25 through 30
+
+    0.2400    0.2500    0.2600    0.2700    0.2800    0.2900
+
+  Columns 31 through 36
+
+    0.3000    0.3100    0.3200    0.3300    0.3400    0.3500
+
+  Columns 37 through 42
+
+    0.3600    0.3700    0.3800    0.3900    0.4000    0.4100
+
+  Columns 43 through 48
+
+    0.4200    0.4300    0.4400    0.4500    0.4600    0.4700
+
+  Columns 49 through 54
+
+    0.4800    0.4900    0.5000    0.5100    0.5200    0.5300
+
+  Columns 55 through 60
+
+    0.5400    0.5500    0.5600    0.5700    0.5800    0.5900
+
+  Columns 61 through 66
+
+    0.6000    0.6100    0.6200    0.6300    0.6400    0.6500
+
+  Columns 67 through 72
+
+    0.6600    0.6700    0.6800    0.6900    0.7000    0.7100
+
+  Columns 73 through 78
+
+    0.7200    0.7300    0.7400    0.7500    0.7600    0.7700
+
+  Columns 79 through 84
+
+    0.7800    0.7900    0.8000    0.8100    0.8200    0.8300
+
+  Columns 85 through 90
+
+    0.8400    0.8500    0.8600    0.8700    0.8800    0.8900
+
+  Columns 91 through 96
+
+    0.9000    0.9100    0.9200    0.9300    0.9400    0.9500
+
+  Columns 97 through 102
+
+    0.9600    0.9700    0.9800    0.9900    1.0000    1.0100
+
+  Columns 103 through 108
+
+    1.0200    1.0300    1.0400    1.0500    1.0600    1.0700
+
+  Columns 109 through 114
+
+    1.0800    1.0900    1.1000    1.1100    1.1200    1.1300
+
+  Columns 115 through 120
+
+    1.1400    1.1500    1.1600    1.1700    1.1800    1.1900
+
+  Columns 121 through 126
+
+    1.2000    1.2100    1.2200    1.2300    1.2400    1.2500
+
+  Columns 127 through 132
+
+    1.2600    1.2700    1.2800    1.2900    1.3000    1.3100
+
+  Columns 133 through 138
+
+    1.3200    1.3300    1.3400    1.3500    1.3600    1.3700
+
+  Columns 139 through 144
+
+    1.3800    1.3900    1.4000    1.4100    1.4200    1.4300
+
+  Columns 145 through 150
+
+    1.4400    1.4500    1.4600    1.4700    1.4800    1.4900
+
+  Columns 151 through 156
+
+    1.5000    1.5100    1.5200    1.5300    1.5400    1.5500
+
+  Columns 157 through 162
+
+    1.5600    1.5700    1.5800    1.5900    1.6000    1.6100
+
+  Columns 163 through 168
+
+    1.6200    1.6300    1.6400    1.6500    1.6600    1.6700
+
+  Columns 169 through 174
+
+    1.6800    1.6900    1.7000    1.7100    1.7200    1.7300
+
+  Columns 175 through 180
+
+    1.7400    1.7500    1.7600    1.7700    1.7800    1.7900
+
+  Columns 181 through 186
+
+    1.8000    1.8100    1.8200    1.8300    1.8400    1.8500
+
+  Columns 187 through 192
+
+    1.8600    1.8700    1.8800    1.8900    1.9000    1.9100
+
+  Columns 193 through 198
+
+    1.9200    1.9300    1.9400    1.9500    1.9600    1.9700
+
+  Columns 199 through 201
+
+    1.9800    1.9900    2.0000
+
+y=8-2*x-7*exp(-x/2); graph(x,y);
+{Error using <a href="matlab:matlab.internal.language.introspective.errorDocCallback('matlab.internal.graph.MLGraph')" style="font-weight:bold">matlab.internal.graph.MLGraph</a>
+Source must be a dense double array of positive integer node
+indices.
+
+Error in <a href="matlab:matlab.internal.language.introspective.errorDocCallback('matlab.internal.graph.constructFromEdgeList', '/soft/MATLAB/R2018a/toolbox/matlab/graphfun/+matlab/+internal/+graph/constructFromEdgeList.m', 136)" style="font-weight:bold">matlab.internal.graph.constructFromEdgeList</a> (<a href="matlab: opentoline('/soft/MATLAB/R2018a/toolbox/matlab/graphfun/+matlab/+internal/+graph/constructFromEdgeList.m',136,0)">line 136</a>)
+    G = underlyingCtor(s, t, totalNodes);
+
+Error in <a href="matlab:matlab.internal.language.introspective.errorDocCallback('graph', '/soft/MATLAB/R2018a/toolbox/matlab/graphfun/@graph/graph.m', 298)" style="font-weight:bold">graph</a> (<a href="matlab: opentoline('/soft/MATLAB/R2018a/toolbox/matlab/graphfun/@graph/graph.m',298,0)">line 298</a>)
+                matlab.internal.graph.constructFromEdgeList(...
