War and Peace

Tolstoy, Lev Nikolayevich

(Translator: Louise and Aylmer Maude)

Published: 1869
Type(s): Novels, History, War
Source: Wikisource
About Tolstoy:
Count Lev Nikolayevich Tolstoy, commonly referred to in
English as Leo Tolstoy, was a Russian novelist, writer, essay-
ist, philosopher, Christian anarchist, pacifist, educational re-
former, moral thinker, and an influential member of the Tol-
stoy family.
As a fiction writer Tolstoy is widely regarded as one of the
greatest of all novelists, particularly noted for his master-
pieces War and Peace and Anna Karenina; in their scope,
breadth and realistic depiction of Russian life, the two books
stand at the peak of realistic fiction. As a moral philosopher
he was notable for his ideas on nonviolent resistance through
his work The Kingdom of God is Within You, which in turn in-
fluenced such twentieth-century figures as Mohandas K.
Gandhi and Martin Luther King, Jr.
Source: Wikipedia

Also available on Feedbooks for Tolstoy:

• Anna Karenina (1877)
• Where Love is, There God is Also (1885)
• The Death of Ivan Ilych (1886)
• Master and Man (1895)
• Youth (1856)
• The Cossacks (1863)
• Boyhood (1854)
• Ivan the Fool (1882)
• Work, Death, and Sickness (1903)
• Childhood (1852)
Copyright: This work is available for countries where copy-
right is Life+70.
Cette oeuvre est disponible pour les pays où le droit d'auteur
est de 70 ans après mort de l'auteur.
Note: This book is brought to you by Feedbooks.
http://www.feedbooks.com
Strictly for personal use, do not use this file for commercial
purposes.
Part 1
Chapter 1
"Well, Prince, so Genoa and Lucca are now just family es-
tates of the Buonapartes. But I warn you, if you don't tell me
that this means war, if you still try to defend the infamies and
horrors perpetrated by that Antichrist—I really believe he is
Antichrist—I will have nothing more to do with you and you
are no longer my friend, no longer my 'faithful slave,' as you
call yourself! But how do you do? I see I have frightened
you—sit down and tell me all the news."
It was in July, 1805, and the speaker was the well-known
Anna Pavlovna Scherer, maid of honor and favorite of the Em-
press Marya Fedorovna. With these words she greeted Prince
Vasili Kuragin, a man of high rank and importance, who was
the first to arrive at her reception. Anna Pavlovna had had a
cough for some days. She was, as she said, suffering from la
grippe; grippe being then a new word in St. Petersburg, used
only by the elite.
All her invitations without exception, written in French,
and delivered by a scarlet-liveried footman that morning, ran
as follows:
"If you have nothing better to do, Count [or Prince], and if
the prospect of spending an evening with a poor invalid is not
too terrible, I shall be very charmed to see you tonight
between 7 and 10- Annette Scherer."
"Heavens! what a virulent attack!" replied the prince, not in
the least disconcerted by this reception. He had just entered,
wearing an embroidered court uniform, knee breeches, and
shoes, and had stars on his breast and a serene expression on
his flat face. He spoke in that refined French in which our
grandfathers not only spoke but thought, and with the gentle,
patronizing intonation natural to a man of importance who
had grown old in society and at court. He went up to Anna
Pavlovna, kissed her hand, presenting to her his bald, scen-
ted, and shining head, and complacently seated himself on the
sofa.
"First of all, dear friend, tell me how you are. Set your
friend's mind at rest," said he without altering his tone, be-
neath the politeness and affected sympathy of which indiffer-
ence and even irony could be discerned.
"Can one be well while suffering morally? Can one be calm
in times like these if one has any feeling?" said Anna
Pavlovna. "You are staying the whole evening, I hope?"
"And the fete at the English ambassador's? Today is Wed-
nesday. I must put in an appearance there," said the prince.
"My daughter is coming for me to take me there."
"I thought today's fete had been canceled. I confess all these
festivities and fireworks are becoming wearisome."
"If they had known that you wished it, the entertainment
would have been put off," said the prince, who, like a wound-
up clock, by force of habit said things he did not even wish to
be believed.
 "Don't tease! Well, and what has been decided about
Novosiltsev's dispatch? You know everything."
"What can one say about it?" replied the prince in a cold,
listless tone. "What has been decided? They have decided that
Buonaparte has burnt his boats, and I believe that we are
ready to burn ours."
Prince Vasili always spoke languidly, like an actor repeat-
ing a stale part. Anna Pavlovna Scherer on the contrary, des-
pite her forty years, overflowed with animation and impuls-
iveness. To be an enthusiast had become her social vocation
and, sometimes even when she did not feel like it, she became
enthusiastic in order not to disappoint the expectations of
those who knew her. The subdued smile which, though it did
not suit her faded features, always played round her lips ex-
pressed, as in a spoiled child, a continual consciousness of her
charming defect, which she neither wished, nor could, nor
considered it necessary, to correct.
In the midst of a conversation on political matters Anna
Pavlovna burst out:
"Oh, don't speak to me of Austria. Perhaps I don't under-
stand things, but Austria never has wished, and does not
wish, for war. She is betraying us! Russia alone must save
Europe. Our gracious sovereign recognizes his high vocation
and will be true to it. That is the one thing I have faith in!
Our good and wonderful sovereign has to perform the noblest
role on earth, and he is so virtuous and noble that God will
not forsake him. He will fulfill his vocation and crush the hy-
dra of revolution, which has become more terrible than ever in
the person of this murderer and villain! We alone must
avenge the blood of the just one.... Whom, I ask you, can we
rely on?... England with her commercial spirit will not and
cannot understand the Emperor Alexander's loftiness of soul.
She has refused to evacuate Malta. She wanted to find, and
still seeks, some secret motive in our actions. What answer
did Novosiltsev get? None. The English have not understood
and cannot understand the self-abnegation of our Emperor
who wants nothing for himself, but only desires the good of
mankind. And what have they promised? Nothing! And what
little they have promised they will not perform! Prussia has
always declared that Buonaparte is invincible, and that all
Europe is powerless before him.... And I don't believe a word
that Hardenburg says, or Haugwitz either. This famous Prus-
sian neutrality is just a trap. I have faith only in God and the
lofty destiny of our adored monarch. He will save Europe!"
She suddenly paused, smiling at her own impetuosity.
"I think," said the prince with a smile, "that if you had been
sent instead of our dear Wintzingerode you would have cap-
tured the King of Prussia's consent by assault. You are so elo-
quent. Will you give me a cup of tea?"
"In a moment. A propos," she added, becoming calm again,
"I am expecting two very interesting men tonight, le Vicomte
de Mortemart, who is connected with the Montmorencys
through the Rohans, one of the best French families. He is one
of the genuine emigres, the good ones. And also the Abbe
Morio. Do you know that profound thinker? He has been re-
ceived by the Emperor. Had you heard?"
"I shall be delighted to meet them," said the prince. "But
tell me," he added with studied carelessness as if it had only
just occurred to him, though the question he was about to ask
was the chief motive of his visit, "is it true that the Dowager
Empress wants Baron Funke to be appointed first secretary
at Vienna? The baron by all accounts is a poor creature."
Prince Vasili wished to obtain this post for his son, but oth-
ers were trying through the Dowager Empress Marya Fe-
dorovna to secure it for the baron.
Anna Pavlovna almost closed her eyes to indicate that
neither she nor anyone else had a right to criticize what the
Empress desired or was pleased with.
"Baron Funke has been recommended to the Dowager Em-
press by her sister," was all she said, in a dry and mournful
tone.
As she named the Empress, Anna Pavlovna's face suddenly
assumed an expression of profound and sincere devotion and
respect mingled with sadness, and this occurred every time
she mentioned her illustrious patroness. She added that Her
Majesty had deigned to show Baron Funke beaucoup d'estime,
and again her face clouded over with sadness.
The prince was silent and looked indifferent. But, with the
womanly and courtierlike quickness and tact habitual to her,
Anna Pavlovna wished both to rebuke him (for daring to
speak he had done of a man recommended to the Empress)
and at the same time to console him, so she said:
"Now about your family. Do you know that since your
daughter came out everyone has been enraptured by her?
They say she is amazingly beautiful."
The prince bowed to signify his respect and gratitude.
 "I often think," she continued after a short pause, drawing
nearer to the prince and smiling amiably at him as if to show
that political and social topics were ended and the time had
come for intimate conversation—"I often think how unfairly
sometimes the joys of life are distributed. Why has fate given
you two such splendid children? I don't speak of Anatole, your
youngest. I don't like him," she added in a tone admitting of
no rejoinder and raising her eyebrows. "Two such charming
children. And really you appreciate them less than anyone,
and so you don't deserve to have them."
And she smiled her ecstatic smile.
"I can't help it," said the prince. "Lavater would have said I
lack the bump of paternity."
"Don't joke; I mean to have a serious talk with you. Do you
know I am dissatisfied with your younger son? Between
ourselves" (and her face assumed its melancholy expression),
"he was mentioned at Her Majesty's and you were pitied...."
The prince answered nothing, but she looked at him signi-
ficantly, awaiting a reply. He frowned.
"What would you have me do?" he said at last. "You know I
did all a father could for their education, and they have both
turned out fools. Hippolyte is at least a quiet fool, but Anatole
is an active one. That is the only difference between them."
He said this smiling in a way more natural and animated
than usual, so that the wrinkles round his mouth very clearly
revealed something unexpectedly coarse and unpleasant.
"And why are children born to such men as you? If you were
not a father there would be nothing I could reproach you
with," said Anna Pavlovna, looking up pensively.
 "I am your faithful slave and to you alone I can confess that
my children are the bane of my life. It is the cross I have to
bear. That is how I explain it to myself. It can't be helped!"
He said no more, but expressed his resignation to cruel fate
by a gesture. Anna Pavlovna meditated.
"Have you never thought of marrying your prodigal son
Anatole?" she asked. "They say old maids have a mania for
matchmaking, and though I don't feel that weakness in my-
self as yet, I know a little person who is very unhappy with
her father. She is a relation of yours, Princess Mary
Bolkonskaya."
Prince Vasili did not reply, though, with the quickness of
memory and perception befitting a man of the world, he indic-
ated by a movement of the head that he was considering this
information.
"Do you know," he said at last, evidently unable to check
the sad current of his thoughts, "that Anatole is costing me
forty thousand rubles a year? And," he went on after a pause,
"what will it be in five years, if he goes on like this?" Presently
he added: "That's what we fathers have to put up with.... Is
this princess of yours rich?"
"Her father is very rich and stingy. He lives in the country.
He is the well-known Prince Bolkonski who had to retire from
the army under the late Emperor, and was nicknamed 'the
King of Prussia.' He is very clever but eccentric, and a bore.
The poor girl is very unhappy. She has a brother; I think you
know him, he married Lise Meinen lately. He is an aide-de-
camp of Kutuzov's and will be here tonight."
 "Listen, dear Annette," said the prince, suddenly taking
Anna Pavlovna's hand and for some reason drawing it down-
wards. "Arrange that affair for me and I shall always be your
most devoted slave- slafe with an f, as a village elder of mine
writes in his reports. She is rich and of good family and that's
all I want."
And with the familiarity and easy grace peculiar to him, he
raised the maid of honor's hand to his lips, kissed it, and
swung it to and fro as he lay back in his armchair, looking in
another direction.
"Attendez," said Anna Pavlovna, reflecting, "I'll speak to
Lise, young Bolkonski's wife, this very evening, and perhaps
the thing can be arranged. It shall be on your family's behalf
that I'll start my apprenticeship as old maid."
Chapter 2
Anna Pavlovna's drawing room was gradually filling. The
highest Petersburg society was assembled there: people differ-
ing widely in age and character but alike in the social circle to
which they belonged. Prince Vasili's daughter, the beautiful
Helene, came to take her father to the ambassador's enter-
tainment; she wore a ball dress and her badge as maid of hon-
or. The youthful little Princess Bolkonskaya, known as la
femme la plus seduisante de Petersbourg, 1 was also there.
She had been married during the previous winter, and being
pregnant did not go to any large gatherings, but only to small
receptions. Prince Vasili's son, Hippolyte, had come with
Mortemart, whom he introduced. The Abbe Morio and many
others had also come.
To each new arrival Anna Pavlovna said, "You have not yet
seen my aunt," or "You do not know my aunt?" and very
gravely conducted him or her to a little old lady, wearing large
bows of ribbon in her cap, who had come sailing in from an-
other room as soon as the guests began to arrive; and slowly

1.The most fascinating woman in Petersburg.

