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 Smolensk was reached, and again
from Smolensk to Borodino. 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 Borodino 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 Kaluga road, and (after a victory - for at
Malo-Yaroslavets the field of conflict again remained theirs) without
undertaking a single serious battle, they fled still more rapidly back
to Smolensk, beyond Smolensk, beyond the Berezina, beyond Vilna, and
farther still.
On the evening of the twenty-sixth of August, Kutuzov and the whole
Russian army were convinced that the battle of Borodino was a victory.
Kutuzov 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. Kutuzov’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 Kutuzov during the retreat not do
this or that? Why did he not take up a position before reaching Fili?
Why did he not retire at once by the Kaluga 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 Kutuzov should
have moved his army to the Kaluga road long before reaching Fili, 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 Kaluga road, but just then an adjutant gallops up from
Miloradovich 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 Kaluga 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 Kaluga 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 Fili 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 Smolensk and most
palpably of all on the twenty-fourth of August at Shevardino and on
the twenty-sixth at Borodino, and each day and hour and minute of the
retreat from Borodino to Fili.
CHAPTER III
When Ermolov, having been sent by Kutuzov to inspect the position, told
the field marshal that it was impossible to fight there before Moscow
and that they must retreat, Kutuzov 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!"
Kutuzov could not yet admit the possibility of retreating beyond Moscow
without a battle.
On the Poklonny Hill, four miles from the Dorogomilov gate of Moscow,
Kutuzov got out of his carriage and sat down on a bench by the roadside.
A great crowd of generals gathered round him, and Count Rostopchin, 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 Rostopchin
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. Kutuzov’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 Kutuzov knew well.
Bennigsen, who had chosen the position, warmly displayed his Russian
patriotism (Kutuzov could not listen to this without wincing) by
insisting that Moscow must be defended. His aim was as clear as daylight
to Kutuzov: if the defense failed, to throw the blame on Kutuzov 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 Platov 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 Prozorovski,
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 Fili 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 Savostyanov’s hut. The men, women, and
children of the large peasant family crowded into the back room across
the passage. Only Malasha, 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. Malasha 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 Malasha in her own mind called
Kutuzov, 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
Kaysarov was about to draw back the curtain of the window facing
Kutuzov, but the latter moved his hand angrily and Kaysarov 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. Ermolov, Kaysarov, 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 Uvarov, who with rapid gesticulations was
giving him some information, speaking in low tones as they all did.
Chubby little Dokhturov was listening attentively with eyebrows
raised and arms folded on his stomach. On the other side sat Count
Ostermann-Tolstoy, seemingly absorbed in his own thoughts. His broad
head with its bold features and glittering eyes was resting on his hand.
Raevski, twitching forward the black hair on his temples as was his
habit, glanced now at Kutuzov and now at the door with a look of
impatience. Konovnitsyn’s firm, handsome, and kindly face was lit up by
a tender, sly smile. His glance met Malasha’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 Kutuzov 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 Kutuzov’s angry grunts and occasional cough
broke the silence. All eyes were gazing at him. Malasha 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
Fili 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. Ermolov, Dokhturov, and Raevski 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.
Malasha, 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 Kutuzov’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 Kutuzov, "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..." Kutuzov 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 Kutuzov 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.
Malasha, 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 Kutuzov 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
Kutuzov 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,
Rostopchin, who is usually represented as being the instigator of that
event, acted in an altogether different manner from Kutuzov.
After the battle of Borodino 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 Smolensk, without the
participation of Count Rostopchin 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 Rostopchin
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
Rostopchin 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 Borodino and
still more rapidly after it, despite Rostopchin’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 Rostopchin 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 Rostopchin’s orders, had already in June moved with her
Negroes and her women jesters from Moscow to her Saratov 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 Rostopchin, 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-Chalme (the center of the whole
French colony in Moscow) to remain, but ordered the venerable old
postmaster Klyucharev 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
Helene, having returned with the court from Vilna 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 Vilna 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. Helene 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 Bezukhova, 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 Helene, 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 Helene 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 Helene,
beginning to cry.
The prince tried to comfort her, but Helene, 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 Helene.
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 Helene 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. Helene 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 Helene 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 abbe 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 Helene 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, Helene - 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. Helene was wearing a white
dress, transparent over her shoulders and bosom. The abbe, 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 Helene 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. Helene 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 abbe, 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 Helene, 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
Helene 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
Helene’s imperturbable conviction that it was as simple and natural as
marrying a maiden had its effect on him too. Had Helene 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 naïvete 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 Helene 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 Helene 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 Helene’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 Marya Dmitrievna Akhrosimova, 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 Helene 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 Marya Dmitrievna, turning up her wide
sleeves with her usual threatening gesture and glancing sternly round,
moved across the room.
Though people were afraid of Marya Dmitrievna 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 Vasili, 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:
"Helene, 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.
Bilibin, who had not lost his reputation of an exceedingly clever man,
and who was one of the disinterested friends so brilliant a woman as
Helene 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, Bilibin," said Helene (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?"
Bilibin 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 mesalliance by marrying you," and Bilibin smoothed out his forehead.
"That’s a true friend!" said Helene beaming, and again touching
Bilibin’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."
Bilibin 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?" Bilibin 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 Helene, who for some reason imagined that
Pierre too loved her. "He will do anything for me."
Bilibin puckered his skin in preparation for something witty.
"Even divorce you?" said he.
Helene laughed.
Among those who ventured to doubt the justifiability of the proposed
marriage was Helene’s mother, Princess Kuragina. 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, Helene 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 Helene 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 Helene 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 manque 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 peche misericorde," * 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 Helene’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 Helene.
This letter was brought to Pierre’s house when he was on the field of
Borodino.
CHAPTER VIII
Toward the end of the battle of Borodino, Pierre, having run down
from Raevski’s battery a second time, made his way through a gully to
Knyazkovo 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 Mozhaysk 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 Mozhaysk."
"You’re a gentleman, aren’t you?"
"Yes."
"And what’s your name?"
"Peter Kirilych."
"Well then, Peter Kirilych, come along with us, we’ll take you there."
In the total darkness the soldiers walked with Pierre to Mozhaysk.
By the time they got near Mozhaysk 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
Kirilych - isn’t it?"
"Good-by, Peter Kirilych!" 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 Dolokhov." And the memory of the dinner
at the English Club when he had challenged Dolokhov flashed through
Pierre’s mind, and then he remembered his benefactor at Torzhok. 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, Dolokhov, Nesvitski,
Denisov, 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 Dolokhov,
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
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