+} 
+y=8-2*x-7*exp(-x/2);
+graph(x,y)
+{Error using <a href="matlab:matlab.internal.language.introspective.errorDocCallback('matlab.internal.graph.MLGraph')" style="font-weight:bold">matlab.internal.graph.MLGraph</a>
+Source must be a dense double array of positive integer node
+indices.
+
+Error in <a href="matlab:matlab.internal.language.introspective.errorDocCallback('matlab.internal.graph.constructFromEdgeList', '/soft/MATLAB/R2018a/toolbox/matlab/graphfun/+matlab/+internal/+graph/constructFromEdgeList.m', 136)" style="font-weight:bold">matlab.internal.graph.constructFromEdgeList</a> (<a href="matlab: opentoline('/soft/MATLAB/R2018a/toolbox/matlab/graphfun/+matlab/+internal/+graph/constructFromEdgeList.m',136,0)">line 136</a>)
+    G = underlyingCtor(s, t, totalNodes);
+
+Error in <a href="matlab:matlab.internal.language.introspective.errorDocCallback('graph', '/soft/MATLAB/R2018a/toolbox/matlab/graphfun/@graph/graph.m', 298)" style="font-weight:bold">graph</a> (<a href="matlab: opentoline('/soft/MATLAB/R2018a/toolbox/matlab/graphfun/@graph/graph.m',298,0)">line 298</a>)
+                matlab.internal.graph.constructFromEdgeList(...
+} 
+plot(x,y);
+hold off
+clear
+N=5; eulerN; plot(t,y);
+hold on
+N=10; eulerN; plot(t,y);
+N=20; eulerN; plot(t,y);
+N=40; eulerN; plot(t,y);
+N=80; eulerN; plot(t,y);
+x=0:0.01:2
+
+x =
+
+  Columns 1 through 6
+
+         0    0.0100    0.0200    0.0300    0.0400    0.0500
+
+  Columns 7 through 12
+
+    0.0600    0.0700    0.0800    0.0900    0.1000    0.1100
+
+  Columns 13 through 18
+
+    0.1200    0.1300    0.1400    0.1500    0.1600    0.1700
+
+  Columns 19 through 24
+
+    0.1800    0.1900    0.2000    0.2100    0.2200    0.2300
+
+  Columns 25 through 30
+
+    0.2400    0.2500    0.2600    0.2700    0.2800    0.2900
+
+  Columns 31 through 36
+
+    0.3000    0.3100    0.3200    0.3300    0.3400    0.3500
+
+  Columns 37 through 42
+
+    0.3600    0.3700    0.3800    0.3900    0.4000    0.4100
+
+  Columns 43 through 48
+
+    0.4200    0.4300    0.4400    0.4500    0.4600    0.4700
+
+  Columns 49 through 54
+
+    0.4800    0.4900    0.5000    0.5100    0.5200    0.5300
+
+  Columns 55 through 60
+
+    0.5400    0.5500    0.5600    0.5700    0.5800    0.5900
+
+  Columns 61 through 66
+
+    0.6000    0.6100    0.6200    0.6300    0.6400    0.6500
+
+  Columns 67 through 72
+
+    0.6600    0.6700    0.6800    0.6900    0.7000    0.7100
+
+  Columns 73 through 78
+
+    0.7200    0.7300    0.7400    0.7500    0.7600    0.7700
+
+  Columns 79 through 84
+
+    0.7800    0.7900    0.8000    0.8100    0.8200    0.8300
+
+  Columns 85 through 90
+
+    0.8400    0.8500    0.8600    0.8700    0.8800    0.8900
+
+  Columns 91 through 96
+
+    0.9000    0.9100    0.9200    0.9300    0.9400    0.9500
+
+  Columns 97 through 102
+
+    0.9600    0.9700    0.9800    0.9900    1.0000    1.0100
+
+  Columns 103 through 108
+
+    1.0200    1.0300    1.0400    1.0500    1.0600    1.0700
+
+  Columns 109 through 114
+
+    1.0800    1.0900    1.1000    1.1100    1.1200    1.1300
+
+  Columns 115 through 120
+
+    1.1400    1.1500    1.1600    1.1700    1.1800    1.1900
+
+  Columns 121 through 126
+
+    1.2000    1.2100    1.2200    1.2300    1.2400    1.2500
+
+  Columns 127 through 132
+
+    1.2600    1.2700    1.2800    1.2900    1.3000    1.3100
+
+  Columns 133 through 138
+
+    1.3200    1.3300    1.3400    1.3500    1.3600    1.3700
+
+  Columns 139 through 144
+
+    1.3800    1.3900    1.4000    1.4100    1.4200    1.4300
+
+  Columns 145 through 150
+
+    1.4400    1.4500    1.4600    1.4700    1.4800    1.4900
+
+  Columns 151 through 156
+
+    1.5000    1.5100    1.5200    1.5300    1.5400    1.5500
+
+  Columns 157 through 162
+
+    1.5600    1.5700    1.5800    1.5900    1.6000    1.6100
+
+  Columns 163 through 168
+
+    1.6200    1.6300    1.6400    1.6500    1.6600    1.6700
+
+  Columns 169 through 174
+
+    1.6800    1.6900    1.7000    1.7100    1.7200    1.7300
+
+  Columns 175 through 180
+