turning her eyes from the visitor to her aunt, Anna Pavlovna
mentioned each one's name and then left them.
Each visitor performed the ceremony of greeting this old
aunt whom not one of them knew, not one of them wanted to
know, and not one of them cared about; Anna Pavlovna ob-
served these greetings with mournful and solemn interest and
silent approval. The aunt spoke to each of them in the same
words, about their health and her own, and the health of Her
Majesty, "who, thank God, was better today." And each visit-
or, though politeness prevented his showing impatience, left
the old woman with a sense of relief at having performed a
vexatious duty and did not return to her the whole evening.
The young Princess Bolkonskaya had brought some work in
a gold-embroidered velvet bag. Her pretty little upper lip, on
which a delicate dark down was just perceptible, was too short
for her teeth, but it lifted all the more sweetly, and was espe-
cially charming when she occasionally drew it down to meet
the lower lip. As is always the case with a thoroughly attract-
ive woman, her defect—the shortness of her upper lip and her
half-open mouth—seemed to be her own special and peculiar
form of beauty. Everyone brightened at the sight of this pretty
young woman, so soon to become a mother, so full of life and
health, and carrying her burden so lightly. Old men and dull
dispirited young ones who looked at her, after being in her
company and talking to her a little while, felt as if they too
were becoming, like her, full of life and health. All who talked
to her, and at each word saw her bright smile and the con-
stant gleam of her white teeth, thought that they were in a
specially amiable mood that day.
 The little princess went round the table with quick, short,
swaying steps, her workbag on her arm, and gaily spreading
out her dress sat down on a sofa near the silver samovar, as if
all she was doing was a pleasure to herself and to all around
her. "I have brought my work," said she in French, displaying
her bag and addressing all present. "Mind, Annette, I hope
you have not played a wicked trick on me," she added, turning
to her hostess. "You wrote that it was to be quite a small re-
ception, and just see how badly I am dressed." And she spread
out her arms to show her short-waisted, lace-trimmed, dainty
gray dress, girdled with a broad ribbon just below the breast.
"Soyez tranquille, Lise, you will always be prettier than
anyone else," replied Anna Pavlovna.
"You know," said the princess in the same tone of voice and
still in French, turning to a general, "my husband is deserting
me? He is going to get himself killed. Tell me what this
wretched war is for?" she added, addressing Prince Vasili, and
without waiting for an answer she turned to speak to his
daughter, the beautiful Helene.
"What a delightful woman this little princess is!" said
Prince Vasili to Anna Pavlovna.
One of the next arrivals was a stout, heavily built young
man with close-cropped hair, spectacles, the light-colored
breeches fashionable at that time, a very high ruffle, and a
brown dress coat. This stout young man was an illegitimate
son of Count Bezukhov, a well-known grandee of Catherine's
time who now lay dying in Moscow. The young man had not
yet entered either the military or civil service, as he had only
just returned from abroad where he had been educated, and
this was his first appearance in society. Anna Pavlovna
greeted him with the nod she accorded to the lowest hierarchy
in her drawing room. But in spite of this lowest-grade greet-
ing, a look of anxiety and fear, as at the sight of something too
large and unsuited to the place, came over her face when she
saw Pierre enter. Though he was certainly rather bigger than
the other men in the room, her anxiety could only have refer-
ence to the clever though shy, but observant and natural, ex-
pression which distinguished him from everyone else in that
drawing room.
"It is very good of you, Monsieur Pierre, to come and visit a
poor invalid," said Anna Pavlovna, exchanging an alarmed
glance with her aunt as she conducted him to her.
Pierre murmured something unintelligible, and continued
to look round as if in search of something. On his way to the
aunt he bowed to the little princess with a pleased smile, as to
an intimate acquaintance.
Anna Pavlovna's alarm was justified, for Pierre turned
away from the aunt without waiting to hear her speech about
Her Majesty's health. Anna Pavlovna in dismay detained him
with the words: "Do you know the Abbe Morio? He is a most
interesting man."
"Yes, I have heard of his scheme for perpetual peace, and it
is very interesting but hardly feasible."
"You think so?" rejoined Anna Pavlovna in order to say
something and get away to attend to her duties as hostess.
But Pierre now committed a reverse act of impoliteness. First
he had left a lady before she had finished speaking to him,
and now he continued to speak to another who wished to get
away. With his head bent, and his big feet spread apart, he
began explaining his reasons for thinking the abbe's plan
chimerical.
"We will talk of it later," said Anna Pavlovna with a smile.
And having got rid of this young man who did not know how
to behave, she resumed her duties as hostess and continued to
listen and watch, ready to help at any point where the conver-
sation might happen to flag. As the foreman of a spinning
mill, when he has set the hands to work, goes round and no-
tices here a spindle that has stopped or there one that creaks
or makes more noise than it should, and hastens to check the
machine or set it in proper motion, so Anna Pavlovna moved
about her drawing room, approaching now a silent, now a too-
noisy group, and by a word or slight rearrangement kept the
conversational machine in steady, proper, and regular motion.
But amid these cares her anxiety about Pierre was evident.
She kept an anxious watch on him when he approached the
group round Mortemart to listen to what was being said
there, and again when he passed to another group whose cen-
ter was the abbe.
Pierre had been educated abroad, and this reception at
Anna Pavlovna's was the first he had attended in Russia. He
knew that all the intellectual lights of Petersburg were
gathered there and, like a child in a toyshop, did not know
which way to look, afraid of missing any clever conversation
that was to be heard. Seeing the self-confident and refined ex-
pression on the faces of those present he was always expecting
to hear something very profound. At last he came up to Morio.
Here the conversation seemed interesting and he stood
waiting for an opportunity to express his own views, as young
people are fond of doing.
Chapter 3
Anna Pavlovna's reception was in full swing. The spindles
hummed steadily and ceaselessly on all sides. With the excep-
tion of the aunt, beside whom sat only one elderly lady, who
with her thin careworn face was rather out of place in this
brilliant society, the whole company had settled into three
groups. One, chiefly masculine, had formed round the abbe.
Another, of young people, was grouped round the beautiful
Princess Helene, Prince Vasili's daughter, and the little Prin-
cess Bolkonskaya, very pretty and rosy, though rather too
plump for her age. The third group was gathered round
Mortemart and Anna Pavlovna.
The vicomte was a nice-looking young man with soft fea-
tures and polished manners, who evidently considered himself
a celebrity but out of politeness modestly placed himself at the
disposal of the circle in which he found himself. Anna
Pavlovna was obviously serving him up as a treat to her
guests. As a clever maitre d'hotel serves up as a specially
choice delicacy a piece of meat that no one who had seen it in
the kitchen would have cared to eat, so Anna Pavlovna served
up to her guests, first the vicomte and then the abbe, as pecu-
liarly choice morsels. The group about Mortemart
immediately began discussing the murder of the Duc
d'Enghien. The vicomte said that the Duc d'Enghien had per-
ished by his own magnanimity, and that there were particular
reasons for Buonaparte's hatred of him.
"Ah, yes! Do tell us all about it, Vicomte," said Anna
Pavlovna, with a pleasant feeling that there was something a
la Louis XV in the sound of that sentence: "Contez nous cela,
Vicomte."
The vicomte bowed and smiled courteously in token of his
willingness to comply. Anna Pavlovna arranged a group round
him, inviting everyone to listen to his tale.
"The vicomte knew the duc personally," whispered Anna
Pavlovna to of the guests. "The vicomte is a wonderful racon-
teur," said she to another. "How evidently he belongs to the
best society," said she to a third; and the vicomte was served
up to the company in the choicest and most advantageous
style, like a well-garnished joint of roast beef on a hot dish.
The vicomte wished to begin his story and gave a subtle
smile.
"Come over here, Helene, dear," said Anna Pavlovna to the
beautiful young princess who was sitting some way off, the
center of another group.
The princess smiled. She rose with the same unchanging
smile with which she had first entered the room—the smile of
a perfectly beautiful woman. With a slight rustle of her white
dress trimmed with moss and ivy, with a gleam of white
shoulders, glossy hair, and sparkling diamonds, she passed
between the men who made way for her, not looking at any of
them but smiling on all, as if graciously allowing each the
privilege of admiring her beautiful figure and shapely
shoulders, back, and bosom—which in the fashion of those
days were very much exposed—and she seemed to bring the
glamour of a ballroom with her as she moved toward Anna
Pavlovna. Helene was so lovely that not only did she not show
any trace of coquetry, but on the contrary she even appeared
shy of her unquestionable and all too victorious beauty. She
seemed to wish, but to be unable, to diminish its effect.
"How lovely!" said everyone who saw her; and the vicomte
lifted his shoulders and dropped his eyes as if startled by
something extraordinary when she took her seat opposite and
beamed upon him also with her unchanging smile.
"Madame, I doubt my ability before such an audience," said
he, smilingly inclining his head.
The princess rested her bare round arm on a little table and
considered a reply unnecessary. She smilingly waited. All the
time the story was being told she sat upright, glancing now at
her beautiful round arm, altered in shape by its pressure on
the table, now at her still more beautiful bosom, on which she
readjusted a diamond necklace. From time to time she
smoothed the folds of her dress, and whenever the story pro-
duced an effect she glanced at Anna Pavlovna, at once adop-
ted just the expression she saw on the maid of honor's face,
and again relapsed into her radiant smile.
The little princess had also left the tea table and followed
Helene.
"Wait a moment, I'll get my work.... Now then, what are you
thinking of?" she went on, turning to Prince Hippolyte. "Fetch
me my workbag."
 There was a general movement as the princess, smiling and
talking merrily to everyone at once, sat down and gaily ar-
ranged herself in her seat.
"Now I am all right," she said, and asking the vicomte to be-
gin, she took up her work.
Prince Hippolyte, having brought the workbag, joined the
circle and moving a chair close to hers seated himself beside
her.
Le charmant Hippolyte was surprising by his extraordinary
resemblance to his beautiful sister, but yet more by the fact
that in spite of this resemblance he was exceedingly ugly. His
features were like his sister's, but while in her case
everything was lit up by a joyous, self-satisfied, youthful, and
constant smile of animation, and by the wonderful classic
beauty of her figure, his face on the contrary was dulled by
imbecility and a constant expression of sullen self-confidence,
while his body was thin and weak. His eyes, nose, and mouth
all seemed puckered into a vacant, wearied grimace, and his
arms and legs always fell into unnatural positions.
"It's not going to be a ghost story?" said he, sitting down be-
side the princess and hastily adjusting his lorgnette, as if
without this instrument he could not begin to speak.
"Why no, my dear fellow," said the astonished narrator,
shrugging his shoulders.
"Because I hate ghost stories," said Prince Hippolyte in a
tone which showed that he only understood the meaning of
his words after he had uttered them.
He spoke with such self-confidence that his hearers could
not be sure whether what he said was very witty or very
stupid. He was dressed in a dark-green dress coat, knee
breeches of the color of cuisse de nymphe effrayee, as he called
it, shoes, and silk stockings.
The vicomte told his tale very neatly. It was an anecdote,
then current, to the effect that the Duc d'Enghien had gone
secretly to Paris to visit Mademoiselle George; that at her
house he came upon Bonaparte, who also enjoyed the famous
actress' favors, and that in his presence Napoleon happened
to fall into one of the fainting fits to which he was subject, and
was thus at the duc's mercy. The latter spared him, and this
magnanimity Bonaparte subsequently repaid by death.
The story was very pretty and interesting, especially at the
point where the rivals suddenly recognized one another; and
the ladies looked agitated.
"Charming!" said Anna Pavlovna with an inquiring glance
at the little princess.
"Charming!" whispered the little princess, sticking the
needle into her work as if to testify that the interest and fas-
cination of the story prevented her from going on with it.
The vicomte appreciated this silent praise and smiling
gratefully prepared to continue, but just then Anna Pavlovna,
who had kept a watchful eye on the young man who so
alarmed her, noticed that he was talking too loudly and vehe-
mently with the abbe, so she hurried to the rescue. Pierre had
managed to start a conversation with the abbe about the bal-
ance of power, and the latter, evidently interested by the
young man's simple-minded eagerness, was explaining his pet
theory. Both were talking and listening too eagerly and too
naturally, which was why Anna Pavlovna disapproved.
 "The means are... the balance of power in Europe and the
rights of the people," the abbe was saying. "It is only neces-
sary for one powerful nation like Russia—barbaric as she is
said to be—to place herself disinterestedly at the head of an
alliance having for its object the maintenance of the balance
of power of Europe, and it would save the world!"
"But how are you to get that balance?" Pierre was
beginning.
At that moment Anna Pavlovna came up and, looking
severely at Pierre, asked the Italian how he stood Russian cli-
mate. The Italian's face instantly changed and assumed an of-
fensively affected, sugary expression, evidently habitual to
him when conversing with women.
"I am so enchanted by the brilliancy of the wit and culture
of the society, more especially of the feminine society, in
which I have had the honor of being received, that I have not
yet had time to think of the climate," said he.
Not letting the abbe and Pierre escape, Anna Pavlovna, the
more conveniently to keep them under observation, brought
them into the larger circle.
Chapter 4
Just then another visitor entered the drawing room: Prince
Andrew Bolkonski, the little princess' husband. He was a very
handsome young man, of medium height, with firm, clearcut
features. Everything about him, from his weary, bored expres-
sion to his quiet, measured step, offered a most striking con-
trast to his quiet, little wife. It was evident that he not only
knew everyone in the drawing room, but had found them to be
so tiresome that it wearied him to look at or listen to them.
And among all these faces that he found so tedious, none
seemed to bore him so much as that of his pretty wife. He
turned away from her with a grimace that distorted his hand-
some face, kissed Anna Pavlovna's hand, and screwing up his
eyes scanned the whole company.
"You are off to the war, Prince?" said Anna Pavlovna.
"General Kutuzov," said Bolkonski, speaking French and
stressing the last syllable of the general's name like a French-
man, "has been pleased to take me as an aide-de-camp...."
"And Lise, your wife?"
"She will go to the country."
"Are you not ashamed to deprive us of your charming wife?"
 "Andre," said his wife, addressing her husband in the same
coquettish manner in which she spoke to other men, "the
vicomte has been telling us such a tale about Mademoiselle
George and Buonaparte!"
Prince Andrew screwed up his eyes and turned away. Pi-
erre, who from the moment Prince Andrew entered the room
had watched him with glad, affectionate eyes, now came up
and took his arm. Before he looked round Prince Andrew
frowned again, expressing his annoyance with whoever was
touching his arm, but when he saw Pierre's beaming face he
gave him an unexpectedly kind and pleasant smile.
"There now!... So you, too, are in the great world?" said he
to Pierre.
"I knew you would be here," replied Pierre. "I will come to
supper with you. May I?" he added in a low voice so as not to
disturb the vicomte who was continuing his story.
"No, impossible!" said Prince Andrew, laughing and press-
ing Pierre's hand to show that there was no need to ask the
question. He wished to say something more, but at that mo-
ment Prince Vasili and his daughter got up to go and the two
young men rose to let them pass.
"You must excuse me, dear Vicomte," said Prince Vasili to
the Frenchman, holding him down by the sleeve in a friendly
way to prevent his rising. "This unfortunate fete at the
ambassador's deprives me of a pleasure, and obliges me to in-
terrupt you. I am very sorry to leave your enchanting party,"
said he, turning to Anna Pavlovna.
His daughter, Princess Helene, passed between the chairs,
lightly holding up the folds of her dress, and the smile shone
still more radiantly on her beautiful face. Pierre gazed at her
with rapturous, almost frightened, eyes as she passed him.
"Very lovely," said Prince Andrew.
"Very," said Pierre.
In passing Prince Vasili seized Pierre's hand and said to
Anna Pavlovna: "Educate this bear for me! He has been stay-
ing with me a whole month and this is the first time I have
seen him in society. Nothing is so necessary for a young man
as the society of clever women."
Anna Pavlovna smiled and promised to take Pierre in hand.
She knew his father to be a connection of Prince Vasili's. The
elderly lady who had been sitting with the old aunt rose hur-
riedly and overtook Prince Vasili in the anteroom. All the af-
fectation of interest she had assumed had left her kindly and
tearworn face and it now expressed only anxiety and fear.
"How about my son Boris, Prince?" said she, hurrying after
him into the anteroom. "I can't remain any longer in Peters-
burg. Tell me what news I may take back to my poor boy."
Although Prince Vasili listened reluctantly and not very po-
litely to the elderly lady, even betraying some impatience, she
gave him an ingratiating and appealing smile, and took his
hand that he might not go away.
"What would it cost you to say a word to the Emperor, and
then he would be transferred to the Guards at once?" said she.
"Believe me, Princess, I am ready to do all I can," answered
Prince Vasili, "but it is difficult for me to ask the Emperor. I
should advise you to appeal to Rumyantsev through Prince
Golitsyn. That would be the best way."
 The elderly lady was a Princess Drubetskaya, belonging to
one of the best families in Russia, but she was poor, and hav-
ing long been out of society had lost her former influential
connections. She had now come to Petersburg to procure an
appointment in the Guards for her only son. It was, in fact,
solely to meet Prince Vasili that she had obtained an invita-
tion to Anna Pavlovna's reception and had sat listening to the
vicomte's story. Prince Vasili's words frightened her, an em-
bittered look clouded her once handsome face, but only for a
moment; then she smiled again and dutched Prince Vasili's
arm more tightly.
"Listen to me, Prince," said she. "I have never yet asked you
for anything and I never will again, nor have I ever reminded
you of my father's friendship for you; but now I entreat you for
God's sake to do this for my son—and I shall always regard
you as a benefactor," she added hurriedly. "No, don't be angry,
but promise! I have asked Golitsyn and he has refused. Be the
kindhearted man you always were," she said, trying to smile
though tears were in her eyes.
"Papa, we shall be late," said Princess Helene, turning her
beautiful head and looking over her classically molded
shoulder as she stood waiting by the door.
Influence in society, however, is a capital which has to be
economized if it is to last. Prince Vasili knew this, and having
once realized that if he asked on behalf of all who begged of
him, he would soon be unable to ask for himself, he became
chary of using his influence. But in Princess Drubetskaya's
case he felt, after her second appeal, something like qualms of
conscience. She had reminded him of what was quite true; he
had been indebted to her father for the first steps in his ca-
reer. Moreover, he could see by her manners that she was one
of those women—mostly mothers—who, having once made up
their minds, will not rest until they have gained their end,
and are prepared if necessary to go on insisting day after day
and hour after hour, and even to make scenes. This last con-
sideration moved him.
"My dear Anna Mikhaylovna," said he with his usual famili-
arity and weariness of tone, "it is almost impossible for me to
do what you ask; but to prove my devotion to you and how I
respect your father's memory, I will do the impossible—your
son shall be transferred to the Guards. Here is my hand on it.
Are you satisfied?"
"My dear benefactor! This is what I expected from you—I
knew your kindness!" He turned to go.
"Wait—just a word! When he has been transferred to the
Guards..." she faltered. "You are on good terms with Michael
Ilarionovich Kutuzov... recommend Boris to him as adjutant!
Then I shall be at rest, and then..."
Prince Vasili smiled.
"No, I won't promise that. You don't know how Kutuzov is
pestered since his appointment as Commander in Chief. He
told me himself that all the Moscow ladies have conspired to
give him all their sons as adjutants."
"No, but do promise! I won't let you go! My dear
benefactor..."
"Papa," said his beautiful daughter in the same tone as be-
fore, "we shall be late."
"Well, au revoir! Good-by! You hear her?"
 "Then tomorrow you will speak to the Emperor?"
"Certainly; but about Kutuzov, I don't promise."
"Do promise, do promise, Vasili!" cried Anna Mikhaylovna
as he went, with the smile of a coquettish girl, which at one
time probably came naturally to her, but was now very ill-
suited to her careworn face.
Apparently she had forgotten her age and by force of habit
employed all the old feminine arts. But as soon as the prince
had gone her face resumed its former cold, artificial expres-
sion. She returned to the group where the vicomte was still
talking, and again pretended to listen, while waiting till it
would be time to leave. Her task was accomplished.
Chapter 5
"And what do you think of this latest comedy, the corona-
tion at Milan?" asked Anna Pavlovna, "and of the comedy of
the people of Genoa and Lucca laying their petitions before
Monsieur Buonaparte, and Monsieur Buonaparte sitting on a
throne and granting the petitions of the nations? Adorable! It
is enough to make one's head whirl! It is as if the whole world
had gone crazy."
Prince Andrew looked Anna Pavlovna straight in the face
with a sarcastic smile.
"'Dieu me la donne, gare a qui la touche!' 2 They say he was
very fine when he said that," he remarked, repeating the
words in Italian: "'Dio mi l'ha dato. Guai a chi la tocchi!'"
"I hope this will prove the last drop that will make the glass
run over," Anna Pavlovna continued. "The sovereigns will not
be able to endure this man who is a menace to everything."
"The sovereigns? I do not speak of Russia," said the vicomte,
polite but hopeless: "The sovereigns, madame... What have
they done for Louis XVII, for the Queen, or for Madame Eliza-
beth? Nothing!" and he became more animated. "And believe

2.God has given it to me, let him who touches it beware!

