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
Tikhon, 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 Tikhon?" 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 Tikhon 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 Tikhon 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 Tikhon 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 Tikhon 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.
"Dunyasha," she whispered. "Dunyasha!" 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 Rostov and Ilyin, accompanied by Lavrushka
who had just returned from captivity and by an hussar orderly, left
their quarters at Yankovo, ten miles from Bogucharovo, and went for a
ride - to try a new horse Ilyin had bought and to find out whether there
was any hay to be had in the villages.
For the last three days Bogucharovo 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; Rostov, as a careful squadron commander, wished
to take such provisions as remained at Bogucharovo before the French
could get them.
Rostov and Ilyin were in the merriest of moods. On the way to
Bogucharovo, a princely estate with a dwelling house and farm where
they hoped to find many domestic serfs and pretty girls, they questioned
Lavrushka about Napoleon and laughed at his stories, and raced one
another to try Ilyin’s horse.
Rostov had no idea that the village he was entering was the property of
that very Bolkonski who had been engaged to his sister.
Rostov and Ilyin gave rein to their horses for a last race along the
incline before reaching Bogucharovo, and Rostov, outstripping Ilyin, was
the first to gallop into the village street.
"You’re first!" cried Ilyin, flushed.
"Yes, always first both on the grassland and here," answered Rostov,
stroking his heated Donets horse.
"And I’d have won on my Frenchy, your excellency," said Lavrushka
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 Rostov laughing. "Is there any hay here?"
"And how like one another," said Ilyin.
"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 Rostov.
"Who do you belong to?" he asked.
"The French," replied Ilyin jestingly, "and here is Napoleon
himself" - and he pointed to Lavrushka.
"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 Rostov. "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 Ilyin on seeing Dunyasha
running resolutely toward him.
"She’ll be ours!" said Lavrushka to Ilyin, winking.
"What do you want, my pretty?" said Ilyin with a smile.
"The princess ordered me to ask your regiment and your name."
"This is Count Rostov, 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 Ilyin talking to the girl. Following Dunyasha, Alpatych
advanced to Rostov, 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 Bolkonski 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 Alpatych 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!... Alpatych... Ah, Yakov Alpatych... Grand! Forgive us for Christ’s
sake, eh?" said the peasants, smiling joyfully at him.
Rostov looked at the tipsy peasants and smiled.
"Or perhaps they amuse your honor?" remarked Alpatych 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 Rostov, 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 Rostov.
"I have the honor to report to you the actual truth," said Alpatych.
Rostov dismounted, gave his horse to the orderly, and followed Alpatych
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 Alpatych 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. Alpatych 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 Rostov and Ilyin were galloping along the road,
Princess Mary, despite the dissuasions of Alpatych, 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
Rostov passed through the anteroom.
Princess Mary was sitting helpless and bewildered in the large sitting
room, when Rostov 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 Rostov 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 Rostov’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 Rostov, 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.
Rostov’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.
Rostov, 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
Dunyasha...."
But on glancing at Rostov’s face Ilyin stopped short. He saw that his
hero and commander was following quite a different train of thought.
Rostov glanced angrily at Ilyin 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.
Alpatych 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.
Rostov stopped and, clenching his fists, suddenly and sternly turned on
Alpatych.
"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 Alpatych and went rapidly
forward. Alpatych, mastering his offended feelings, kept pace with
Rostov 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 Rostov
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
Alpatych felt that this unreasonable action might produce good results.
The peasants in the crowd were similarly impressed when they saw
Rostov’s rapid, firm steps and resolute, frowning face.
After the hussars had come to the village and Rostov 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 Vanka 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 Rostov, followed by
Ilyin, Lavrushka, and Alpatych, 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 Rostov, 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 Rostov in a wrathful voice. "Where’s the
Elder?" he cried furiously.
"The Elder.... He wants the Elder!... Dron Zakharych, 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 Rostov 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 Lavrushka and Alpatych.
Lavrushka, 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.
Alpatych 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 Rostov in a loud voice.
With a pale and frowning face Dron stepped out of the crowd.
"Are you the Elder? Bind him, Lavrushka!" shouted Rostov, 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 Rostov 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 Alpatych, coming into his own again. "It’s
wrong, lads!"
"All our stupidity, Yakov Alpatych," 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
Bogucharovo 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, Rostov 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 Bogucharovo to where the road was occupied by our troops. At
the inn at Yankovo 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, Dunyasha, 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
Dunyasha noticed her smiling as she looked out of the carriage window.
"Was it not fate that brought him to Bogucharovo, 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 Rostov was a very agreeable one. To
remember her gave him pleasure, and when his comrades, hearing of his
adventure at Bogucharovo, 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 Sonya? And his plighted word? That was why Rostov grew angry when he
was rallied about Princess Bolkonskaya.