+    1.7400    1.7500    1.7600    1.7700    1.7800    1.7900
+
+  Columns 181 through 186
+
+    1.8000    1.8100    1.8200    1.8300    1.8400    1.8500
+
+  Columns 187 through 192
+
+    1.8600    1.8700    1.8800    1.8900    1.9000    1.9100
+
+  Columns 193 through 198
+
+    1.9200    1.9300    1.9400    1.9500    1.9600    1.9700
+
+  Columns 199 through 201
+
+    1.9800    1.9900    2.0000
+
+z=8-2*x-7*exp(-x/2); plot(x,z);
+z=8-2*x-7*exp(-x/2)
+
+z =
+
+  Columns 1 through 6
+
+    1.0000    1.0149    1.0297    1.0442    1.0586    1.0728
+
+  Columns 7 through 12
+
+    1.0869    1.1008    1.1145    1.1280    1.1414    1.1546
+
+  Columns 13 through 18
+
+    1.1676    1.1805    1.1932    1.2058    1.2182    1.2304
+
+  Columns 19 through 24
+
+    1.2425    1.2544    1.2661    1.2777    1.2892    1.3004
+
+  Columns 25 through 30
+
+    1.3116    1.3225    1.3333    1.3440    1.3545    1.3648
+
+  Columns 31 through 36
+
+    1.3750    1.3851    1.3950    1.4047    1.4143    1.4238
+
+  Columns 37 through 42
+
+    1.4331    1.4423    1.4513    1.4602    1.4689    1.4775
+
+  Columns 43 through 48
+
+    1.4859    1.4942    1.5024    1.5104    1.5183    1.5260
+
+  Columns 49 through 54
+
+    1.5336    1.5411    1.5484    1.5556    1.5626    1.5696
+
+  Columns 55 through 60
+
+    1.5763    1.5830    1.5895    1.5959    1.6022    1.6083
+
+  Columns 61 through 66
+
+    1.6143    1.6201    1.6259    1.6315    1.6370    1.6423
+
+  Columns 67 through 72
+
+    1.6475    1.6526    1.6576    1.6625    1.6672    1.6718
+
+  Columns 73 through 78
+
+    1.6763    1.6806    1.6849    1.6890    1.6930    1.6968
+
+  Columns 79 through 84
+
+    1.7006    1.7042    1.7078    1.7112    1.7144    1.7176
+
+  Columns 85 through 90
+
+    1.7207    1.7236    1.7264    1.7291    1.7317    1.7342
+
+  Columns 91 through 96
+
+    1.7366    1.7389    1.7410    1.7431    1.7450    1.7468
+
+  Columns 97 through 102
+
+    1.7485    1.7501    1.7516    1.7530    1.7543    1.7555
+
+  Columns 103 through 108
+
+    1.7565    1.7575    1.7584    1.7591    1.7598    1.7603
+
+  Columns 109 through 114
+
+    1.7608    1.7611    1.7614    1.7615    1.7615    1.7615
+
+  Columns 115 through 120
+
+    1.7613    1.7611    1.7607    1.7603    1.7597    1.7591
+
+  Columns 121 through 126
+
+    1.7583    1.7575    1.7565    1.7555    1.7544    1.7532
+
+  Columns 127 through 132
+
+    1.7519    1.7505    1.7490    1.7474    1.7457    1.7439
+
+  Columns 133 through 138
+
+    1.7420    1.7401    1.7380    1.7359    1.7337    1.7314
+
+  Columns 139 through 144
+
+    1.7290    1.7265    1.7239    1.7212    1.7185    1.7157
+
+  Columns 145 through 150
+
+    1.7127    1.7097    1.7066    1.7035    1.7002    1.6969
+
+  Columns 151 through 156
+
+    1.6934    1.6899    1.6863    1.6827    1.6789    1.6751
+
+  Columns 157 through 162
+
+    1.6712    1.6672    1.6631    1.6589    1.6547    1.6504
+
+  Columns 163 through 168
+
+    1.6460    1.6415    1.6370    1.6324    1.6277    1.6229
+
+  Columns 169 through 174
+
+    1.6180    1.6131    1.6081    1.6030    1.5979    1.5926
+
+  Columns 175 through 180
+
+    1.5873    1.5820    1.5765    1.5710    1.5654    1.5597
+
+  Columns 181 through 186
+
+    1.5540    1.5482    1.5423    1.5364    1.5304    1.5243
+
+  Columns 187 through 192
+
+    1.5181    1.5119    1.5056    1.4992    1.4928    1.4863
+
+  Columns 193 through 198
+
+    1.4797    1.4731    1.4664    1.4597    1.4528    1.4459
+
+  Columns 199 through 201
+
+    1.4390    1.4319    1.4248
+
+z=8-2*x-7*exp(-x/2);
+plot(x,z)
+N=5; eulerN; plot(t,y);
+clear
+N=5; eulerN; plot(t,y);
+clear
+N=5; eulerN; plot(t,y);
+N=10; eulerN; plot(t,y);
+clear
+N=10; eulerN; plot(t,y);
+N=5; eulerN; plot(t,y);
+hold on
+N=10; eulerN; plot(t,y);
+clear
+N=5; eulerN; plot(t,y);
+hold on
+clear; N=10; eulerN; plot(t,y);
+clear; N=20; eulerN; plot(t,y);
+clear; N=40; eulerN; plot(t,y);
+clear; N=80; eulerN; plot(t,y);
+z=8-2*x-7*exp(-x/2); plot(x,z);
+{Undefined function or variable 'x'.