me, they are reaping the reward of their betrayal of the Bour-
bon cause. The sovereigns! Why, they are sending ambassad-
ors to compliment the usurper."
And sighing disdainfully, he again changed his position.
Prince Hippolyte, who had been gazing at the vicomte for
some time through his lorgnette, suddenly turned completely
round toward the little princess, and having asked for a
needle began tracing the Conde coat of arms on the table. He
explained this to her with as much gravity as if she had asked
him to do it.
"Baton de gueules, engrele de gueules d' azur—maison
Conde," said he.
The princess listened, smiling.
"If Buonaparte remains on the throne of France a year
longer," the vicomte continued, with the air of a man who, in a
matter with which he is better acquainted than anyone else,
does not listen to others but follows the current of his own
thoughts, "things will have gone too far. By intrigues, viol-
ence, exile, and executions, French society—I mean good
French society—will have been forever destroyed, and then..."
He shrugged his shoulders and spread out his hands. Pierre
wished to make a remark, for the conversation interested him,
but Anna Pavlovna, who had him under observation,
interrupted:
"The Emperor Alexander," said she, with the melancholy
which always accompanied any reference of hers to the Imper-
ial family, "has declared that he will leave it to the French
people themselves to choose their own form of government;
and I believe that once free from the usurper, the whole
nation will certainly throw itself into the arms of its rightful
king," she concluded, trying to be amiable to the royalist
emigrant.
"That is doubtful," said Prince Andrew. "Monsieur le
Vicomte quite rightly supposes that matters have already
gone too far. I think it will be difficult to return to the old
regime."
"From what I have heard," said Pierre, blushing and break-
ing into the conversation, "almost all the aristocracy has
already gone over to Bonaparte's side."
"It is the Buonapartists who say that," replied the vicomte
without looking at Pierre. "At the present time it is difficult to
know the real state of French public opinion."
"Bonaparte has said so," remarked Prince Andrew with a
sarcastic smile.
It was evident that he did not like the vicomte and was aim-
ing his remarks at him, though without looking at him.
"'I showed them the path to glory, but they did not follow
it,'" Prince Andrew continued after a short silence, again quot-
ing Napoleon's words. "'I opened my antechambers and they
crowded in.' I do not know how far he was justified in saying
so."
"Not in the least," replied the vicomte. "After the murder of
the duc even the most partial ceased to regard him as a hero.
If to some people," he went on, turning to Anna Pavlovna, "he
ever was a hero, after the murder of the duc there was one
martyr more in heaven and one hero less on earth."
Before Anna Pavlovna and the others had time to smile
their appreciation of the vicomte's epigram, Pierre again
broke into the conversation, and though Anna Pavlovna felt
sure he would say something inappropriate, she was unable to
stop him.
"The execution of the Duc d'Enghien," declared Monsieur
Pierre, "was a political necessity, and it seems to me that Na-
poleon showed greatness of soul by not fearing to take on him-
self the whole responsibility of that deed."
"Dieu! Mon Dieu!" muttered Anna Pavlovna in a terrified
whisper.
"What, Monsieur Pierre... Do you consider that assassina-
tion shows greatness of soul?" said the little princess, smiling
and drawing her work nearer to her.
"Oh! Oh!" exclaimed several voices.
"Capital!" said Prince Hippolyte in English, and began slap-
ping his knee with the palm of his hand.
The vicomte merely shrugged his shoulders. Pierre looked
solemnly at his audience over his spectacles and continued.
"I say so," he continued desperately, "because the Bourbons
fled from the Revolution leaving the people to anarchy, and
Napoleon alone understood the Revolution and quelled it, and
so for the general good, he could not stop short for the sake of
one man's life."
"Won't you come over to the other table?" suggested Anna
Pavlovna.
But Pierre continued his speech without heeding her.
"No," cried he, becoming more and more eager, "Napoleon is
great because he rose superior to the Revolution, suppressed
its abuses, preserved all that was good in it—equality of
citizenship and freedom of speech and of the press—and only
for that reason did he obtain power."
"Yes, if having obtained power, without availing himself of
it to commit murder he had restored it to the rightful king, I
should have called him a great man," remarked the vicomte.
"He could not do that. The people only gave him power that
he might rid them of the Bourbons and because they saw that
he was a great man. The Revolution was a grand thing!" con-
tinued Monsieur Pierre, betraying by this desperate and pro-
vocative proposition his extreme youth and his wish to ex-
press all that was in his mind.
"What? Revolution and regicide a grand thing?... Well, after
that... But won't you come to this other table?" repeated Anna
Pavlovna.
"Rousseau's Contrat social," said the vicomte with a toler-
ant smile.
"I am not speaking of regicide, I am speaking about ideas."
"Yes: ideas of robbery, murder, and regicide," again interjec-
ted an ironical voice.
"Those were extremes, no doubt, but they are not what is
most important. What is important are the rights of man,
emancipation from prejudices, and equality of citizenship, and
all these ideas Napoleon has retained in full force."
"Liberty and equality," said the vicomte contemptuously, as
if at last deciding seriously to prove to this youth how foolish
his words were, "high-sounding words which have long been
discredited. Who does not love liberty and equality? Even our
Saviour preached liberty and equality. Have people since the
Revolution become happier? On the contrary. We wanted
liberty, but Buonaparte has destroyed it."
Prince Andrew kept looking with an amused smile from Pi-
erre to the vicomte and from the vicomte to their hostess. In
the first moment of Pierre's outburst Anna Pavlovna, despite
her social experience, was horror-struck. But when she saw
that Pierre's sacrilegious words had not exasperated the
vicomte, and had convinced herself that it was impossible to
stop him, she rallied her forces and joined the vicomte in a
vigorous attack on the orator.
"But, my dear Monsieur Pierre," said she, "how do you ex-
plain the fact of a great man executing a duc—or even an or-
dinary man who—is innocent and untried?"
"I should like," said the vicomte, "to ask how monsieur ex-
plains the 18th Brumaire; was not that an imposture? It was
a swindle, and not at all like the conduct of a great man!"
"And the prisoners he killed in Africa? That was horrible!"
said the little princess, shrugging her shoulders.
"He's a low fellow, say what you will," remarked Prince
Hippolyte.
Pierre, not knowing whom to answer, looked at them all
and smiled. His smile was unlike the half-smile of other
people. When he smiled, his grave, even rather gloomy, look
was instantaneously replaced by another—a childlike, kindly,
even rather silly look, which seemed to ask forgiveness.
The vicomte who was meeting him for the first time saw
clearly that this young Jacobin was not so terrible as his
words suggested. All were silent.
 "How do you expect him to answer you all at once?" said
Prince Andrew. "Besides, in the actions of a statesman one
has to distinguish between his acts as a private person, as a
general, and as an emperor. So it seems to me."
"Yes, yes, of course!" Pierre chimed in, pleased at the ar-
rival of this reinforcement.
"One must admit," continued Prince Andrew, "that Napo-
leon as a man was great on the bridge of Arcola, and in the
hospital at Jaffa where he gave his hand to the plague-
stricken; but... but there are other acts which it is difficult to
justify."
Prince Andrew, who had evidently wished to tone down the
awkwardness of Pierre's remarks, rose and made a sign to his
wife that it was time to go.
Suddenly Prince Hippolyte started up making signs to
everyone to attend, and asking them all to be seated began:
"I was told a charming Moscow story today and must treat
you to it. Excuse me, Vicomte—I must tell it in Russian or the
point will be lost...." And Prince Hippolyte began to tell his
story in such Russian as a Frenchman would speak after
spending about a year in Russia. Everyone waited, so emphat-
ically and eagerly did he demand their attention to his story.
"There is in Moscow a lady, une dame, and she is very
stingy. She must have two footmen behind her carriage, and
very big ones. That was her taste. And she had a lady's maid,
also big. She said..."
Here Prince Hippolyte paused, evidently collecting his ideas
with difficulty.
 "She said... Oh yes! She said, 'Girl,' to the maid, 'put on a
livery, get up behind the carriage, and come with me while I
make some calls.'"
Here Prince Hippolyte spluttered and burst out laughing
long before his audience, which produced an effect unfavor-
able to the narrator. Several persons, among them the elderly
lady and Anna Pavlovna, did however smile.
"She went. Suddenly there was a great wind. The girl lost
her hat and her long hair came down...." Here he could con-
tain himself no longer and went on, between gasps of
laughter: "And the whole world knew...."
And so the anecdote ended. Though it was unintelligible
why he had told it, or why it had to be told in Russian, still
Anna Pavlovna and the others appreciated Prince Hippolyte's
social tact in so agreeably ending Pierre's unpleasant and un-
amiable outburst. After the anecdote the conversation broke
up into insignificant small talk about the last and next balls,
about theatricals, and who would meet whom, and when and
where.
Chapter 6
Having thanked Anna Pavlovna for her charming soiree,
the guests began to take their leave.
Pierre was ungainly. Stout, about the average height,
broad, with huge red hands; he did not know, as the saying is,
how to enter a drawing room and still less how to leave one;
that is, how to say something particularly agreeable before go-
ing away. Besides this he was absent-minded. When he rose
to go, he took up instead of his own, the general's three-
cornered hat, and held it, pulling at the plume, till the general
asked him to restore it. All his absent-mindedness and inabil-
ity to enter a room and converse in it was, however, redeemed
by his kindly, simple, and modest expression. Anna Pavlovna
turned toward him and, with a Christian mildness that ex-
pressed forgiveness of his indiscretion, nodded and said: "I
hope to see you again, but I also hope you will change your
opinions, my dear Monsieur Pierre."
When she said this, he did not reply and only bowed, but
again everybody saw his smile, which said nothing, unless
perhaps, "Opinions are opinions, but you see what a capital,
good-natured fellow I am." And everyone, including Anna
Pavlovna, felt this.
 Prince Andrew had gone out into the hall, and, turning his
shoulders to the footman who was helping him on with his
cloak, listened indifferently to his wife's chatter with Prince
Hippolyte who had also come into the hall. Prince Hippolyte
stood close to the pretty, pregnant princess, and stared fixedly
at her through his eyeglass.
"Go in, Annette, or you will catch cold," said the little prin-
cess, taking leave of Anna Pavlovna. "It is settled," she added
in a low voice.
Anna Pavlovna had already managed to speak to Lise about
the match she contemplated between Anatole and the little
princess' sister-in-law.
"I rely on you, my dear," said Anna Pavlovna, also in a low
tone. "Write to her and let me know how her father looks at
the matter. Au revoir!"—and she left the hall.
Prince Hippolyte approached the little princess and, bend-
ing his face close to her, began to whisper something.
Two footmen, the princess' and his own, stood holding a
shawl and a cloak, waiting for the conversation to finish. They
listened to the French sentences which to them were mean-
ingless, with an air of understanding but not wishing to ap-
pear to do so. The princess as usual spoke smilingly and
listened with a laugh.
"I am very glad I did not go to the ambassador's," said
Prince Hippolyte "-so dull-. It has been a delightful evening,
has it not? Delightful!"
"They say the ball will be very good," replied the princess,
drawing up her downy little lip. "All the pretty women in soci-
ety will be there."
 "Not all, for you will not be there; not all," said Prince Hip-
polyte smiling joyfully; and snatching the shawl from the foot-
man, whom he even pushed aside, he began wrapping it
round the princess. Either from awkwardness or intentionally
(no one could have said which) after the shawl had been ad-
justed he kept his arm around her for a long time, as though
embracing her.
Still smiling, she gracefully moved away, turning and glan-
cing at her husband. Prince Andrew's eyes were closed, so
weary and sleepy did he seem.
"Are you ready?" he asked his wife, looking past her.
Prince Hippolyte hurriedly put on his cloak, which in the
latest fashion reached to his very heels, and, stumbling in it,
ran out into the porch following the princess, whom a footman
was helping into the carriage.
"Princesse, au revoir," cried he, stumbling with his tongue
as well as with his feet.
The princess, picking up her dress, was taking her seat in
the dark carriage, her husband was adjusting his saber;
Prince Hippolyte, under pretense of helping, was in everyone's
way.
"Allow me, sir," said Prince Andrew in Russian in a cold,
disagreeable tone to Prince Hippolyte who was blocking his
path.
"I am expecting you, Pierre," said the same voice, but gently
and affectionately.
The postilion started, the carriage wheels rattled. Prince
Hippolyte laughed spasmodically as he stood in the porch
waiting for the vicomte whom he had promised to take home.
 "Well, mon cher," said the vicomte, having seated himself
beside Hippolyte in the carriage, "your little princess is very
nice, very nice indeed, quite French," and he kissed the tips of
his fingers. Hippolyte burst out laughing.
"Do you know, you are a terrible chap for all your innocent
airs," continued the vicomte. "I pity the poor husband, that
little officer who gives himself the airs of a monarch."
Hippolyte spluttered again, and amid his laughter said,
"And you were saying that the Russian ladies are not equal to
the French? One has to know how to deal with them."
Pierre reaching the house first went into Prince Andrew's
study like one quite at home, and from habit immediately lay
down on the sofa, took from the shelf the first book that came
to his hand (it was Caesar's Commentaries), and resting on
his elbow, began reading it in the middle.
"What have you done to Mlle Scherer? She will be quite ill
now," said Prince Andrew, as he entered the study, rubbing
his small white hands.
Pierre turned his whole body, making the sofa creak. He lif-
ted his eager face to Prince Andrew, smiled, and waved his
hand.
"That abbe is very interesting but he does not see the thing
in the right light.... In my opinion perpetual peace is possible
but—I do not know how to express it... not by a balance of
political power...."
It was evident that Prince Andrew was not interested in
such abstract conversation.
"One can't everywhere say all one thinks, mon cher. Well,
have you at last decided on anything? Are you going to be a
guardsman or a diplomatist?" asked Prince Andrew after a
momentary silence.
Pierre sat up on the sofa, with his legs tucked under him.
"Really, I don't yet know. I don't like either the one or the
other."
"But you must decide on something! Your father expects it."
Pierre at the age of ten had been sent abroad with an abbe
as tutor, and had remained away till he was twenty. When he
returned to Moscow his father dismissed the abbe and said to
the young man, "Now go to Petersburg, look round, and
choose your profession. I will agree to anything. Here is a let-
ter to Prince Vasili, and here is money. Write to me all about
it, and I will help you in everything." Pierre had already been
choosing a career for three months, and had not decided on
anything. It was about this choice that Prince Andrew was
speaking. Pierre rubbed his forehead.
"But he must be a Freemason," said he, referring to the
abbe whom he had met that evening.
"That is all nonsense." Prince Andrew again interrupted
him, "let us talk business. Have you been to the Horse
Guards?"
"No, I have not; but this is what I have been thinking and
wanted to tell you. There is a war now against Napoleon. If it
were a war for freedom I could understand it and should be
the first to enter the army; but to help England and Austria
against the greatest man in the world is not right."
Prince Andrew only shrugged his shoulders at Pierre's
childish words. He put on the air of one who finds it im-
possible to reply to such nonsense, but it would in fact have
been difficult to give any other answer than the one Prince
Andrew gave to this naive question.
"If no one fought except on his own conviction, there would
be no wars," he said.
"And that would be splendid," said Pierre.
Prince Andrew smiled ironically.
"Very likely it would be splendid, but it will never come
about..."
"Well, why are you going to the war?" asked Pierre.
"What for? I don't know. I must. Besides that I am going..."
He paused. "I am going because the life I am leading here
does not suit me!"
Chapter 7
The rustle of a woman's dress was heard in the next room.
Prince Andrew shook himself as if waking up, and his face as-
sumed the look it had had in Anna Pavlovna's drawing room.
Pierre removed his feet from the sofa. The princess came in.
She had changed her gown for a house dress as fresh and el-
egant as the other. Prince Andrew rose and politely placed a
chair for her.
"How is it," she began, as usual in French, settling down
briskly and fussily in the easy chair, "how is it Annette never
got married? How stupid you men all are not to have married
her! Excuse me for saying so, but you have no sense about wo-
men. What an argumentative fellow you are, Monsieur
Pierre!"
"And I am still arguing with your husband. I can't under-
stand why he wants to go to the war," replied Pierre, address-
ing the princess with none of the embarrassment so commonly
shown by young men in their intercourse with young women.
The princess started. Evidently Pierre's words touched her
to the quick.
"Ah, that is just what I tell him!" said she. "I don't under-
stand it; I don't in the least understand why men can't live
without wars. How is it that we women don't want anything
of the kind, don't need it? Now you shall judge between us. I
always tell him: Here he is Uncle's aide-de-camp, a most bril-
liant position. He is so well known, so much appreciated by
everyone. The other day at the Apraksins' I heard a lady ask-
ing, 'Is that the famous Prince Andrew?' I did indeed." She
laughed. "He is so well received everywhere. He might easily
become aide-de-camp to the Emperor. You know the Emperor
spoke to him most graciously. Annette and I were speaking of
how to arrange it. What do you think?"
Pierre looked at his friend and, noticing that he did not like
the conversation, gave no reply.
"When are you starting?" he asked.
"Oh, don't speak of his going, don't! I won't hear it spoken
of," said the princess in the same petulantly playful tone in
which she had spoken to Hippolyte in the drawing room and
which was so plainly ill-suited to the family circle of which Pi-
erre was almost a member. "Today when I remembered that
all these delightful associations must be broken off... and then
you know, Andre..." (she looked significantly at her husband)
"I'm afraid, I'm afraid!" she whispered, and a shudder ran
down her back.
Her husband looked at her as if surprised to notice that
someone besides Pierre and himself was in the room, and ad-
dressed her in a tone of frigid politeness.
"What is it you are afraid of, Lise? I don't understand," said
he.
 "There, what egotists men all are: all, all egotists! Just for a
whim of his own, goodness only knows why, he leaves me and
locks me up alone in the country."
"With my father and sister, remember," said Prince Andrew
gently.
"Alone all the same, without my friends.... And he expects
me not to be afraid."
Her tone was now querulous and her lip drawn up, giving
her not a joyful, but an animal, squirrel-like expression. She
paused as if she felt it indecorous to speak of her pregnancy
before Pierre, though the gist of the matter lay in that.
"I still can't understand what you are afraid of," said Prince