CHAPTER XV
On receiving command of the armies Kutuzov remembered Prince Andrew and
sent an order for him to report at headquarters.
Prince Andrew arrived at Tsarevo-Zaymishche on the very day and at the
very hour that Kutuzov 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 Kutuzov. 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 Kutuzov’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 Bolkonski with a slight bow. Bolkonski 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!
Ermolov 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 Smolensk."
"Ah? You’re Pwince Bolkonski? Vewy glad to make your acquaintance! I’m
Lieutenant Colonel Denisov, better known as ‘Vaska,’" said Denisov,
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 Bolkonski?" 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 Denisov from what Natasha 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 Smolensk, 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 Denisov, too, the memories awakened by the name of
Bolkonski belonged to a distant, romantic past, when after supper and
after Natasha’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 Natasha, 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 Kutuzov. 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!"
Denisov rose and began gesticulating as he explained his plan to
Bolkonski. 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.
Bolkonski and Denisov moved to the gate, at which a knot of soldiers
(a guard of honor) was standing, and they saw Kutuzov 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. Kutuzov 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
Denisov.
"Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!" shouted those behind him.
Since Prince Andrew had last seen him Kutuzov 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 Kutuzov’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.
Kutuzov 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
Kutuzov’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 Denisov, 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. Kutuzov, his
hands still pressed on the seat, glanced at him glumly. Denisov, having
given his name, announced that he had to communicate to his Serene
Highness a matter of great importance for their country’s welfare.
Kutuzov 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!" Denisov 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 Smolensk and Vyazma. Denisov 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. Kutuzov 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 Denisov was speaking, a general with a
portfolio under his arm really did appear.
"What?" said Kutuzov, in the midst of Denisov’s explanations, "are you
ready so soon?"
"Ready, your Serene Highness," replied the general.
Kutuzov swayed his head, as much as to say: "How is one man to deal with
it all?" and again listened to Denisov.
"I give my word of honor as a Wussian officer," said Denisov, "that I
can bweak Napoleon’s line of communication!"
"What relation are you to Intendant General Kiril Andreevich Denisov?"
asked Kutuzov, interrupting him.
"He is my uncle, your Sewene Highness."
"Ah, we were friends," said Kutuzov cheerfully. "All right, all right,
friend, stay here at the staff and tomorrow we’ll have a talk."
With a nod to Denisov he turned away and put out his hand for the papers
Konovnitsyn 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 Kutuzov 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.
Kutuzov’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 Kutuzov looked round. He was listening to the general’s
report - which consisted chiefly of a criticism of the position at
Tsarevo-Zaymishche - as he had listened to Denisov, 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 Denisov 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 Kutuzov 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 Kutuzov despised cleverness and
learning and even the patriotic feeling shown by Denisov, 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
Kutuzov 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, Kutuzov 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 Kutuzov 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 Kutuzov.
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 Kutuzov.
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 Kutuzov. "It’s
sad, very sad. But remember, my dear fellow, that I am a father to you,
a second father...."
Prince Andrew told Kutuzov 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!" Kutuzov 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 Kutuzov noticed.
Kutuzov 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 Kutuzov’s podgy
face. He cut Bolkonski 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 Kutuzov, and a flush of
pleasure suffused Prince Andrew’s face at this recollection.
Taking his hand and drawing him downwards, Kutuzov offered his cheek to
be kissed, and again Prince Andrew noticed tears in the old man’s eyes.
Though Prince Andrew knew that Kutuzov’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, Kutuzov 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. Kamenski 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. Kamenski sent soldiers to Rustchuk, but I only employed
these two things and took more fortresses than Kamenski 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 Kutuzov 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 Kutuzov 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 Kutuzov 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.
Rostopchin’s broadsheets, headed by woodcuts of a drink shop, a potman,
and a Moscow burgher called Karpushka Chigirin, "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 Vasili Lvovich Pushkin’s bouts rimes.
In the corner room at the Club, members gathered to read these
broadsheets, and some liked the way Karpushka 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 Rostopchin 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 Rostopchin’s witty
remark on that occasion. The foreigners were deported to Nizhni by
boat, and Rostopchin 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 Shinshin’s witticism was added - that for that alone
Moscow ought to be grateful to Napoleon. It was said that Mamonov’s
regiment would cost him eight hundred thousand rubles, and that Bezukhov
had spent even more on his, but that the best thing about Bezukhov’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 Drubetskaya 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.
"Bezukhov 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 Nizhni.
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 Galitsyn, 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 Mamonov’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
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