+} 
+x=0:0.01:2
+
+x =
+
+  Columns 1 through 6
+
+         0    0.0100    0.0200    0.0300    0.0400    0.0500
+
+  Columns 7 through 12
+
+    0.0600    0.0700    0.0800    0.0900    0.1000    0.1100
+
+  Columns 13 through 18
+
+    0.1200    0.1300    0.1400    0.1500    0.1600    0.1700
+
+  Columns 19 through 24
+
+    0.1800    0.1900    0.2000    0.2100    0.2200    0.2300
+
+  Columns 25 through 30
+
+    0.2400    0.2500    0.2600    0.2700    0.2800    0.2900
+
+  Columns 31 through 36
+
+    0.3000    0.3100    0.3200    0.3300    0.3400    0.3500
+
+  Columns 37 through 42
+
+    0.3600    0.3700    0.3800    0.3900    0.4000    0.4100
+
+  Columns 43 through 48
+
+    0.4200    0.4300    0.4400    0.4500    0.4600    0.4700
+
+  Columns 49 through 54
+
+    0.4800    0.4900    0.5000    0.5100    0.5200    0.5300
+
+  Columns 55 through 60
+
+    0.5400    0.5500    0.5600    0.5700    0.5800    0.5900
+
+  Columns 61 through 66
+
+    0.6000    0.6100    0.6200    0.6300    0.6400    0.6500
+
+  Columns 67 through 72
+
+    0.6600    0.6700    0.6800    0.6900    0.7000    0.7100
+
+  Columns 73 through 78
+
+    0.7200    0.7300    0.7400    0.7500    0.7600    0.7700
+
+  Columns 79 through 84
+
+    0.7800    0.7900    0.8000    0.8100    0.8200    0.8300
+
+  Columns 85 through 90
+
+    0.8400    0.8500    0.8600    0.8700    0.8800    0.8900
+
+  Columns 91 through 96
+
+    0.9000    0.9100    0.9200    0.9300    0.9400    0.9500
+
+  Columns 97 through 102
+
+    0.9600    0.9700    0.9800    0.9900    1.0000    1.0100
+
+  Columns 103 through 108
+
+    1.0200    1.0300    1.0400    1.0500    1.0600    1.0700
+
+  Columns 109 through 114
+
+    1.0800    1.0900    1.1000    1.1100    1.1200    1.1300
+
+  Columns 115 through 120
+
+    1.1400    1.1500    1.1600    1.1700    1.1800    1.1900
+
+  Columns 121 through 126
+
+    1.2000    1.2100    1.2200    1.2300    1.2400    1.2500
+
+  Columns 127 through 132
+
+    1.2600    1.2700    1.2800    1.2900    1.3000    1.3100
+
+  Columns 133 through 138
+
+    1.3200    1.3300    1.3400    1.3500    1.3600    1.3700
+
+  Columns 139 through 144
+
+    1.3800    1.3900    1.4000    1.4100    1.4200    1.4300
+
+  Columns 145 through 150
+
+    1.4400    1.4500    1.4600    1.4700    1.4800    1.4900
+
+  Columns 151 through 156
+
+    1.5000    1.5100    1.5200    1.5300    1.5400    1.5500
+
+  Columns 157 through 162
+
+    1.5600    1.5700    1.5800    1.5900    1.6000    1.6100
+
+  Columns 163 through 168
+
+    1.6200    1.6300    1.6400    1.6500    1.6600    1.6700
+
+  Columns 169 through 174
+
+    1.6800    1.6900    1.7000    1.7100    1.7200    1.7300
+
+  Columns 175 through 180
+
+    1.7400    1.7500    1.7600    1.7700    1.7800    1.7900
+
+  Columns 181 through 186
+
+    1.8000    1.8100    1.8200    1.8300    1.8400    1.8500
+
+  Columns 187 through 192
+
+    1.8600    1.8700    1.8800    1.8900    1.9000    1.9100
+
+  Columns 193 through 198
+
+    1.9200    1.9300    1.9400    1.9500    1.9600    1.9700
+
+  Columns 199 through 201
+
+    1.9800    1.9900    2.0000
+
+z=8-2*x-7*exp(-x/2); plot(x,z);
+z=8-2*2-7*exp(-2/2);%exact solution at t=2for k=1:5N=5*2^(k-1);eulerN;%difference between Euler approximation and exact solution at t=2.error(k)=y(N+1)-z;end
+clear
+approx;
+error
+
+error =
+
+    0.2814    0.1344    0.0658    0.0325    0.0162
+
+error(2)/2
+
+ans =
+
+    0.0672
+
+clear
+diary off]
diff --git a/OLD/math2373/lab6/off] b/OLD/math2373/lab6/off]
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..73dd29c
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/math2373/lab6/off]
@@ -0,0 +1 @@
+diary off