Andrew slowly, not taking his eyes off his wife.
The princess blushed, and raised her arms with a gesture of
despair.
"No, Andrew, I must say you have changed. Oh, how you
have..."
"Your doctor tells you to go to bed earlier," said Prince
Andrew. "You had better go."
The princess said nothing, but suddenly her short downy lip
quivered. Prince Andrew rose, shrugged his shoulders, and
walked about the room.
Pierre looked over his spectacles with naive surprise, now
at him and now at her, moved as if about to rise too, but
changed his mind.
"Why should I mind Monsieur Pierre being here?" ex-
claimed the little princess suddenly, her pretty face all at once
distorted by a tearful grimace. "I have long wanted to ask you,
Andrew, why you have changed so to me? What have I done to
you? You are going to the war and have no pity for me. Why is
it?"
"Lise!" was all Prince Andrew said. But that one word ex-
pressed an entreaty, a threat, and above all conviction that
she would herself regret her words. But she went on
hurriedly:
"You treat me like an invalid or a child. I see it all! Did you
behave like that six months ago?"
"Lise, I beg you to desist," said Prince Andrew still more
emphatically.
Pierre, who had been growing more and more agitated as he
listened to all this, rose and approached the princess. He
seemed unable to bear the sight of tears and was ready to cry
himself.
"Calm yourself, Princess! It seems so to you because... I as-
sure you I myself have experienced... and so... because... No,
excuse me! An outsider is out of place here... No, don't distress
yourself... Good-by!"
Prince Andrew caught him by the hand.
"No, wait, Pierre! The princess is too kind to wish to deprive
me of the pleasure of spending the evening with you."
"No, he thinks only of himself," muttered the princess
without restraining her angry tears.
"Lise!" said Prince Andrew dryly, raising his voice to the
pitch which indicates that patience is exhausted.
Suddenly the angry, squirrel-like expression of the princess'
pretty face changed into a winning and piteous look of fear.
Her beautiful eyes glanced askance at her husband's face, and
her own assumed the timid, deprecating expression of a dog
when it rapidly but feebly wags its drooping tail.
"Mon Dieu, mon Dieu!" she muttered, and lifting her dress
with one hand she went up to her husband and kissed him on
the forehead.
"Good night, Lise," said he, rising and courteously kissing
her hand as he would have done to a stranger.
Chapter 8
The friends were silent. Neither cared to begin talking. Pi-
erre continually glanced at Prince Andrew; Prince Andrew
rubbed his forehead with his small hand.
"Let us go and have supper," he said with a sigh, going to
the door.
They entered the elegant, newly decorated, and luxurious
dining room. Everything from the table napkins to the silver,
china, and glass bore that imprint of newness found in the
households of the newly married. Halfway through supper
Prince Andrew leaned his elbows on the table and, with a look
of nervous agitation such as Pierre had never before seen on
his face, began to talk—as one who has long had something on
his mind and suddenly determines to speak out.
"Never, never marry, my dear fellow! That's my advice: nev-
er marry till you can say to yourself that you have done all
you are capable of, and until you have ceased to love the wo-
man of your choice and have seen her plainly as she is, or else
you will make a cruel and irrevocable mistake. Marry when
you are old and good for nothing—or all that is good and noble
in you will be lost. It will all be wasted on trifles. Yes! Yes!
Yes! Don't look at me with such surprise. If you marry
expecting anything from yourself in the future, you will feel at
every step that for you all is ended, all is closed except the
drawing room, where you will be ranged side by side with a
court lackey and an idiot!... But what's the good?..." and he
waved his arm.
Pierre took off his spectacles, which made his face seem dif-
ferent and the good-natured expression still more apparent,
and gazed at his friend in amazement.
"My wife," continued Prince Andrew, "is an excellent wo-
man, one of those rare women with whom a man's honor is
safe; but, O God, what would I not give now to be unmarried!
You are the first and only one to whom I mention this, be-
cause I like you."
As he said this Prince Andrew was less than ever like that
Bolkonski who had lolled in Anna Pavlovna's easy chairs and
with half-closed eyes had uttered French phrases between his
teeth. Every muscle of his thin face was now quivering with
nervous excitement; his eyes, in which the fire of life had
seemed extinguished, now flashed with brilliant light. It was
evident that the more lifeless he seemed at ordinary times,
the more impassioned he became in these moments of almost
morbid irritation.
"You don't understand why I say this," he continued, "but it
is the whole story of life. You talk of Bonaparte and his ca-
reer," said he (though Pierre had not mentioned Bonaparte),
"but Bonaparte when he worked went step by step toward his
goal. He was free, he had nothing but his aim to consider, and
he reached it. But tie yourself up with a woman and, like a
chained convict, you lose all freedom! And all you have of hope
and strength merely weighs you down and torments you with
regret. Drawing rooms, gossip, balls, vanity, and trivial-
ity—these are the enchanted circle I cannot escape from. I am
now going to the war, the greatest war there ever was, and I
know nothing and am fit for nothing. I am very amiable and
have a caustic wit," continued Prince Andrew, "and at Anna
Pavlovna's they listen to me. And that stupid set without
whom my wife cannot exist, and those women... If you only
knew what those society women are, and women in general!
My father is right. Selfish, vain, stupid, trivial in
everything—that's what women are when you see them in
their true colors! When you meet them in society it seems as if
there were something in them, but there's nothing, nothing,
nothing! No, don't marry, my dear fellow; don't marry!" con-
cluded Prince Andrew.
"It seems funny to me," said Pierre, "that you, you should
consider yourself incapable and your life a spoiled life. You
have everything before you, everything. And you..."
He did not finish his sentence, but his tone showed how
highly he thought of his friend and how much he expected of
him in the future.
"How can he talk like that?" thought Pierre. He considered
his friend a model of perfection because Prince Andrew pos-
sessed in the highest degree just the very qualities Pierre
lacked, and which might be best described as strength of will.
Pierre was always astonished at Prince Andrew's calm man-
ner of treating everybody, his extraordinary memory, his ex-
tensive reading (he had read everything, knew everything,
and had an opinion about everything), but above all at his
capacity for work and study. And if Pierre was often struck by
Andrew's lack of capacity for philosophical meditation (to
which he himself was particularly addicted), he regarded even
this not as a defect but as a sign of strength.
Even in the best, most friendly and simplest relations of
life, praise and commendation are essential, just as grease is
necessary to wheels that they may run smoothly.
"My part is played out," said Prince Andrew. "What's the
use of talking about me? Let us talk about you," he added
after a silence, smiling at his reassuring thoughts.
That smile was immediately reflected on Pierre's face.
"But what is there to say about me?" said Pierre, his face re-
laxing into a careless, merry smile. "What am I? An illegitim-
ate son!" He suddenly blushed crimson, and it was plain that
he had made a great effort to say this. "Without a name and
without means... And it really..." But he did not say what "it
really" was. "For the present I am free and am all right. Only
I haven't the least idea what I am to do; I wanted to consult
you seriously."
Prince Andrew looked kindly at him, yet his
glance—friendly and affectionate as it was—expressed a
sense of his own superiority.
"I am fond of you, especially as you are the one live man
among our whole set. Yes, you're all right! Choose what you
will; it's all the same. You'll be all right anywhere. But look
here: give up visiting those Kuragins and leading that sort of
life. It suits you so badly—all this debauchery, dissipation,
and the rest of it!"
 "What would you have, my dear fellow?" answered Pierre,
shrugging his shoulders. "Women, my dear fellow; women!"
"I don't understand it," replied Prince Andrew. "Women
who are comme il faut, that's a different matter; but the Kur-
agins' set of women, 'women and wine' I don't understand!"
Pierre was staying at Prince Vasili Kuragin's and sharing
the dissipated life of his son Anatole, the son whom they were
planning to reform by marrying him to Prince Andrew's
sister.
"Do you know?" said Pierre, as if suddenly struck by a
happy thought, "seriously, I have long been thinking of it....
Leading such a life I can't decide or think properly about any-
thing. One's head aches, and one spends all one's money. He
asked me for tonight, but I won't go."
"You give me your word of honor not to go?"
"On my honor!"
Chapter 9
It was past one o'clock when Pierre left his friend. It was a
cloudless, northern, summer night. Pierre took an open cab
intending to drive straight home. But the nearer he drew to
the house the more he felt the impossibility of going to sleep
on such a night. It was light enough to see a long way in the
deserted street and it seemed more like morning or evening
than night. On the way Pierre remembered that Anatole Kur-
agin was expecting the usual set for cards that evening, after
which there was generally a drinking bout, finishing with vis-
its of a kind Pierre was very fond of.
"I should like to go to Kuragin's," thought he.
But he immediately recalled his promise to Prince Andrew
not to go there. Then, as happens to people of weak character,
he desired so passionately once more to enjoy that dissipation
he was so accustomed to that he decided to go. The thought
immediately occurred to him that his promise to Prince
Andrew was of no account, because before he gave it he had
already promised Prince Anatole to come to his gathering;
"besides," thought he, "all such 'words of honor' are conven-
tional things with no definite meaning, especially if one con-
siders that by tomorrow one may be dead, or something so
extraordinary may happen to one that honor and dishonor
will be all the same!" Pierre often indulged in reflections of
this sort, nullifying all his decisions and intentions. He went
to Kuragin's.
Reaching the large house near the Horse Guards' barracks,
in which Anatole lived, Pierre entered the lighted porch, as-
cended the stairs, and went in at the open door. There was no
one in the anteroom; empty bottles, cloaks, and overshoes
were lying about; there was a smell of alcohol, and sounds of
voices and shouting in the distance.
Cards and supper were over, but the visitors had not yet
dispersed. Pierre threw off his cloak and entered the first
room, in which were the remains of supper. A footman, think-
ing no one saw him, was drinking on the sly what was left in
the glasses. From the third room came sounds of laughter, the
shouting of familiar voices, the growling of a bear, and gener-
al commotion. Some eight or nine young men were crowding
anxiously round an open window. Three others were romping
with a young bear, one pulling him by the chain and trying to
set him at the others.
"I bet a hundred on Stevens!" shouted one.
"Mind, no holding on!" cried another.
"I bet on Dolokhov!" cried a third. "Kuragin, you part our
hands."
"There, leave Bruin alone; here's a bet on."
"At one draught, or he loses!" shouted a fourth.
"Jacob, bring a bottle!" shouted the host, a tall, handsome
fellow who stood in the midst of the group, without a coat, and
with his fine linen shirt unfastened in front. "Wait a bit, you
fellows.... Here is Petya! Good man!" cried he, addressing
Pierre.
Another voice, from a man of medium height with clear blue
eyes, particularly striking among all these drunken voices by
its sober ring, cried from the window: "Come here; part the
bets!" This was Dolokhov, an officer of the Semenov regiment,
a notorious gambler and duelist, who was living with Anatole.
Pierre smiled, looking about him merrily.
"I don't understand. What's it all about?"
"Wait a bit, he is not drunk yet! A bottle here," said
Anatole, taking a glass from the table he went up to Pierre.
"First of all you must drink!"
Pierre drank one glass after another, looking from under
his brows at the tipsy guests who were again crowding round
the window, and listening to their chatter. Anatole kept on re-
filling Pierre's glass while explaining that Dolokhov was bet-
ting with Stevens, an English naval officer, that he would
drink a bottle of rum sitting on the outer ledge of the third
floor window with his legs hanging out.
"Go on, you must drink it all," said Anatole, giving Pierre
the last glass, "or I won't let you go!"
"No, I won't," said Pierre, pushing Anatole aside, and he
went up to the window.
Dolokhov was holding the Englishman's hand and clearly
and distinctly repeating the terms of the bet, addressing him-
self particularly to Anatole and Pierre.
Dolokhov was of medium height, with curly hair and light-
blue eyes. He was about twenty-five. Like all infantry officers
he wore no mustache, so that his mouth, the most striking
feature of his face, was clearly seen. The lines of that mouth
were remarkably finely curved. The middle of the upper lip
formed a sharp wedge and closed firmly on the firm lower one,
and something like two distinct smiles played continually
round the two corners of the mouth; this, together with the
resolute, insolent intelligence of his eyes, produced an effect
which made it impossible not to notice his face. Dolokhov was
a man of small means and no connections. Yet, though
Anatole spent tens of thousands of rubles, Dolokhov lived
with him and had placed himself on such a footing that all
who knew them, including Anatole himself, respected him
more than they did Anatole. Dolokhov could play all games
and nearly always won. However much he drank, he never
lost his clearheadedness. Both Kuragin and Dolokhov were at
that time notorious among the rakes and scapegraces of
Petersburg.
The bottle of rum was brought. The window frame which
prevented anyone from sitting on the outer sill was being
forced out by two footmen, who were evidently flurried and in-
timidated by the directions and shouts of the gentlemen
around.
Anatole with his swaggering air strode up to the window.
He wanted to smash something. Pushing away the footmen he
tugged at the frame, but could not move it. He smashed a
pane.
"You have a try, Hercules," said he, turning to Pierre.
Pierre seized the crossbeam, tugged, and wrenched the oak
frame out with a crash.
 "Take it right out, or they'll think I'm holding on," said
Dolokhov.
"Is the Englishman bragging?... Eh? Is it all right?" said
Anatole.
"First-rate," said Pierre, looking at Dolokhov, who with a
bottle of rum in his hand was approaching the window, from
which the light of the sky, the dawn merging with the after-
glow of sunset, was visible.
Dolokhov, the bottle of rum still in his hand, jumped onto
the window sill. "Listen!" cried he, standing there and ad-
dressing those in the room. All were silent.
"I bet fifty imperials"—he spoke French that the English-
man might understand him, but he did, not speak it very
well—"I bet fifty imperials... or do you wish to make it a hun-
dred?" added he, addressing the Englishman.
"No, fifty," replied the latter.
"All right. Fifty imperials... that I will drink a whole bottle
of rum without taking it from my mouth, sitting outside the
window on this spot" (he stooped and pointed to the sloping
ledge outside the window) "and without holding on to any-
thing. Is that right?"
"Quite right," said the Englishman.
Anatole turned to the Englishman and taking him by one of
the buttons of his coat and looking down at him—the English-
man was short- began repeating the terms of the wager to
him in English.
"Wait!" cried Dolokhov, hammering with the bottle on the
window sill to attract attention. "Wait a bit, Kuragin. Listen!
If anyone else does the same, I will pay him a hundred imperi-
als. Do you understand?"
The Englishman nodded, but gave no indication whether he
intended to accept this challenge or not. Anatole did not re-
lease him, and though he kept nodding to show that he under-
stood, Anatole went on translating Dolokhov's words into
English. A thin young lad, an hussar of the Life Guards, who
had been losing that evening, climbed on the window sill,
leaned over, and looked down.
"Oh! Oh! Oh!" he muttered, looking down from the window
at the stones of the pavement.
"Shut up!" cried Dolokhov, pushing him away from the win-
dow. The lad jumped awkwardly back into the room, tripping
over his spurs.
Placing the bottle on the window sill where he could reach
it easily, Dolokhov climbed carefully and slowly through the
window and lowered his legs. Pressing against both sides of
the window, he adjusted himself on his seat, lowered his
hands, moved a little to the right and then to the left, and
took up the bottle. Anatole brought two candles and placed
them on the window sill, though it was already quite light.
Dolokhov's back in his white shirt, and his curly head, were lit
up from both sides. Everyone crowded to the window, the
Englishman in front. Pierre stood smiling but silent. One
man, older than the others present, suddenly pushed forward
with a scared and angry look and wanted to seize hold of
Dolokhov's shirt.
"I say, this is folly! He'll be killed," said this more sensible
man.
 Anatole stopped him.
"Don't touch him! You'll startle him and then he'll be killed.
Eh?... What then?... Eh?"
Dolokhov turned round and, again holding on with both
hands, arranged himself on his seat.
"If anyone comes meddling again," said he, emitting the
words separately through his thin compressed lips, "I will
throw him down there. Now then!"
Saying this he again turned round, dropped his hands, took
the bottle and lifted it to his lips, threw back his head, and
raised his free hand to balance himself. One of the footmen
who had stooped to pick up some broken glass remained in
that position without taking his eyes from the window and
from Dolokhov's back. Anatole stood erect with staring eyes.
The Englishman looked on sideways, pursing up his lips. The
man who had wished to stop the affair ran to a corner of the
room and threw himself on a sofa with his face to the wall. Pi-
erre hid his face, from which a faint smile forgot to fade
though his features now expressed horror and fear. All were
still. Pierre took his hands from his eyes. Dolokhov still sat in
the same position, only his head was thrown further back till
his curly hair touched his shirt collar, and the hand holding
the bottle was lifted higher and higher and trembled with the
effort. The bottle was emptying perceptibly and rising still
higher and his head tilting yet further back. "Why is it so
long?" thought Pierre. It seemed to him that more than half
an hour had elapsed. Suddenly Dolokhov made a backward
movement with his spine, and his arm trembled nervously;
this was sufficient to cause his whole body to slip as he sat on
the sloping ledge. As he began slipping down, his head and
arm wavered still more with the strain. One hand moved as if
to clutch the window sill, but refrained from touching it. Pi-
erre again covered his eyes and thought he would never never
them again. Suddenly he was aware of a stir all around. He
looked up: Dolokhov was standing on the window sill, with a
pale but radiant face.
"It's empty."
He threw the bottle to the Englishman, who caught it
neatly. Dolokhov jumped down. He smelt strongly of rum.
"Well done!... Fine fellow!... There's a bet for you!... Devil
take you!" came from different sides.
The Englishman took out his purse and began counting out
the money. Dolokhov stood frowning and did not speak. Pierre
jumped upon the window sill.
"Gentlemen, who wishes to bet with me? I'll do the same
thing!" he suddenly cried. "Even without a bet, there! Tell
them to bring me a bottle. I'll do it.... Bring a bottle!"
"Let him do it, let him do it," said Dolokhov, smiling.
"What next? Have you gone mad?... No one would let you!...
Why, you go giddy even on a staircase," exclaimed several
voices.
"I'll drink it! Let's have a bottle of rum!" shouted Pierre,
banging the table with a determined and drunken gesture and
preparing to climb out of the window.