diff --git a/OLD/math2373/lab6/partialEuler.png b/OLD/math2373/lab6/partialEuler.png
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..fe054d6
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/math2373/lab6/partialEuler.png
diff --git a/OLD/math2373/lab7/lab7.txt b/OLD/math2373/lab7/lab7.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..446d49a
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/math2373/lab7/lab7.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,135 @@
+p100OG; p2
+
+p2 =
+
+    0.2264
+    0.1132
+    0.0377
+    0.3396
+    0.2830
+
+d=200; p100OG; p2
+
+p2 =
+
+    0.2264
+    0.1132
+    0.0377
+    0.3396
+    0.2830
+
+d=500; p100OG; p2
+
+p2 =
+
+    0.2264
+    0.1132
+    0.0377
+    0.3396
+    0.2830
+
+d=100; p100OG; p3
+
+p3 =
+
+    0.2264
+    0.1132
+    0.0377
+    0.3396
+    0.2830
+
+d=100; p100OG; p4
+
+p4 =
+
+    0.2264
+    0.1132
+    0.0377
+    0.3396
+    0.2830
+
+d=100; p100OG; p5
+
+p5 =
+
+    0.2264
+    0.1132
+    0.0377
+    0.3396
+    0.2830
+
+p100OG; p5
+
+p5 =
+
+    0.2264
+    0.1132
+    0.0377
+    0.3396
+    0.2830
+
+clear p5
+p100OG; p5
+
+p5 =
+
+    0.2264
+    0.1132
+    0.0377
+    0.3396
+    0.2830
+
+p100OG; p5
+
+p5 =
+
+    0.2264
+    0.1132
+    0.0377
+    0.3396
+    0.2830
+
+p100OG; p5
+
+p5 =
+
+    0.2264
+    0.1132
+    0.0377
+    0.3396
+    0.2830
+
+p100OG; p5
+
+p5 =
+
+    0.2264
+    0.1132
+    0.0377
+    0.3396
+    0.2830
+
+diary off
+I=eye(5);R=rref(AI);
+{Undefined function or variable 'AI'.
+} 
+I=eye(5);R=rref(A-I);
+{Matrix dimensions must agree.
+} 
+I=eye(6);R=rref(A-I);
+v=-R(:,5);
+v=-R(:,6);
+v=-R(:,6); v(6)=1;
+p=v/sum(v);
+p
+
+p =
+
+    0.0851
+    0.1702
+    0.1064
+    0.1560
+    0.2695
+    0.2128
+
+diary off
diff --git a/OLD/math2373/lab7/p100.m b/OLD/math2373/lab7/p100.m
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..3559149
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/math2373/lab7/p100.m
@@ -0,0 +1,20 @@
+A=[ 0   1/2 0   0 0   0;
+    0   0   1/3 0 1/2 0;
+    1/4 1/2 0   0 0   0;
+    1/4 0   0   0 1/2 0;
+    1/4 0   1/3 0 0   1;
+    1/4 0   1/3 1 0   0; ];
+%Matrix A from lab
+p1=[1;0;0;0;0;0];
+p2=[0;1;0;0;0;0];
+p3=[0;0;1;0;0;0];
+p4=[0;0;0;1;0;0];
+p5=[0;0;0;0;1;0];
+p6=[0;0;0;0;0;1];
+for n=1:100
+     p1=A*p1;
+     p2=A*p2;
+     p3=A*p3;
+     p4=A*p4;
+     p5=A*p5;
+end
diff --git a/OLD/math2373/lab7/p100OG.m b/OLD/math2373/lab7/p100OG.m
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..87fcc0f
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/math2373/lab7/p100OG.m
@@ -0,0 +1,19 @@
+A=[0   1/3 1/2 1/2 0;
+   1/2 0   0   0   0;
+   0   1/3 0   0   0;
+   0   1/3 1/2 0   1;
+   1/2 0   0   1/2 0];
+%Matrix A from lab
+p1=[1;0;0;0;0];
+p2=[0;1;0;0;0];
+p3=[0;0;1;0;0];
+p4=[0;0;0;1;0];
+p5=[0;0;0;0;1];
+for n=1:600
+     p1=A*p1;
+     p2=A*p2;
+     p3=A*p3;
+     p4=A*p4;
+     p5=A*p5;
+end
+
diff --git a/OLD/math2373/lab8.txt b/OLD/math2373/lab8.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..baa88c9
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/math2373/lab8.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,148 @@
+diary off
+diary off
+A=[4 -3; -7 8]
+
+A =
+
+     4    -3
+    -7     8
+
+[P,D]=eig(A)
+
+P =
+
+   -0.7071    0.3939
+   -0.7071   -0.9191
+
+
+D =
+
+     1     0
+     0    11
+
+c=inv(P)*[10;-5]
+
+c =
+
+   -7.7782
+   11.4237
+
+R=[c(1) 0 0; 0 c(2) 0], E=P*R
+
+R =
+
+   -7.7782         0         0
+         0   11.4237         0
+
+
+E =
+
+    5.5000    4.5000         0
+    5.5000  -10.5000         0
+
+R=[c(1) 0; 0 c(2)], E=P*R
+
+R =
+
+   -7.7782         0
+         0   11.4237
+
+
+E =
+
+    5.5000    4.5000
+    5.5000  -10.5000
+
+A=[12 -7 4;6 -1 1;-12 12 -7];
+[P,D]=eig(A)
+
+P =
+
+    0.2024    0.7071    0.2617
+   -0.1215    0.7071    0.7328
+   -0.9717    0.0000    0.6281
+
+
+D =
+
+   -3.0000         0         0
+         0    5.0000         0
+         0         0    2.0000
+
+c= inv(P)*[10;20;25]
+
+c =
+
+  -21.6109
+   17.9723
+    6.3683
+
+c= inv(P)*[-10;20;25]
+
+c =
+
+   27.7855
+  -52.7384
+   82.7882
+
+R=[c(1) 0 0; 0 c(2) 0; 0 0 c(3)], E=P*R
+
+R =
+
+   27.7855         0         0
+         0  -52.7384         0
+         0         0   82.7882
+
+
+E =
+
+    5.6250  -37.2917   21.6667
+   -3.3750  -37.2917   60.6667
+  -27.0000   -0.0000   52.0000
+
+clear
+A=[0 0 1 0; 0 0 0 1; 25 18 0 0; 12 40 0 0];
+[P,D]=eig(A)
+
+P =
+
+    0.0849    0.2169    0.0849    0.2169
+    0.1131   -0.1085    0.1131   -0.1085
+    0.5940    0.8677   -0.5940   -0.8677
+    0.7920   -0.4339   -0.7920    0.4339
+
+
+D =
+
+    7.0000         0         0         0
+         0    4.0000         0         0
+         0         0   -7.0000         0
+         0         0         0   -4.0000
+
+c= inv(P)*[23;16;69;0]
+
+c =
+
+  104.2294
+   47.3549
+   72.5473
+  -10.4768
+
+R=[c(1) 0 0 0; 0 c(2) 0 0; 0 0 c(3) 0; 0 0 0 c(4)], E=P*R
+
+R =
+
+  104.2294         0         0         0
+         0   47.3549         0         0
+         0         0   72.5473         0
+         0         0         0  -10.4768
+
+
+E =
+
+    8.8442   10.2727    6.1558   -2.2727
+   11.7922   -5.1364    8.2078    1.1364
+   61.9091   41.0909  -43.0909    9.0909
+   82.5455  -20.5455  -57.4545   -4.5455
+
+diary of
diff --git a/OLD/math2373/lab9.txt b/OLD/math2373/lab9.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..5079803
--- /dev/null
+++ b/OLD/math2373/lab9.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,323 @@
+t=[0:2:100]
+
+t =
+
+  Columns 1 through 11
+
+     0     2     4     6     8    10    12    14    16    18    20
+
+  Columns 12 through 22
+
+    22    24    26    28    30    32    34    36    38    40    42
+
+  Columns 23 through 33
+
+    44    46    48    50    52    54    56    58    60    62    64
+
+  Columns 34 through 44
+
+    66    68    70    72    74    76    78    80    82    84    86
+
+  Columns 45 through 51
+
+    88    90    92    94    96    98   100
+
+clear
+t=[0:2:100];
+x=10+exp(-0.2618*t)
+
+x =
+
+  Columns 1 through 6
+
+   11.0000   10.5924   10.3509   10.2079   10.1231   10.0729
+
+  Columns 7 through 12
+
+   10.0432   10.0256   10.0152   10.0090   10.0053   10.0032
+
+  Columns 13 through 18
+
+   10.0019   10.0011   10.0007   10.0004   10.0002   10.0001
+
+  Columns 19 through 24
+
+   10.0001   10.0000   10.0000   10.0000   10.0000   10.0000
+
+  Columns 25 through 30
+
+   10.0000   10.0000   10.0000   10.0000   10.0000   10.0000
+
+  Columns 31 through 36
+
+   10.0000   10.0000   10.0000   10.0000   10.0000   10.0000
+
+  Columns 37 through 42
+
+   10.0000   10.0000   10.0000   10.0000   10.0000   10.0000
+
+  Columns 43 through 48
+
+   10.0000   10.0000   10.0000   10.0000   10.0000   10.0000
+
+  Columns 49 through 51
+
+   10.0000   10.0000   10.0000
+
+clear
+t=[0:2:100];
+x=10+exp(-0.2618*t);
+Q=[-14.4721 10 -5.5279; 8.9443 -10 -8.9443; -5.5279 10 -14.4721];
+x=10+Q*exp(-0.2618*t);
+{Error using <a href="matlab:matlab.internal.language.introspective.errorDocCallback('mtimes')" style="font-weight:bold"> * </a>
+Incorrect dimensions for matrix multiplication. Check that the
+number of columns in the first matrix matches the number of rows in
+the second matrix. To perform elementwise multiplication, use '.*'.
+} 
+x=10+Q.*exp(-0.2618*t);
+{Matrix dimensions must agree.