They seized him by his arms; but he was so strong that
everyone who touched him was sent flying.
 "No, you'll never manage him that way," said Anatole.
"Wait a bit and I'll get round him.... Listen! I'll take your bet
tomorrow, but now we are all going to ——'s."
"Come on then," cried Pierre. "Come on!... And we'll take
Bruin with us."
And he caught the bear, took it in his arms, lifted it from
the ground, and began dancing round the room with it.
Chapter 10
Prince Vasili kept the promise he had given to Princess
Drubetskaya who had spoken to him on behalf of her only son
Boris on the evening of Anna Pavlovna's soiree. The matter
was mentioned to the Emperor, an exception made, and Boris
transferred into the regiment of Semenov Guards with the
rank of cornet. He received, however, no appointment to
Kutuzov's staff despite all Anna Mikhaylovna's endeavors and
entreaties. Soon after Anna Pavlovna's reception Anna
Mikhaylovna returned to Moscow and went straight to her
rich relations, the Rostovs, with whom she stayed when in the
town and where her darling Bory, who had only just entered a
regiment of the line and was being at once transferred to the
Guards as a cornet, had been educated from childhood and
lived for years at a time. The Guards had already left Peters-
burg on the tenth of August, and her son, who had remained
in Moscow for his equipment, was to join them on the march
to Radzivilov.
It was St. Natalia's day and the name day of two of the
Rostovs—the mother and the youngest daughter—both
named Nataly. Ever since the morning, carriages with six
horses had been coming and going continually, bringing
visitors to the Countess Rostova's big house on the Po-
varskaya, so well known to all Moscow. The countess herself
and her handsome eldest daughter were in the drawing-room
with the visitors who came to congratulate, and who con-
stantly succeeded one another in relays.
The countess was a woman of about forty-five, with a thin
Oriental type of face, evidently worn out with childbear-
ing—she had had twelve. A languor of motion and speech, res-
ulting from weakness, gave her a distinguished air which in-
spired respect. Princess Anna Mikhaylovna Drubetskaya, who
as a member of the household was also seated in the drawing
room, helped to receive and entertain the visitors. The young
people were in one of the inner rooms, not considering it ne-
cessary to take part in receiving the visitors. The count met
the guests and saw them off, inviting them all to dinner.
"I am very, very grateful to you, mon cher," or "ma
chere"—he called everyone without exception and without the
slightest variation in his tone, "my dear," whether they were
above or below him in rank—"I thank you for myself and for
our two dear ones whose name day we are keeping. But mind
you come to dinner or I shall be offended, ma chere! On behalf
of the whole family I beg you to come, mon cher!" These words
he repeated to everyone without exception or variation, and
with the same expression on his full, cheerful, clean-shaven
face, the same firm pressure of the hand and the same quick,
repeated bows. As soon as he had seen a visitor off he re-
turned to one of those who were still in the drawing room,
drew a chair toward him or her, and jauntily spreading out
his legs and putting his hands on his knees with the air of a
man who enjoys life and knows how to live, he swayed to and
fro with dignity, offered surmises about the weather, or
touched on questions of health, sometimes in Russian and
sometimes in very bad but self-confident French; then again,
like a man weary but unflinching in the fulfillment of duty, he
rose to see some visitors off and, stroking his scanty gray
hairs over his bald patch, also asked them to dinner. Some-
times on his way back from the anteroom he would pass
through the conservatory and pantry into the large marble
dining hall, where tables were being set out for eighty people;
and looking at the footmen, who were bringing in silver and
china, moving tables, and unfolding damask table linen, he
would call Dmitri Vasilevich, a man of good family and the
manager of all his affairs, and while looking with pleasure at
the enormous table would say: "Well, Dmitri, you'll see that
things are all as they should be? That's right! The great thing
is the serving, that's it." And with a complacent sigh he would
return to the drawing room.
"Marya Lvovna Karagina and her daughter!" announced the
countess' gigantic footman in his bass voice, entering the
drawing room. The countess reflected a moment and took a
pinch from a gold snuffbox with her husband's portrait on it.
"I'm quite worn out by these callers. However, I'll see her
and no more. She is so affected. Ask her in," she said to the
footman in a sad voice, as if saying: "Very well, finish me off."
A tall, stout, and proud-looking woman, with a round-faced
smiling daughter, entered the drawing room, their dresses
rustling.
 "Dear Countess, what an age... She has been laid up, poor
child... at the Razumovski's ball... and Countess Apraksina... I
was so delighted..." came the sounds of animated feminine
voices, interrupting one another and mingling with the rust-
ling of dresses and the scraping of chairs. Then one of those
conversations began which last out until, at the first pause,
the guests rise with a rustle of dresses and say, "I am so de-
lighted... Mamma's health... and Countess Apraksina..." and
then, again rustling, pass into the anteroom, put on cloaks or
mantles, and drive away. The conversation was on the chief
topic of the day: the illness of the wealthy and celebrated beau
of Catherine's day, Count Bezukhov, and about his illegitim-
ate son Pierre, the one who had behaved so improperly at
Anna Pavlovna's reception.
"I am so sorry for the poor count," said the visitor. "He is in
such bad health, and now this vexation about his son is
enough to kill him!"
"What is that?" asked the countess as if she did not know
what the visitor alluded to, though she had already heard
about the cause of Count Bezukhov's distress some fifteen
times.
"That's what comes of a modern education," exclaimed the
visitor. "It seems that while he was abroad this young man
was allowed to do as he liked, now in Petersburg I hear he has
been doing such terrible things that he has been expelled by
the police."
"You don't say so!" replied the countess.
"He chose his friends badly," interposed Anna Mikhaylovna.
"Prince Vasili's son, he, and a certain Dolokhov have, it is
said, been up to heaven only knows what! And they have had
to suffer for it. Dolokhov has been degraded to the ranks and
Bezukhov's son sent back to Moscow. Anatole Kuragin's fath-
er managed somehow to get his son's affair hushed up, but
even he was ordered out of Petersburg."
"But what have they been up to?" asked the countess.
"They are regular brigands, especially Dolokhov," replied
the visitor. "He is a son of Marya Ivanovna Dolokhova, such a
worthy woman, but there, just fancy! Those three got hold of a
bear somewhere, put it in a carriage, and set off with it to vis-
it some actresses! The police tried to interfere, and what did
the young men do? They tied a policeman and the bear back to
back and put the bear into the Moyka Canal. And there was
the bear swimming about with the policeman on his back!"
"What a nice figure the policeman must have cut, my dear!"
shouted the count, dying with laughter.
"Oh, how dreadful! How can you laugh at it, Count?"
Yet the ladies themselves could not help laughing.
"It was all they could do to rescue the poor man," continued
the visitor. "And to think it is Cyril Vladimirovich Bezukhov's
son who amuses himself in this sensible manner! And he was
said to be so well educated and clever. This is all that his for-
eign education has done for him! I hope that here in Moscow
no one will receive him, in spite of his money. They wanted to
introduce him to me, but I quite declined: I have my daugh-
ters to consider."
"Why do you say this young man is so rich?" asked the
countess, turning away from the girls, who at once assumed
an air of inattention. "His children are all illegitimate. I think
Pierre also is illegitimate."
The visitor made a gesture with her hand.
"I should think he has a score of them."
Princess Anna Mikhaylovna intervened in the conversation,
evidently wishing to show her connections and knowledge of
what went on in society.
"The fact of the matter is," said she significantly, and also
in a half whisper, "everyone knows Count Cyril's reputation....
He has lost count of his children, but this Pierre was his
favorite."
"How handsome the old man still was only a year ago!" re-
marked the countess. "I have never seen a handsomer man."
"He is very much altered now," said Anna Mikhaylovna.
"Well, as I was saying, Prince Vasili is the next heir through
his wife, but the count is very fond of Pierre, looked after his
education, and wrote to the Emperor about him; so that in the
case of his death—and he is so ill that he may die at any mo-
ment, and Dr. Lorrain has come from Petersburg—no one
knows who will inherit his immense fortune, Pierre or Prince
Vasili. Forty thousand serfs and millions of rubles! I know it
all very well for Prince Vasili told me himself. Besides, Cyril
Vladimirovich is my mother's second cousin. He's also my
Bory's godfather," she added, as if she attached no importance
at all to the fact.
"Prince Vasili arrived in Moscow yesterday. I hear he has
come on some inspection business," remarked the visitor.
 "Yes, but between ourselves," said the princess, "that is a
pretext. The fact is he has come to see Count Cyril Vladi-
mirovich, hearing how ill he is."
"But do you know, my dear, that was a capital joke," said
the count; and seeing that the elder visitor was not listening,
he turned to the young ladies. "I can just imagine what a
funny figure that policeman cut!"
And as he waved his arms to impersonate the policeman,
his portly form again shook with a deep ringing laugh, the
laugh of one who always eats well and, in particular, drinks
well. "So do come and dine with us!" he said.
Chapter 11
Silence ensued. The countess looked at her callers, smiling
affably, but not concealing the fact that she would not be dis-
tressed if they now rose and took their leave. The visitor's
daughter was already smoothing down her dress with an in-
quiring look at her mother, when suddenly from the next
room were heard the footsteps of boys and girls running to the
door and the noise of a chair falling over, and a girl of thir-
teen, hiding something in the folds of her short muslin frock,
darted in and stopped short in the middle of the room. It was
evident that she had not intended her flight to bring her so
far. Behind her in the doorway appeared a student with a
crimson coat collar, an officer of the Guards, a girl of fifteen,
and a plump rosy-faced boy in a short jacket.
The count jumped up and, swaying from side to side, spread
his arms wide and threw them round the little girl who had
run in.
"Ah, here she is!" he exclaimed laughing. "My pet, whose
name day it is. My dear pet!"
"Ma chere, there is a time for everything," said the countess
with feigned severity. "You spoil her, Ilya," she added, turning
to her husband.
 "How do you do, my dear? I wish you many happy returns of
your name day," said the visitor. "What a charming child," she
added, addressing the mother.
This black-eyed, wide-mouthed girl, not pretty but full of
life- with childish bare shoulders which after her run heaved
and shook her bodice, with black curls tossed backward, thin
bare arms, little legs in lace-frilled drawers, and feet in low
slippers—was just at that charming age when a girl is no
longer a child, though the child is not yet a young woman. Es-
caping from her father she ran to hide her flushed face in the
lace of her mother's mantilla—not paying the least attention
to her severe remark—and began to laugh. She laughed, and
in fragmentary sentences tried to explain about a doll which
she produced from the folds of her frock.
"Do you see?... My doll... Mimi... You see..." was all Natasha
managed to utter (to her everything seemed funny). She
leaned against her mother and burst into such a loud, ringing
fit of laughter that even the prim visitor could not help joining
in.
"Now then, go away and take your monstrosity with you,"
said the mother, pushing away her daughter with pretended
sternness, and turning to the visitor she added: "She is my
youngest girl."
Natasha, raising her face for a moment from her mother's
mantilla, glanced up at her through tears of laughter, and
again hid her face.
The visitor, compelled to look on at this family scene,
thought it necessary to take some part in it.
 "Tell me, my dear," said she to Natasha, "is Mimi a relation
of yours? A daughter, I suppose?"
Natasha did not like the visitor's tone of condescension to
childish things. She did not reply, but looked at her seriously.
Meanwhile the younger generation: Boris, the officer, Anna
Mikhaylovna's son; Nicholas, the undergraduate, the count's
eldest son; Sonya, the count's fifteen-year-old niece, and little
Petya, his youngest boy, had all settled down in the drawing
room and were obviously trying to restrain within the bounds
of decorum the excitement and mirth that shone in all their
faces. Evidently in the back rooms, from which they had
dashed out so impetuously, the conversation had been more
amusing than the drawing-room talk of society scandals, the
weather, and Countess Apraksina. Now and then they
glanced at one another, hardly able to suppress their
laughter.
The two young men, the student and the officer, friends
from childhood, were of the same age and both handsome fel-
lows, though not alike. Boris was tall and fair, and his calm
and handsome face had regular, delicate features. Nicholas
was short with curly hair and an open expression. Dark hairs
were already showing on his upper lip, and his whole face ex-
pressed impetuosity and enthusiasm. Nicholas blushed when
he entered the drawing room. He evidently tried to find
something to say, but failed. Boris on the contrary at once
found his footing, and related quietly and humorously how he
had know that doll Mimi when she was still quite a young
lady, before her nose was broken; how she had aged during
the five years he had known her, and how her head had
cracked right across the skull. Having said this he glanced at
Natasha. She turned away from him and glanced at her
younger brother, who was screwing up his eyes and shaking
with suppressed laughter, and unable to control herself any
longer, she jumped up and rushed from the room as fast as
her nimble little feet would carry her. Boris did not laugh.
"You were meaning to go out, weren't you, Mamma? Do you
want the carriage?" he asked his mother with a smile.
"Yes, yes, go and tell them to get it ready," she answered,
returning his smile.
Boris quietly left the room and went in search of Natasha.
The plump boy ran after them angrily, as if vexed that their
program had been disturbed.
Chapter 12
The only young people remaining in the drawing room, not
counting the young lady visitor and the countess' eldest
daughter (who was four years older than her sister and be-
haved already like a grown-up person), were Nicholas and
Sonya, the niece. Sonya was a slender little brunette with a
tender look in her eyes which were veiled by long lashes, thick
black plaits coiling twice round her head, and a tawny tint in
her complexion and especially in the color of her slender but
graceful and muscular arms and neck. By the grace of her
movements, by the softness and flexibility of her small limbs,
and by a certain coyness and reserve of manner, she reminded
one of a pretty, half-grown kitten which promises to become a
beautiful little cat. She evidently considered it proper to show
an interest in the general conversation by smiling, but in spite
of herself her eyes under their thick long lashes watched her
cousin who was going to join the army, with such passionate
girlish adoration that her smile could not for a single instant
impose upon anyone, and it was clear that the kitten had
settled down only to spring up with more energy and again
play with her cousin as soon as they too could, like Natasha
and Boris, escape from the drawing room.
 "Ah yes, my dear," said the count, addressing the visitor
and pointing to Nicholas, "his friend Boris has become an of-
ficer, and so for friendship's sake he is leaving the university
and me, his old father, and entering the military service, my
dear. And there was a place and everything waiting for him in
the Archives Department! Isn't that friendship?" remarked
the count in an inquiring tone.
"But they say that war has been declared," replied the
visitor.
"They've been saying so a long while," said the count, "and
they'll say so again and again, and that will be the end of it.
My dear, there's friendship for you," he repeated. "He's joining
the hussars."
The visitor, not knowing what to say, shook her head.
"It's not at all from friendship," declared Nicholas, flaring
up and turning away as if from a shameful aspersion. "It is
not from friendship at all; I simply feel that the army is my
vocation."
He glanced at his cousin and the young lady visitor; and
they were both regarding him with a smile of approbation.
"Schubert, the colonel of the Pavlograd Hussars, is dining
with us today. He has been here on leave and is taking Nich-
olas back with him. It can't be helped!" said the count, shrug-
ging his shoulders and speaking playfully of a matter that
evidently distressed him.
"I have already told you, Papa," said his son, "that if you
don't wish to let me go, I'll stay. But I know I am no use any-
where except in the army; I am not a diplomat or a govern-
ment clerk.—I don't know how to hide what I feel." As he
spoke he kept glancing with the flirtatiousness of a handsome
youth at Sonya and the young lady visitor.
The little kitten, feasting her eyes on him, seemed ready at
any moment to start her gambols again and display her kit-
tenish nature.
"All right, all right!" said the old count. "He always flares
up! This Buonaparte has turned all their heads; they all think
of how he rose from an ensign and became Emperor. Well,
well, God grant it," he added, not noticing his visitor's sarcast-
ic smile.
The elders began talking about Bonaparte. Julie Karagina
turned to young Rostov.
"What a pity you weren't at the Arkharovs' on Thursday. It
was so dull without you," said she, giving him a tender smile.
The young man, flattered, sat down nearer to her with a
coquettish smile, and engaged the smiling Julie in a confiden-
tial conversation without at all noticing that his involuntary
smile had stabbed the heart of Sonya, who blushed and smiled
unnaturally. In the midst of his talk he glanced round at her.
She gave him a passionately angry glance, and hardly able to
restrain her tears and maintain the artificial smile on her
lips, she got up and left the room. All Nicholas' animation
vanished. He waited for the first pause in the conversation,
and then with a distressed face left the room to find Sonya.
"How plainly all these young people wear their hearts on
their sleeves!" said Anna Mikhaylovna, pointing to Nicholas
as he went out. "Cousinage—dangereux voisinage;" 3 she
added.
"Yes," said the countess when the brightness these young
people had brought into the room had vanished; and as if an-
swering a question no one had put but which was always in
her mind, "and how much suffering, how much anxiety one
has had to go through that we might rejoice in them now! And
yet really the anxiety is greater now than the joy. One is al-
ways, always anxious! Especially just at this age, so danger-
ous both for girls and boys."
"It all depends on the bringing up," remarked the visitor.
"Yes, you're quite right," continued the countess. "Till now I
have always, thank God, been my children's friend and had
their full confidence," said she, repeating the mistake of so
many parents who imagine that their children have no secrets
from them. "I know I shall always be my daughters' first con-
fidante, and that if Nicholas, with his impulsive nature, does
get into mischief (a boy can't help it), he will all the same nev-
er be like those Petersburg young men."
"Yes, they are splendid, splendid youngsters," chimed in the
count, who always solved questions that seemed to him per-
plexing by deciding that everything was splendid. "Just fancy:
wants to be an hussar. What's one to do, my dear?"
"What a charming creature your younger girl is," said the
visitor; "a little volcano!"
"Yes, a regular volcano," said the count. "Takes after me!
And what a voice she has; though she's my daughter, I tell the

3.Cousinhood is a dangerous neighborhood.

truth when I say she'll be a singer, a second Salomoni! We
have engaged an Italian to give her lessons."
"Isn't she too young? I have heard that it harms the voice to
train it at that age."
"Oh no, not at all too young!" replied the count. "Why, our
mothers used to be married at twelve or thirteen."
"And she's in love with Boris already. Just fancy!" said the
countess with a gentle smile, looking at Boris' and went on,
evidently concerned with a thought that always occupied her:
"Now you see if I were to be severe with her and to forbid it...
goodness knows what they might be up to on the sly" (she
meant that they would be kissing), "but as it is, I know every
word she utters. She will come running to me of her own ac-
cord in the evening and tell me everything. Perhaps I spoil
her, but really that seems the best plan. With her elder sister
I was stricter."
"Yes, I was brought up quite differently," remarked the
handsome elder daughter, Countess Vera, with a smile.
But the smile did not enhance Vera's beauty as smiles gen-
erally do; on the contrary it gave her an unnatural, and there-
fore unpleasant, expression. Vera was good-looking, not at all
stupid, quick at learning, was well brought up, and had a
pleasant voice; what she said was true and appropriate, yet,
strange to say, everyone- the visitors and countess
alike—turned to look at her as if wondering why she had said
it, and they all felt awkward.
"People are always too clever with their eldest children and
try to make something exceptional of them," said the visitor.
 "What's the good of denying it, my dear? Our dear countess
was too clever with Vera," said the count. "Well, what of that?
She's turned out splendidly all the same," he added, winking
at Vera.
The guests got up and took their leave, promising to return
to dinner.
"What manners! I thought they would never go," said the
countess, when she had seen her guests out.
Chapter 13
When Natasha ran out of the drawing room she only went
as far as the conservatory. There she paused and stood listen-
ing to the conversation in the drawing room, waiting for Boris
to come out. She was already growing impatient, and stamped
her foot, ready to cry at his not coming at once, when she
heard the young man's discreet steps approaching neither
quickly nor slowly. At this Natasha dashed swiftly among the
flower tubs and hid there.
Boris paused in the middle of the room, looked round,
brushed a little dust from the sleeve of his uniform, and going
up to a mirror examined his handsome face. Natasha, very
still, peered out from her ambush, waiting to see what he
would do. He stood a little while before the glass, smiled, and
walked toward the other door. Natasha was about to call him
but changed her mind. "Let him look for me," thought she.
Hardly had Boris gone than Sonya, flushed, in tears, and mut-
tering angrily, came in at the other door. Natasha checked her
first impulse to run out to her, and remained in her hiding
place, watching—as under an invisible cap—to see what went
on in the world. She was experiencing a new and peculiar
pleasure. Sonya, muttering to herself, kept looking round
toward the drawing-room door. It opened and Nicholas came
in.
"Sonya, what is the matter with you? How can you?" said
he, running up to her.
"It's nothing, nothing; leave me alone!" sobbed Sonya.
"Ah, I know what it is."
"Well, if you do, so much the better, and you can go back to
her!"
"So-o-onya! Look here! How can you torture me and yourself
like that, for a mere fancy?" said Nicholas taking her hand.
Sonya did not pull it away, and left off crying. Natasha, not
stirring and scarcely breathing, watched from her ambush
with sparkling eyes. "What will happen now?" thought she.
"Sonya! What is anyone in the world to me? You alone are
everything!" said Nicholas. "And I will prove it to you."
"I don't like you to talk like that."
"Well, then, I won't; only forgive me, Sonya!" He drew her to
him and kissed her.
"Oh, how nice," thought Natasha; and when Sonya and
Nicholas had gone out of the conservatory she followed and
called Boris to her.
"Boris, come here," said she with a sly and significant look.
"I have something to tell you. Here, here!" and she led him in-
to the conservatory to the place among the tubs where she
had been hiding.
Boris followed her, smiling.
"What is the something?" asked he.
She grew confused, glanced round, and, seeing the doll she
had thrown down on one of the tubs, picked it up.
 "Kiss the doll," said she.
Boris looked attentively and kindly at her eager face, but
did not reply.
"Don't you want to? Well, then, come here," said she, and
went further in among the plants and threw down the doll.
"Closer, closer!" she whispered.
She caught the young officer by his cuffs, and a look of
solemnity and fear appeared on her flushed face.
"And me? Would you like to kiss me?" she whispered almost
inaudibly, glancing up at him from under her brows, smiling,
and almost crying from excitement.
Boris blushed.
"How funny you are!" he said, bending down to her and
blushing still more, but he waited and did nothing.
Suddenly she jumped up onto a tub to be higher than he,
embraced him so that both her slender bare arms clasped him
above his neck, and, tossing back her hair, kissed him full on
the lips.
Then she slipped down among the flowerpots on the other
side of the tubs and stood, hanging her head.
"Natasha," he said, "you know that I love you, but..."
"You are in love with me?" Natasha broke in.
"Yes, I am, but please don't let us do like that.... In another
four years... then I will ask for your hand."
Natasha considered.
"Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen," she counted on her
slender little fingers. "All right! Then it's settled?"
A smile of joy and satisfaction lit up her eager face.
"Settled!" replied Boris.
 "Forever?" said the little girl. "Till death itself?"
She took his arm and with a happy face went with him into
the adjoining sitting room.
Chapter 14
After receiving her visitors, the countess was so tired that
she gave orders to admit no more, but the porter was told to
be sure to invite to dinner all who came "to congratulate." The
countess wished to have a tete-a-tete talk with the friend of
her childhood, Princess Anna Mikhaylovna, whom she had not
seen properly since she returned from Petersburg. Anna
Mikhaylovna, with her tear-worn but pleasant face, drew her
chair nearer to that of the countess.
"With you I will be quite frank," said Anna Mikhaylovna.
"There are not many left of us old friends! That's why I so
value your friendship."
Anna Mikhaylovna looked at Vera and paused. The count-
ess pressed her friend's hand.
"Vera," she said to her eldest daughter who was evidently
not a favorite, "how is it you have so little tact? Don't you see
you are not wanted here? Go to the other girls, or..."
The handsome Vera smiled contemptuously but did not
seem at all hurt.
"If you had told me sooner, Mamma, I would have gone,"
she replied as she rose to go to her own room.
 But as she passed the sitting room she noticed two couples
sitting, one pair at each window. She stopped and smiled
scornfully. Sonya was sitting close to Nicholas who was copy-
ing out some verses for her, the first he had ever written. Bor-
is and Natasha were at the other window and ceased talking
when Vera entered. Sonya and Natasha looked at Vera with
guilty, happy faces.
It was pleasant and touching to see these little girls in love;
but apparently the sight of them roused no pleasant feeling in
Vera.
"How often have I asked you not to take my things?" she
said. "You have a room of your own," and she took the ink-
stand from Nicholas.
"In a minute, in a minute," he said, dipping his pen.
"You always manage to do things at the wrong time," con-
tinued Vera. "You came rushing into the drawing room so that
everyone felt ashamed of you."
Though what she said was quite just, perhaps for that very
reason no one replied, and the four simply looked at one an-
other. She lingered in the room with the inkstand in her
hand.
"And at your age what secrets can there be between Nata-
sha and Boris, or between you two? It's all nonsense!"
"Now, Vera, what does it matter to you?" said Natasha in
defense, speaking very gently.
She seemed that day to be more than ever kind and affec-
tionate to everyone.
"Very silly," said Vera. "I am ashamed of you. Secrets
indeed!"
 "All have secrets of their own," answered Natasha, getting
warmer. "We don't interfere with you and Berg."
"I should think not," said Vera, "because there can never be
anything wrong in my behavior. But I'll just tell Mamma how
you are behaving with Boris."
"Natalya Ilynichna behaves very well to me," remarked Bor-
is. "I have nothing to complain of."
"Don't, Boris! You are such a diplomat that it is really tire-
some," said Natasha in a mortified voice that trembled
slightly. (She used the word "diplomat," which was just then
much in vogue among the children, in the special sense they
attached to it.) "Why does she bother me?" And she added,
turning to Vera, "You'll never understand it, because you've
never loved anyone. You have no heart! You are a Madame de
Genlis and nothing more" (this nickname, bestowed on Vera
by Nicholas, was considered very stinging), "and your greatest
pleasure is to be unpleasant to people! Go and flirt with Berg
as much as you please," she finished quickly.
"I shall at any rate not run after a young man before
visitors..."
"Well, now you've done what you wanted," put in Nich-
olas—"said unpleasant things to everyone and upset them.
Let's go to the nursery."
All four, like a flock of scared birds, got up and left the
room.
"The unpleasant things were said to me," remarked Vera, "I
said none to anyone."
"Madame de Genlis! Madame de Genlis!" shouted laughing
voices through the door.
 The handsome Vera, who produced such an irritating and
unpleasant effect on everyone, smiled and, evidently unmoved
by what had been said to her, went to the looking glass and
arranged her hair and scarf. Looking at her own handsome
face she seemed to become still colder and calmer.
In the drawing room the conversation was still going on.
"Ah, my dear," said the countess, "my life is not all roses
either. Don't I know that at the rate we are living our means
won't last long? It's all the Club and his easygoing nature.
Even in the country do we get any rest? Theatricals, hunting,
and heaven knows what besides! But don't let's talk about me;
tell me how you managed everything. I often wonder at you,
Annette—how at your age you can rush off alone in a carriage
to Moscow, to Petersburg, to those ministers and great people,
and know how to deal with them all! It's quite astonishing.
How did you get things settled? I couldn't possibly do it."
"Ah, my love," answered Anna Mikhaylovna, "God grant
you never know what it is to be left a widow without means
and with a son you love to distraction! One learns many
things then," she added with a certain pride. "That lawsuit
taught me much. When I want to see one of those big people I
write a note: 'Princess So-and-So desires an interview with So
and-So,' and then I take a cab and go myself two, three, or
four times—till I get what I want. I don't mind what they
think of me."
"Well, and to whom did you apply about Bory?" asked the
countess. "You see yours is already an officer in the Guards,
while my Nicholas is going as a cadet. There's no one to in-
terest himself for him. To whom did you apply?"
 "To Prince Vasili. He was so kind. He at once agreed to
everything, and put the matter before the Emperor," said
Princess Anna Mikhaylovna enthusiastically, quite forgetting
all the humiliation she had endured to gain her end.
"Has Prince Vasili aged much?" asked the countess. "I have
not seen him since we acted together at the Rumyantsovs'
theatricals. I expect he has forgotten me. He paid me atten-
tions in those days," said the countess, with a smile.
"He is just the same as ever," replied Anna Mikhaylovna,
"overflowing with amiability. His position has not turned his
head at all. He said to me, 'I am sorry I can do so little for you,
dear Princess. I am at your command.' Yes, he is a fine fellow
and a very kind relation. But, Nataly, you know my love for
my son: I would do anything for his happiness! And my affairs
are in such a bad way that my position is now a terrible one,"
continued Anna Mikhaylovna, sadly, dropping her voice. "My
wretched lawsuit takes all I have and makes no progress.
Would you believe it, I have literally not a penny and don't
know how to equip Boris." She took out her handkerchief and
began to cry. "I need five hundred rubles, and have only one
twenty-five-ruble note. I am in such a state.... My only hope
now is in Count Cyril Vladimirovich Bezukhov. If he will not
assist his godson—you know he is Bory's godfather—and al-
low him something for his maintenance, all my trouble will
have been thrown away.... I
shall not be able to equip him."
The countess' eyes filled with tears and she pondered in
silence.
 "I often think, though, perhaps it's a sin," said the princess,
"that here lives Count Cyril Vladimirovich Bezukhov so rich,
all alone... that tremendous fortune... and what is his life
worth? It's a burden to him, and Bory's life is only just
beginning...."
"Surely he will leave something to Boris," said the countess.
"Heaven only knows, my dear! These rich grandees are so
selfish. Still, I will take Boris and go to see him at once, and I
shall speak to him straight out. Let people think what they
will of me, it's really all the same to me when my son's fate is
at stake." The princess rose. "It's now two o'clock and you dine
at four. There will just be time."
And like a practical Petersburg lady who knows how to
make the most of time, Anna Mikhaylovna sent someone to
call her son, and went into the anteroom with him.
"Good-by, my dear," said she to the countess who saw her to
the door, and added in a whisper so that her son should not
hear, "Wish me good luck."
"Are you going to Count Cyril Vladimirovich, my dear?" said
the count coming out from the dining hall into the anteroom,
and he added: "If he is better, ask Pierre to dine with us. He
has been to the house, you know, and danced with the chil-
dren. Be sure to invite him, my dear. We will see how Taras
distinguishes himself today. He says Count Orlov never gave
such a dinner as ours will be!"
Chapter 15
"My dear Boris," said Princess Anna Mikhaylovna to her
son as Countess Rostova's carriage in which they were seated
drove over the straw covered street and turned into the wide
courtyard of Count Cyril Vladimirovich Bezukhov's house.
"My dear Boris," said the mother, drawing her hand from be-
neath her old mantle and laying it timidly and tenderly on her
son's arm, "be affectionate and attentive to him. Count Cyril
Vladimirovich is your godfather after all, your future depends
on him. Remember that, my dear, and be nice to him, as you
so well know how to be."
"If only I knew that anything besides humiliation would
come of it..." answered her son coldly. "But I have promised
and will do it for your sake."
Although the hall porter saw someone's carriage standing
at the entrance, after scrutinizing the mother and son (who
without asking to be announced had passed straight through
the glass porch between the rows of statues in niches) and
looking significantly at the lady's old cloak, he asked whether
they wanted the count or the princesses, and, hearing that
they wished to see the count, said his excellency was worse
today, and that his excellency was not receiving anyone.
 "We may as well go back," said the son in French.
"My dear!" exclaimed his mother imploringly, again laying
her hand on his arm as if that touch might soothe or rouse
him.
Boris said no more, but looked inquiringly at his mother
without taking off his cloak.
"My friend," said Anna Mikhaylovna in gentle tones, ad-
dressing the hall porter, "I know Count Cyril Vladimirovich is
very ill... that's why I have come... I am a relation. I shall not
disturb him, my friend... I only need see Prince Vasili Ser-
geevich: he is staying here, is he not? Please announce me."
The hall porter sullenly pulled a bell that rang upstairs,
and turned away.
"Princess Drubetskaya to see Prince Vasili Sergeevich," he
called to a footman dressed in knee breeches, shoes, and a
swallow-tail coat, who ran downstairs and looked over from
the halfway landing.
The mother smoothed the folds of her dyed silk dress before
a large Venetian mirror in the wall, and in her trodden-down
shoes briskly ascended the carpeted stairs.
"My dear," she said to her son, once more stimulating him
by a touch, "you promised me!"
The son, lowering his eyes, followed her quietly.
They entered the large hall, from which one of the doors led
to the apartments assigned to Prince Vasili.
Just as the mother and son, having reached the middle of
the hall, were about to ask their way of an elderly footman
who had sprung up as they entered, the bronze handle of one
of the doors turned and Prince Vasili came out—wearing a
velvet coat with a single star on his breast, as was his custom
when at home—taking leave of a good-looking, dark-haired
man. This was the celebrated Petersburg doctor, Lorrain.
"Then it is certain?" said the prince.
"Prince, humanum est errare, 4 but..." replied the doctor,
swallowing his r's, and pronouncing the Latin words with a
French accent.
"Very well, very well..."
Seeing Anna Mikhaylovna and her son, Prince Vasili dis-
missed the doctor with a bow and approached them silently
and with a look of inquiry. The son noticed that an expression
of profound sorrow suddenly clouded his mother's face, and he
smiled slightly.
"Ah, Prince! In what sad circumstances we meet again! And
how is our dear invalid?" said she, as though unaware of the
cold offensive look fixed on her.
Prince Vasili stared at her and at Boris questioningly and
perplexed. Boris bowed politely. Prince Vasili without ac-
knowledging the bow turned to Anna Mikhaylovna, answering
her query by a movement of the head and lips indicating very
little hope for the patient.
"Is it possible?" exclaimed Anna Mikhaylovna. "Oh, how aw-
ful! It is terrible to think.... This is my son," she added, indic-
ating Boris. "He wanted to thank you himself."
Boris bowed again politely.
"Believe me, Prince, a mother's heart will never forget what
you have done for us."