+} 
+x=10+Q[1:].*exp(-0.2618*t);
+ x=10+Q[1:].*exp(-0.2618*t);
+       ↑
+{Error: Invalid expression. When calling a function or indexing a
+variable, use parentheses. Otherwise, check for mismatched
+delimiters.
+} 
+x=10+Q[:1].*exp(-0.2618*t);
+ x=10+Q[:1].*exp(-0.2618*t);
+       ↑
+{Error: Invalid expression. When calling a function or indexing a
+variable, use parentheses. Otherwise, check for mismatched
+delimiters.
+} 
+x=10+Q.*exp(-0.2618*t);
+{Matrix dimensions must agree.
+} 
+x=10+Q(:,1).*exp(-0.2618*t);
+plot(t,x)
+x=10+Q(1,:).*exp(-0.2618*t);
+{Matrix dimensions must agree.
+} 
+x=10+Q(:,1).*exp(-0.2618*t);
+plot(t,x)
+clear x
+x=10+Q(:,1).*exp(-0.2618*t);
+clear x
+Q(:,1)
+
+ans =
+
+  -14.4721
+    8.9443
+   -5.5279
+
+x=10+Q(:,1)*exp(-0.2618*t);
+x=10+Q(1,:)*exp(-0.2618*t);
+{Error using <a href="matlab:matlab.internal.language.introspective.errorDocCallback('mtimes')" style="font-weight:bold"> * </a>
+Incorrect dimensions for matrix multiplication. Check that the
+number of columns in the first matrix matches the number of rows
+in the second matrix. To perform elementwise multiplication, use
+'.*'.
+} 
+x=10+Q(:,1)*exp(-0.2618*t);
+plot(t,x)
+x=10+Q(1)*exp(-0.2618*t);
+Q(1)
+
+ans =
+
+  -14.4721
+
+x=10+Q(1)*exp(-0.2618*t)+Q(2)*exp(-0.2618*t)+Q(3)*exp(-0.2618*t);
+plot(t,x)
+F=-.2618; x=10+Q(1)*exp(F*t)+Q(2)*exp(F*t)+Q(3)*exp(F*t);
+plot(t,x);
+hold on;
+F=-.2618, y=3; y=10+Q(y+1)*exp(F*t)+Q(y+2)*exp(F*t)+Q(y+3)*exp(F*t);
+
+F =
+
+   -0.2618
+
+F=-.2618; y=3; y=10+Q(y+1)*exp(F*t)+Q(y+2)*exp(F*t)+Q(y+3)*exp(F*t);
+plot(t,y)
+F=-0.2; y=3; y=10+Q(y+1)*exp(F*t)+Q(y+2)*exp(F*t)+Q(y+3)*exp(F*t);
+plot(t,y)
+hold off
+plot(t,x)
+Q(4)
+
+ans =
+
+    10
+
+Q(3
+ Q(3
+    ↑
+{Error: Invalid expression. When calling a function or indexing a
+variable, use parentheses. Otherwise, check for mismatched
+delimiters.
+} 
+Q(3)
+
+ans =
+
+   -5.5279
+
+Q(0)
+{Array indices must be positive integers or logical values.
+} 
+Q(4)
+
+ans =
+
+    10
+
+Q(5)
+
+ans =
+
+   -10
+
+Q(6)
+
+ans =
+
+    10
+
+Q(7)
+
+ans =
+
+   -5.5279
+
+Q(8)
+
+ans =
+
+   -8.9443
+
+Q(9)
+
+ans =
+
+  -14.4721
+
+Q(10)
+{Index exceeds array bounds.
+} 
+Q(5)
+
+ans =
+
+   -10
+
+Q(6)
+
+ans =
+
+    10
+
+F=-0.2; y=3; y=10+Q(y,1)*exp(F*t)+Q(y,2)*exp(F*t)+Q(y,3)*exp(F*t);
+F=-0.2; y=0; x=10+Q(y,1)*exp(F*t)+Q(y,2)*exp(F*t)+Q(y,3)*exp(F*t);
+{Index in position 1 is invalid. Array indices must be positive
+integers or logical values.
+} 
+F=-0.2; y=1; x=10+Q(y,1)*exp(F*t)+Q(y,2)*exp(F*t)+Q(y,3)*exp(F*t);
+F=-0.2618; y=1; x=10+Q(y,1)*exp(F*t)+Q(y,2)*exp(F*t)+Q(y,3)*exp(F*t);
+plot(t,x)
+hold on;
+F=-0.2; y=2; x=10+Q(y,1)*exp(F*t)+Q(y,2)*exp(F*t)+Q(y,3)*exp(F*t);
+plot(t,y)
+F=-0.2618; y=1; x=10+Q(y,1)*exp(F*t)+Q(y,2)*exp(F*t)+Q(y,3)*exp(F*t);
+F=-0.2; y=2; y=10+Q(y,1)*exp(F*t)+Q(y,2)*exp(F*t)+Q(y,3)*exp(F*t);
+plot(t,y)
+clear plot
+F=-0.2618; y=1; x=10+Q(y,1)*exp(F*t)+Q(y,2)*exp(F*t)+Q(y,3)*exp(F*t);
+F=-0.2618; z=2; y=10+Q(z,1)*exp(F*t)+Q(z,2)*exp(F*t)+Q(z,3)*exp(F*t);
+F=-0.2; z=2; y=10+Q(z,1)*exp(F*t)+Q(z,2)*exp(F*t)+Q(z,3)*exp(F*t);
+plot(t,y)
+plot(t,x)
+hold onl
+{Error using <a href="matlab:matlab.internal.language.introspective.errorDocCallback('hold', '/soft/MATLAB/R2018a/toolbox/matlab/graphics/hold.m', 83)" style="font-weight:bold">hold</a> (<a href="matlab: opentoline('/soft/MATLAB/R2018a/toolbox/matlab/graphics/hold.m',83,0)">line 83</a>)
+Unknown command option.