4.To err is human.

 "I am glad I was able to do you a service, my dear Anna
Mikhaylovna," said Prince Vasili, arranging his lace frill, and
in tone and manner, here in Moscow to Anna Mikhaylovna
whom he had placed under an obligation, assuming an air of
much greater importance than he had done in Petersburg at
Anna Scherer's reception.
"Try to serve well and show yourself worthy," added he, ad-
dressing Boris with severity. "I am glad.... Are you here on
leave?" he went on in his usual tone of indifference.
"I am awaiting orders to join my new regiment, your excel-
lency," replied Boris, betraying neither annoyance at the
prince's brusque manner nor a desire to enter into conversa-
tion, but speaking so quietly and respectfully that the prince
gave him a searching glance.
"Are you living with your mother?"
"I am living at Countess Rostova's," replied Boris, again
adding, "your excellency."
"That is, with Ilya Rostov who married Nataly Shinshina,"
said Anna Mikhaylovna.
"I know, I know," answered Prince Vasili in his monotonous
voice. "I never could understand how Nataly made up her
mind to marry that unlicked bear! A perfectly absurd and stu-
pid fellow, and a gambler too, I am told."
"But a very kind man, Prince," said Anna Mikhaylovna with
a pathetic smile, as though she too knew that Count Rostov
deserved this censure, but asked him not to be too hard on the
poor old man. "What do the doctors say?" asked the princess
after a pause, her worn face again expressing deep sorrow.
"They give little hope," replied the prince.
 "And I should so like to thank Uncle once for all his kind-
ness to me and Boris. He is his godson," she added, her tone
suggesting that this fact ought to give Prince Vasili much
satisfaction.
Prince Vasili became thoughtful and frowned. Anna
Mikhaylovna saw that he was afraid of finding in her a rival
for Count Bezukhov's fortune, and hastened to reassure him.
"If it were not for my sincere affection and devotion to
Uncle," said she, uttering the word with peculiar assurance
and unconcern, "I know his character: noble, upright... but
you see he has no one with him except the young princesses....
They are still young...." She bent her head and continued in a
whisper: "Has he performed his final duty, Prince? How price-
less are those last moments! It can make things no worse, and
it is absolutely necessary to prepare him if he is so ill. We wo-
men, Prince," and she smiled tenderly, "always know how to
say these things. I absolutely must see him, however painful
it may be for me. I am used to suffering."
Evidently the prince understood her, and also understood,
as he had done at Anna Pavlovna's, that it would be difficult
to get rid of Anna Mikhaylovna.
"Would not such a meeting be too trying for him, dear Anna
Mikhaylovna?" said he. "Let us wait until evening. The doc-
tors are expecting a crisis."
"But one cannot delay, Prince, at such a moment! Consider
that the welfare of his soul is at stake. Ah, it is awful: the du-
ties of a Christian..."
A door of one of the inner rooms opened and one of the prin-
cesses, the count's niece, entered with a cold, stern face. The
length of her body was strikingly out of proportion to her
short legs. Prince Vasili turned to her.
"Well, how is he?"
"Still the same; but what can you expect, this noise..." said
the princess, looking at Anna Mikhaylovna as at a stranger.
"Ah, my dear, I hardly knew you," said Anna Mikhaylovna
with a happy smile, ambling lightly up to the count's niece. "I
have come, and am at your service to help you nurse my
uncle. I imagine what you have gone through," and she sym-
pathetically turned up her eyes.
The princess gave no reply and did not even smile, but left
the room as Anna Mikhaylovna took off her gloves and, oc-
cupying the position she had conquered, settled down in an
armchair, inviting Prince Vasili to take a seat beside her.
"Boris," she said to her son with a smile, "I shall go in to see
the count, my uncle; but you, my dear, had better go to Pierre
meanwhile and don't forget to give him the Rostovs' invita-
tion. They ask him to dinner. I suppose he won't go?" she con-
tinued, turning to the prince.
"On the contrary," replied the prince, who had plainly be-
come depressed, "I shall be only too glad if you relieve me of
that young man.... Here he is, and the count has not once
asked for him."
He shrugged his shoulders. A footman conducted Boris
down one flight of stairs and up another, to Pierre's rooms.
Chapter 16
Pierre, after all, had not managed to choose a career for
himself in Petersburg, and had been expelled from there for
riotous conduct and sent to Moscow. The story told about him
at Count Rostov's was true. Pierre had taken part in tying a
policeman to a bear. He had now been for some days in Mo-
scow and was staying as usual at his father's house. Though
he expected that the story of his escapade would be already
known in Moscow and that the ladies about his father- who
were never favorably disposed toward him—would have used
it to turn the count against him, he nevertheless on the day of
his arrival went to his father's part of the house. Entering the
drawing room, where the princesses spent most of their time,
he greeted the ladies, two of whom were sitting at embroidery
frames while a third read aloud. It was the eldest who was
reading—the one who had met Anna Mikhaylovna. The two
younger ones were embroidering: both were rosy and pretty
and they differed only in that one had a little mole on her lip
which made her much prettier. Pierre was received as if he
were a corpse or a leper. The eldest princess paused in her
reading and silently stared at him with frightened eyes; the
second assumed precisely the same expression; while the
youngest, the one with the mole, who was of a cheerful and
lively disposition, bent over her frame to hide a smile prob-
ably evoked by the amusing scene she foresaw. She drew her
wool down through the canvas and, scarcely able to refrain
from laughing, stooped as if trying to make out the pattern.
"How do you do, cousin?" said Pierre. "You don't recognize
me?"
"I recognize you only too well, too well."
"How is the count? Can I see him?" asked Pierre, awk-
wardly as usual, but unabashed.
"The count is suffering physically and mentally, and appar-
ently you have done your best to increase his mental
sufferings."
"Can I see the count?" Pierre again asked.
"Hm.... If you wish to kill him, to kill him outright, you can
see him... Olga, go and see whether Uncle's beef tea is
ready—it is almost time," she added, giving Pierre to under-
stand that they were busy, and busy making his father com-
fortable, while evidently he, Pierre, was only busy causing
him annoyance.
Olga went out. Pierre stood looking at the sisters; then he
bowed and said: "Then I will go to my rooms. You will let me
know when I can see him."
And he left the room, followed by the low but ringing
laughter of the sister with the mole.
Next day Prince Vasili had arrived and settled in the
count's house. He sent for Pierre and said to him: "My dear
fellow, if you are going to behave here as you did in
Petersburg, you will end very badly; that is all I have to say to
you. The count is very, very ill, and you must not see him at
all."
Since then Pierre had not been disturbed and had spent the
whole time in his rooms upstairs.
When Boris appeared at his door Pierre was pacing up and
down his room, stopping occasionally at a corner to make
menacing gestures at the wall, as if running a sword through
an invisible foe, and glaring savagely over his spectacles, and
then again resuming his walk, muttering indistinct words,
shrugging his shoulders and gesticulating.
"England is done for," said he, scowling and pointing his fin-
ger at someone unseen. "Mr. Pitt, as a traitor to the nation
and to the rights of man, is sentenced to..." But before Pi-
erre—who at that moment imagined himself to be Napoleon
in person and to have just effected the dangerous crossing of
the Straits of Dover and captured London—could pronounce
Pitt's sentence, he saw a well-built and handsome young of-
ficer entering his room. Pierre paused. He had left Moscow
when Boris was a boy of fourteen, and had quite forgotten
him, but in his usual impulsive and hearty way he took Boris
by the hand with a friendly smile.
"Do you remember me?" asked Boris quietly with a pleasant
smile. "I have come with my mother to see the count, but it
seems he is not well."
"Yes, it seems he is ill. People are always disturbing him,"
answered Pierre, trying to remember who this young man
was.
 Boris felt that Pierre did not recognize him but did not con-
sider it necessary to introduce himself, and without experien-
cing the least embarrassment looked Pierre straight in the
face.
"Count Rostov asks you to come to dinner today," said he,
after a considerable pause which made Pierre feel
uncomfortable.
"Ah, Count Rostov!" exclaimed Pierre joyfully. "Then you
are his son, Ilya? Only fancy, I didn't know you at first. Do
you remember how we went to the Sparrow Hills with Ma-
dame Jacquot?... It's such an age..."
"You are mistaken," said Boris deliberately, with a bold and
slightly sarcastic smile. "I am Boris, son of Princess Anna
Mikhaylovna Drubetskaya. Rostov, the father, is Ilya, and his
son is Nicholas. I never knew any Madame Jacquot."
Pierre shook his head and arms as if attacked by mosqui-
toes or bees.
"Oh dear, what am I thinking about? I've mixed everything
up. One has so many relatives in Moscow! So you are Boris?
Of course. Well, now we know where we are. And what do you
think of the Boulogne expedition? The English will come off
badly, you know, if Napoleon gets across the Channel. I think
the expedition is quite feasible. If only Villeneuve doesn't
make a mess of things!"
Boris knew nothing about the Boulogne expedition; he did
not read the papers and it was the first time he had heard
Villeneuve's name.
"We here in Moscow are more occupied with dinner parties
and scandal than with politics," said he in his quiet ironical
tone. "I know nothing about it and have not thought about it.
Moscow is chiefly busy with gossip," he continued. "Just now
they are talking about you and your father."
Pierre smiled in his good-natured way as if afraid for his
companion's sake that the latter might say something he
would afterwards regret. But Boris spoke distinctly, clearly,
and dryly, looking straight into Pierre's eyes.
"Moscow has nothing else to do but gossip," Boris went on.
"Everybody is wondering to whom the count will leave his for-
tune, though he may perhaps outlive us all, as I sincerely
hope he will..."
"Yes, it is all very horrid," interrupted Pierre, "very horrid."
Pierre was still afraid that this officer might inadvertently
say something disconcerting to himself.
"And it must seem to you," said Boris flushing slightly, but
not changing his tone or attitude, "it must seem to you that
everyone is trying to get something out of the rich man?"
"So it does," thought Pierre.
"But I just wish to say, to avoid misunderstandings, that
you are quite mistaken if you reckon me or my mother among
such people. We are very poor, but for my own part at any
rate, for the very reason that your father is rich, I don't regard
myself as a relation of his, and neither I nor my mother would
ever ask or take anything from him."
For a long time Pierre could not understand, but when he
did, he jumped up from the sofa, seized Boris under the elbow
in his quick, clumsy way, and, blushing far more than Boris,
began to speak with a feeling of mingled shame and vexation.
 "Well, this is strange! Do you suppose I... who could
think?... I know very well..."
But Boris again interrupted him.
"I am glad I have spoken out fully. Perhaps you did not like
it? You must excuse me," said he, putting Pierre at ease in-
stead of being put at ease by him, "but I hope I have not offen-
ded you. I always make it a rule to speak out... Well, what an-
swer am I to take? Will you come to dinner at the Rostovs'?"
And Boris, having apparently relieved himself of an onerous
duty and extricated himself from an awkward situation and
placed another in it, became quite pleasant again.
"No, but I say," said Pierre, calming down, "you are a won-
derful fellow! What you have just said is good, very good. Of
course you don't know me. We have not met for such a long
time... not since we were children. You might think that I... I
understand, quite understand. I could not have done it myself,
I should not have had the courage, but it's splendid. I am very
glad to have made your acquaintance. It's queer," he added
after a pause, "that you should have suspected me!" He began
to laugh. "Well, what of it! I hope we'll get better acquainted,"
and he pressed Boris' hand. "Do you know, I have not once
been in to see the count. He has not sent for me.... I am sorry
for him as a man, but what can one do?"
"And so you think Napoleon will manage to get an army
across?" asked Boris with a smile.
Pierre saw that Boris wished to change the subject, and be-
ing of the same mind he began explaining the advantages and
disadvantages of the Boulogne expedition.
 A footman came in to summon Boris—the princess was go-
ing. Pierre, in order to make Boris' better acquaintance, prom-
ised to come to dinner, and warmly pressing his hand looked
affectionately over his spectacles into Boris' eyes. After he had
gone Pierre continued pacing up and down the room for a long
time, no longer piercing an imaginary foe with his imaginary
sword, but smiling at the remembrance of that pleasant, intel-
ligent, and resolute young man.
As often happens in early youth, especially to one who leads
a lonely life, he felt an unaccountable tenderness for this
young man and made up his mind that they would be friends.
Prince Vasili saw the princess off. She held a handkerchief
to her eyes and her face was tearful.
"It is dreadful, dreadful!" she was saying, "but cost me what
it may I shall do my duty. I will come and spend the night. He
must not be left like this. Every moment is precious. I can't
think why his nieces put it off. Perhaps God will help me to
find a way to prepare him!... Adieu, Prince! May God support
you..."
"Adieu, ma bonne," answered Prince Vasili turning away
from her.
"Oh, he is in a dreadful state," said the mother to her son
when they were in the carriage. "He hardly recognizes
anybody."
"I don't understand, Mamma—what is his attitude to Pi-
erre?" asked the son.
"The will will show that, my dear; our fate also depends on
it."
"But why do you expect that he will leave us anything?"
"Ah, my dear! He is so rich, and we are so poor!"
"Well, that is hardly a sufficient reason, Mamma..."
"Oh, Heaven! How ill he is!" exclaimed the mother.
Chapter 17
After Anna Mikhaylovna had driven off with her son to visit
Count Cyril Vladimirovich Bezukhov, Countess Rostova sat
for a long time all alone applying her handkerchief to her
eyes. At last she rang.
"What is the matter with you, my dear?" she said crossly to
the maid who kept her waiting some minutes. "Don't you wish
to serve me? Then I'll find you another place."
The countess was upset by her friend's sorrow and humili-
ating poverty, and was therefore out of sorts, a state of mind
which with her always found expression in calling her maid
"my dear" and speaking to her with exaggerated politeness.
"I am very sorry, ma'am," answered the maid.
"Ask the count to come to me."
The count came waddling in to see his wife with a rather
guilty look as usual.
"Well, little countess? What a saute of game au madere we
are to have, my dear! I tasted it. The thousand rubles I paid
for Taras were not ill-spent. He is worth it!"
He sat down by his wife, his elbows on his knees and his
hands ruffling his gray hair.
"What are your commands, little countess?"
 "You see, my dear... What's that mess?" she said, pointing to
his waistcoat. "It's the saute, most likely," she added with a
smile. "Well, you see, Count, I want some money."
Her face became sad.
"Oh, little countess!"... and the count began bustling to get
out his pocketbook.
"I want a great deal, Count! I want five hundred rubles,"
and taking out her cambric handkerchief she began wiping
her husband's waistcoat.
"Yes, immediately, immediately! Hey, who's there?" he
called out in a tone only used by persons who are certain that
those they call will rush to obey the summons. "Send Dmitri
to me!"
Dmitri, a man of good family who had been brought up in
the count's house and now managed all his affairs, stepped
softly into the room.
"This is what I want, my dear fellow," said the count to the
deferential young man who had entered. "Bring me..." he re-
flected a moment, "yes, bring me seven hundred rubles, yes!
But mind, don't bring me such tattered and dirty notes as last
time, but nice clean ones for the countess."
"Yes, Dmitri, clean ones, please," said the countess, sighing
deeply.
"When would you like them, your excellency?" asked Dmitri.
"Allow me to inform you... But, don't be uneasy," he added, no-
ticing that the count was beginning to breathe heavily and
quickly which was always a sign of approaching anger. "I was
forgetting... Do you wish it brought at once?"
"Yes, yes; just so! Bring it. Give it to the countess."
 "What a treasure that Dmitri is," added the count with a
smile when the young man had departed. "There is never any
'impossible' with him. That's a thing I hate! Everything is
possible."
"Ah, money, Count, money! How much sorrow it causes in
the world," said the countess. "But I am in great need of this
sum."
"You, my little countess, are a notorious spendthrift," said
the count, and having kissed his wife's hand he went back to
his study.
When Anna Mikhaylovna returned from Count Bezukhov's
the money, all in clean notes, was lying ready under a
handkerchief on the countess' little table, and Anna
Mikhaylovna noticed that something was agitating her.
"Well, my dear?" asked the countess.
"Oh, what a terrible state he is in! One would not know
him, he is so ill! I was only there a few moments and hardly
said a word..."
"Annette, for heaven's sake don't refuse me," the countess
began, with a blush that looked very strange on her thin, dig-
nified, elderly face, and she took the money from under the
handkerchief.
Anna Mikhaylovna instantly guessed her intention and
stooped to be ready to embrace the countess at the appropri-
ate moment.
"This is for Boris from me, for his outfit."
Anna Mikhaylovna was already embracing her and weep-
ing. The countess wept too. They wept because they were
friends, and because they were kindhearted, and because
they—friends from childhood—had to think about such a base
thing as money, and because their youth was over.... But
those tears were pleasant to them both.
Chapter 18
Countess Rostova, with her daughters and a large number
of guests, was already seated in the drawing room. The count
took the gentlemen into his study and showed them his choice
collection of Turkish pipes. From time to time he went out to
ask: "Hasn't she come yet?" They were expecting Marya
Dmitrievna Akhrosimova, known in society as le terrible
dragon, a lady distinguished not for wealth or rank, but for
common sense and frank plainness of speech. Marya
Dmitrievna was known to the Imperial family as well as to all
Moscow and Petersburg, and both cities wondered at her,
laughed privately at her rudenesses, and told good stories
about her, while none the less all without exception respected
and feared her.
In the count's room, which was full of tobacco smoke, they
talked of war that had been announced in a manifesto, and
about the recruiting. None of them had yet seen the mani-
festo, but they all knew it had appeared. The count sat on the
sofa between two guests who were smoking and talking. He
neither smoked nor talked, but bending his head first to one
side and then to the other watched the smokers with evident
pleasure and listened to the conversation of his two neighbors,
whom he egged on against each other.
One of them was a sallow, clean-shaven civilian with a thin
and wrinkled face, already growing old, though he was
dressed like a most fashionable young man. He sat with his
legs up on the sofa as if quite at home and, having stuck an
amber mouthpiece far into his mouth, was inhaling the smoke
spasmodically and screwing up his eyes. This was an old
bachelor, Shinshin, a cousin of the countess', a man with "a
sharp tongue" as they said in Moscow society. He seemed to
be condescending to his companion. The latter, a fresh, rosy
officer of the Guards, irreproachably washed, brushed, and
buttoned, held his pipe in the middle of his mouth and with
red lips gently inhaled the smoke, letting it escape from his
handsome mouth in rings. This was Lieutenant Berg, an of-
ficer in the Semenov regiment with whom Boris was to travel
to join the army, and about whom Natasha had, teased her
elder sister Vera, speaking of Berg as her "intended." The
count sat between them and listened attentively. His favorite
occupation when not playing boston, a card game he was very
fond of, was that of listener, especially when he succeeded in
setting two loquacious talkers at one another.
"Well, then, old chap, mon tres honorable Alphonse Kar-
lovich," said Shinshin, laughing ironically and mixing the
most ordinary Russian expressions with the choicest French
phrases—which was a peculiarity of his speech. "Vous
comptez vous faire des rentes sur l'etat; 5 you want to make
something out of your company?"
"No, Peter Nikolaevich; I only want to show that in the cav-
alry the advantages are far less than in the infantry. Just con-
sider my own position now, Peter Nikolaevich..."
Berg always spoke quietly, politely, and with great preci-
sion. His conversation always related entirely to himself; he
would remain calm and silent when the talk related to any
topic that had no direct bearing on himself. He could remain
silent for hours without being at all put out of countenance
himself or making others uncomfortable, but as soon as the
conversation concerned himself he would begin to talk circum-
stantially and with evident satisfaction.
"Consider my position, Peter Nikolaevich. Were I in the cav-
alry I should get not more than two hundred rubles every four
months, even with the rank of lieutenant; but as it is I receive
two hundred and thirty," said he, looking at Shinshin and the
count with a joyful, pleasant smile, as if it were obvious to
him that his success must always be the chief desire of every-
one else.
"Besides that, Peter Nikolaevich, by exchanging into the
Guards I shall be in a more prominent position," continued
Berg, "and vacancies occur much more frequently in the Foot
Guards. Then just think what can be done with two hundred
and thirty rubles! I even manage to put a little aside and to
send something to my father," he went on, emitting a smoke
ring.