+} 
+hold on
+plot(t,y)
+F=-0.2; z=2; y=10+Q(z,1)*exp(F*t)+Q(z,2)*exp(F*t)+Q(z,3)*exp(F*t);
+Q(2,1)
+
+ans =
+
+    8.9443
+
+F=-0.2; z=2; y=10+Q(z,1)*exp(F*t)+Q(z,2)*exp(F*t)+Q(z,3)*exp(F*t);
+F=-0.2; a=2; z=10+Q(a,1)*exp(F*t)+Q(a,2)*exp(F*t)+Q(a,3)*exp(F*t);
+F=-0.0382; a=3; z=10+Q(a,1)*exp(F*t)+Q(a,2)*exp(F*t)+Q(a,3)*exp(F*t);
+plot (t,z)
+clear plot;
+plot (t,x)
+plot (t,z)
+plot (t,x)
+hold on
+plot (t,z)
+F=-0.2; z=2; y=10+Q(z,1)*exp(F*t)+Q(z,2)*exp(F*t)+Q(z,3)*exp(F*t);
+plot(t,y)
+plot(t,x); plot(t,y) plot(t,z)
+ plot(t,x); plot(t,y) plot(t,z)
+                      ↑
+{Error: Invalid expression. Check for missing multiplication
+operator, missing or unbalanced delimiters, or other syntax
+error. To construct matrices, use brackets instead of
+parentheses.
+} 
+plot(t,x); plot(t,y); plot(t,z)
+clear plot
+plot(t,x); hold on; plot(t,y); plot(t,z)
+plot(t,x); plot(t,y); plot(t,z)
+hold on
+plot(t,x); plot(t,y); plot(t,z)
+F=-0.2; z=2; y=10+Q(z,1)*exp(F*t)+Q(z,2)*exp(F*t)+Q(z,3)*exp(F*t);
+plot(t,x); plot(t,y); plot(t,z)
+F=-0.0382; a=3; z=10+Q(a,1)*exp(F*t)+Q(a,2)*exp(F*t)+Q(a,3)*exp(F*t);
+plot(t,x); plot(t,y); plot(t,z)
+hold on;
+plot(t,x); plot(t,y); plot(t,z)
+F=-0.0382; z=10+Q(a,1)*exp(-.2618*t)+Q(a,2)*exp(-.2*t)+Q(a,3)*exp(-.0382*t);
+a=1; z=10+Q(a,1)*exp(-.2618*t)+Q(a,2)*exp(-.2*t)+Q(a,3)*exp(-.0382*t);
+a=1; x=10+Q(a,1)*exp(-.2618*t)+Q(a,2)*exp(-.2*t)+Q(a,3)*exp(-.0382*t);
+a=2; y=10+Q(a,1)*exp(-.2618*t)+Q(a,2)*exp(-.2*t)+Q(a,3)*exp(-.0382*t);
+a=3; z=10+Q(a,1)*exp(-.2618*t)+Q(a,2)*exp(-.2*t)+Q(a,3)*exp(-.0382*t);
+hold on;
+plot(t,x); plot(t,y); plot(t,z)
+plot(t,x,'b:s'); plot(t,y,'r:p'); plot(t,z,'g,t')
+{Error using <a href="matlab:matlab.internal.language.introspective.errorDocCallback('plot')" style="font-weight:bold">plot</a>
+Error in color/linetype argument.
+} 
+plot(t,x,'b:s'); plot(t,y,'r:p'); plot(t,z,'g,o')
+{Error using <a href="matlab:matlab.internal.language.introspective.errorDocCallback('plot')" style="font-weight:bold">plot</a>
+Error in color/linetype argument.
+} 
+plot(t,x,'b:s'); plot(t,y,'r:p'); plot(t,z,'-o')
+t.label("time")
+{Dot indexing is not supported for variables of this type.
+} 
+t.label('time')
+{Dot indexing is not supported for variables of this type.
+} 
+x.label('time')
+{Dot indexing is not supported for variables of this type.
+} 
+xlabel('time')
+xlabel('Time')
+ylabel('Amount of salt')
+xlabel('Time (seconds)')
+xlabel('Time (min)')
+plot(t,x,'b:s'); plot(t,y,'r:p'); plot(t,z,'-o')
+xlabel('Time (min)')
+ylabel('Amount of salt')
+hold on;
+plot(t,x,'b:s'); plot(t,y,'r:p'); plot(t,z,'-o')
+xlabel('Time (min)')
+ylabel('Amount of salt')