5.You expect to make an income out of the government.

 "La balance y est... 6 A German knows how to skin a flint,
as the proverb says," remarked Shinshin, moving his pipe to
the other side of his mouth and winking at the count.
The count burst out laughing. The other guests seeing that
Shinshin was talking came up to listen. Berg, oblivious of
irony or indifference, continued to explain how by exchanging
into the Guards he had already gained a step on his old com-
rades of the Cadet Corps; how in wartime the company com-
mander might get killed and he, as senior in the company,
might easily succeed to the post; how popular he was with
everyone in the regiment, and how satisfied his father was
with him. Berg evidently enjoyed narrating all this, and did
not seem to suspect that others, too, might have their own in-
terests. But all he said was so prettily sedate, and the naivete
of his youthful egotism was so obvious, that he disarmed his
hearers.
"Well, my boy, you'll get along wherever you go—foot or
horse—that I'll warrant," said Shinshin, patting him on the
shoulder and taking his feet off the sofa.
Berg smiled joyously. The count, by his guests, went into
the drawing room.
It was just the moment before a big dinner when the as-
sembled guests, expecting the summons to zakuska, 7 avoid
engaging in any long conversation but think it necessary to
move about and talk, in order to show that they are not at all
impatient for their food. The host and hostess look toward the
door, and now and then glance at one another, and the

6.So that squares matters.

7.Hors d'oeuvres.
visitors try to guess from these glances who, or what, they are
waiting for—some important relation who has not yet arrived,
or a dish that is not yet ready.
Pierre had come just at dinnertime and was sitting awk-
wardly in the middle of the drawing room on the first chair he
had come across, blocking the way for everyone. The countess
tried to make him talk, but he went on naively looking around
through his spectacles as if in search of somebody and
answered all her questions in monosyllables. He was in the
way and was the only one who did not notice the fact. Most of
the guests, knowing of the affair with the bear, looked with
curiosity at this big, stout, quiet man, wondering how such a
clumsy, modest fellow could have played such a prank on a
policeman.
"You have only lately arrived?" the countess asked him.
"Oui, madame," replied he, looking around him.
"You have not yet seen my husband?"
"Non, madame." He smiled quite inappropriately.
"You have been in Paris recently, I believe? I suppose it's
very interesting."
"Very interesting."
The countess exchanged glances with Anna Mikhaylovna.
The latter understood that she was being asked to entertain
this young man, and sitting down beside him she began to
speak about his father; but he answered her, as he had the
countess, only in monosyllables. The other guests were all
conversing with one another. "The Razumovskis... It was
charming... You are very kind... Countess Apraksina..." was
heard on all sides. The countess rose and went into the
ballroom.
"Marya Dmitrievna?" came her voice from there.
"Herself," came the answer in a rough voice, and Marya
Dmitrievna entered the room.
All the unmarried ladies and even the married ones except
the very oldest rose. Marya Dmitrievna paused at the door.
Tall and stout, holding high her fifty-year-old head with its
gray curls, she stood surveying the guests, and leisurely ar-
ranged her wide sleeves as if rolling them up. Marya
Dmitrievna always spoke in Russian.
"Health and happiness to her whose name day we are keep-
ing and to her children," she said, in her loud, full-toned voice
which drowned all others. "Well, you old sinner," she went on,
turning to the count who was kissing her hand, "you're feeling
dull in Moscow, I daresay? Nowhere to hunt with your dogs?
But what is to be done, old man? Just see how these nestlings
are growing up," and she pointed to the girls. "You must look
for husbands for them whether you like it or not...."
"Well," said she, "how's my Cossack?" (Marya Dmitrievna
always called Natasha a Cossack) and she stroked the child's
arm as she came up fearless and gay to kiss her hand. "I know
she's a scamp of a girl, but I like her."
She took a pair of pear-shaped ruby earrings from her huge
reticule and, having given them to the rosy Natasha, who
beamed with the pleasure of her saint's-day fete, turned away
at once and addressed herself to Pierre.
"Eh, eh, friend! Come here a bit," said she, assuming a soft
high tone of voice. "Come here, my friend..." and she
ominously tucked up her sleeves still higher. Pierre ap-
proached, looking at her in a childlike way through his
spectacles.
"Come nearer, come nearer, friend! I used to be the only one
to tell your father the truth when he was in favor, and in your
case it's my evident duty." She paused. All were silent, expect-
ant of what was to follow, for this was dearly only a prelude.
"A fine lad! My word! A fine lad!... His father lies on his
deathbed and he amuses himself setting a policeman astride a
bear! For shame, sir, for shame! It would be better if you went
to the war."
She turned away and gave her hand to the count, who could
hardly keep from laughing.
"Well, I suppose it is time we were at table?" said Marya
Dmitrievna.
The count went in first with Marya Dmitrievna, the count-
ess followed on the arm of a colonel of hussars, a man of im-
portance to them because Nicholas was to go with him to the
regiment; then came Anna Mikhaylovna with Shinshin. Berg
gave his arm to Vera. The smiling Julie Karagina went in
with Nicholas. After them other couples followed, filling the
whole dining hall, and last of all the children, tutors, and gov-
ernesses followed singly. The footmen began moving about,
chairs scraped, the band struck up in the gallery, and the
guests settled down in their places. Then the strains of the
count's household band were replaced by the clatter of knives
and forks, the voices of visitors, and the soft steps of the foot-
men. At one end of the table sat the countess with Marya
Dmitrievna on her right and Anna Mikhaylovna on her left,
the other lady visitors were farther down. At the other end sat
the count, with the hussar colonel on his left and Shinshin
and the other male visitors on his right. Midway down the
long table on one side sat the grownup young people: Vera be-
side Berg, and Pierre beside Boris; and on the other side, the
children, tutors, and governesses. From behind the crystal de-
canters and fruit vases the count kept glancing at his wife and
her tall cap with its light-blue ribbons, and busily filled his
neighbors' glasses, not neglecting his own. The countess in
turn, without omitting her duties as hostess, threw significant
glances from behind the pineapples at her husband whose
face and bald head seemed by their redness to contrast more
than usual with his gray hair. At the ladies' end an even chat-
ter of voices was heard all the time, at the men's end the
voices sounded louder and louder, especially that of the colon-
el of hussars who, growing more and more flushed, ate and
drank so much that the count held him up as a pattern to the
other guests. Berg with tender smiles was saying to Vera that
love is not an earthly but a heavenly feeling. Boris was telling
his new friend Pierre who the guests were and exchanging
glances with Natasha, who was sitting opposite. Pierre spoke
little but examined the new faces, and ate a great deal. Of the
two soups he chose turtle with savory patties and went on to
the game without omitting a single dish or one of the wines.
These latter the butler thrust mysteriously forward, wrapped
in a napkin, from behind the next man's shoulders and
whispered: "Dry Madeira"... "Hungarian"... or "Rhine wine" as
the case might be. Of the four crystal glasses engraved with
the count's monogram that stood before his plate, Pierre held
out one at random and drank with enjoyment, gazing with
ever-increasing amiability at the other guests. Natasha, who
sat opposite, was looking at Boris as girls of thirteen look at
the boy they are in love with and have just kissed for the first
time. Sometimes that same look fell on Pierre, and that funny
lively little girl's look made him inclined to laugh without
knowing why.
Nicholas sat at some distance from Sonya, beside Julie Kar-
agina, to whom he was again talking with the same involun-
tary smile. Sonya wore a company smile but was evidently
tormented by jealousy; now she turned pale, now blushed and
strained every nerve to overhear what Nicholas and Julie
were saying to one another. The governess kept looking round
uneasily as if preparing to resent any slight that might be put
upon the children. The German tutor was trying to remember
all the dishes, wines, and kinds of dessert, in order to send a
full description of the dinner to his people in Germany; and he
felt greatly offended when the butler with a bottle wrapped in
a napkin passed him by. He frowned, trying to appear as if he
did not want any of that wine, but was mortified because no
one would understand that it was not to quench his thirst or
from greediness that he wanted it, but simply from a con-
scientious desire for knowledge.
Chapter 19
At the men's end of the table the talk grew more and more
animated. The colonel told them that the declaration of war
had already appeared in Petersburg and that a copy, which he
had himself seen, had that day been forwarded by courier to
the commander in chief.
"And why the deuce are we going to fight Bonaparte?" re-
marked Shinshin. "He has stopped Austria's cackle and I fear
it will be our turn next."
The colonel was a stout, tall, plethoric German, evidently
devoted to the service and patriotically Russian. He resented
Shinshin's remark.
"It is for the reasson, my goot sir," said he, speaking with a
German accent, "for the reasson zat ze Emperor knows zat.
He declares in ze manifessto zat he cannot fiew wiz indiffer-
ence ze danger vreatening Russia and zat ze safety and dig-
nity of ze Empire as vell as ze sanctity of its alliances..." he
spoke this last word with particular emphasis as if in it lay
the gist of the matter.
Then with the unerring official memory that characterized
him he repeated from the opening words of the manifesto:
 ... and the wish, which constitutes the Emperor's sole and
absolute aim—to establish peace in Europe on firm founda-
tions—has now decided him to despatch part of the army
abroad and to create a new condition for the attainment of
that purpose.
"Zat, my dear sir, is vy..." he concluded, drinking a tumbler
of wine with dignity and looking to the count for approval.
"Connaissez-vous le Proverbe: 8 'Jerome, Jerome, do not
roam, but turn spindles at home!'?" said Shinshin, puckering
his brows and smiling. "Cela nous convient a merveille. 9 Su-
vorov now—he knew what he was about; yet they beat him a
plate couture, 10 and where are we to find Suvorovs now? Je
vous demande un peu," 11 said he, continually changing from
French to Russian.
"Ve must vight to the last tr-r-op of our plood!" said the col-
onel, thumping the table; "and ve must tie for our Emperor,
and zen all vill pe vell. And ve must discuss it as little as po-o-
ossible"... he dwelt particularly on the word possible... "as po-
o-ossible," he ended, again turning to the count. "Zat is how ve
old hussars look at it, and zere's an end of it! And how do you,
a young man and a young hussar, how do you judge of it?" he
added, addressing Nicholas, who when he heard that the war
was being discussed had turned from his partner with eyes
and ears intent on the colonel.

8.Do you know the proverb?

9.That suits us down to the ground.
10.Hollow.
11.I just ask you that.
 "I am quite of your opinion," replied Nicholas, flaming up,
turning his plate round and moving his wineglasses about
with as much decision and desperation as though he were at
that moment facing some great danger. "I am convinced that
we Russians must die or conquer," he concluded, con-
scious—as were others—after the words were uttered that his
remarks were too enthusiastic and emphatic for the occasion
and were therefore awkward.
"What you said just now was splendid!" said his partner
Julie.
Sonya trembled all over and blushed to her ears and behind
them and down to her neck and shoulders while Nicholas was
speaking.
Pierre listened to the colonel's speech and nodded
approvingly.
"That's fine," said he.
"The young man's a real hussar!" shouted the colonel, again
thumping the table.
"What are you making such a noise about over there?"
Marya Dmitrievna's deep voice suddenly inquired from the
other end of the table. "What are you thumping the table for?"
she demanded of the hussar, "and why are you exciting your-
self? Do you think the French are here?"
"I am speaking ze truce," replied the hussar with a smile.
"It's all about the war," the count shouted down the table.
"You know my son's going, Marya Dmitrievna? My son is
going."
"I have four sons in the army but still I don't fret. It is all in
God's hands. You may die in your bed or God may spare you
in a battle," replied Marya Dmitrievna's deep voice, which
easily carried the whole length of the table.
"That's true!"
Once more the conversations concentrated, the ladies' at the
one end and the men's at the other.
"You won't ask," Natasha's little brother was saying; "I
know you won't ask!"
"I will," replied Natasha.
Her face suddenly flushed with reckless and joyous resolu-
tion. She half rose, by a glance inviting Pierre, who sat oppos-
ite, to listen to what was coming, and turning to her mother:
"Mamma!" rang out the clear contralto notes of her childish
voice, audible the whole length of the table.
"What is it?" asked the countess, startled; but seeing by her
daughter's face that it was only mischief, she shook a finger at
her sternly with a threatening and forbidding movement of
her head.
The conversation was hushed.
"Mamma! What sweets are we going to have?" and
Natasha's voice sounded still more firm and resolute.
The countess tried to frown, but could not. Marya
Dmitrievna shook her fat finger.
"Cossack!" she said threateningly.
Most of the guests, uncertain how to regard this sally,
looked at the elders.
"You had better take care!" said the countess.
"Mamma! What sweets are we going to have?" Natasha
again cried boldly, with saucy gaiety, confident that her prank
would be taken in good part.
 Sonya and fat little Petya doubled up with laughter.
"You see! I have asked," whispered Natasha to her little
brother and to Pierre, glancing at him again.
"Ice pudding, but you won't get any," said Marya
Dmitrievna.
Natasha saw there was nothing to be afraid of and so she
braved even Marya Dmitrievna.
"Marya Dmitrievna! What kind of ice pudding? I don't like
ice cream."
"Carrot ices."
"No! What kind, Marya Dmitrievna? What kind?" she al-
most screamed; "I want to know!"
Marya Dmitrievna and the countess burst out laughing,
and all the guests joined in. Everyone laughed, not at Marya
Dmitrievna's answer but at the incredible boldness and
smartness of this little girl who had dared to treat Marya
Dmitrievna in this fashion.
Natasha only desisted when she had been told that there
would be pineapple ice. Before the ices, champagne was
served round. The band again struck up, the count and count-
ess kissed, and the guests, leaving their seats, went up to
"congratulate" the countess, and reached across the table to
clink glasses with the count, with the children, and with one
another. Again the footmen rushed about, chairs scraped, and
in the same order in which they had entered but with redder
faces, the guests returned to the drawing room and to the
count's study.
Chapter 20
The card tables were drawn out, sets made up for boston,
and the count's visitors settled themselves, some in the two
drawing rooms, some in the sitting room, some in the library.
The count, holding his cards fanwise, kept himself with dif-
ficulty from dropping into his usual after-dinner nap, and
laughed at everything. The young people, at the countess' in-
stigation, gathered round the clavichord and harp. Julie by
general request played first. After she had played a little air
with variations on the harp, she joined the other young ladies
in begging Natasha and Nicholas, who were noted for their
musical talent, to sing something. Natasha, who was treated
as though she were grown up, was evidently very proud of
this but at the same time felt shy.
"What shall we sing?" she said.
"'The Brook,'" suggested Nicholas.
"Well, then, let's be quick. Boris, come here," said Natasha.
"But where is Sonya?"
She looked round and seeing that her friend was not in the
room ran to look for her.
Running into Sonya's room and not finding her there, Nata-
sha ran to the nursery, but Sonya was not there either.
Natasha concluded that she must be on the chest in the pas-
sage. The chest in the passage was the place of mourning for
the younger female generation in the Rostov household. And
there in fact was Sonya lying face downward on Nurse's dirty
feather bed on the top of the chest, crumpling her gauzy pink
dress under her, hiding her face with her slender fingers, and
sobbing so convulsively that her bare little shoulders shook.
Natasha's face, which had been so radiantly happy all that
saint's day, suddenly changed: her eyes became fixed, and
then a shiver passed down her broad neck and the corners of
her mouth drooped.
"Sonya! What is it? What is the matter?... Oo... Oo... Oo...!"
And Natasha's large mouth widened, making her look quite
ugly, and she began to wail like a baby without knowing why,
except that Sonya was crying. Sonya tried to lift her head to
answer but could not, and hid her face still deeper in the bed.
Natasha wept, sitting on the blue-striped feather bed and
hugging her friend. With an effort Sonya sat up and began
wiping her eyes and explaining.
"Nicholas is going away in a week's time, his... papers...
have come... he told me himself... but still I should not cry,"
and she showed a paper she held in her hand—with the
verses Nicholas had written, "still, I should not cry, but you
can't... no one can understand... what a soul he has!"
And she began to cry again because he had such a noble
soul.
"It's all very well for you... I am not envious... I love you and
Boris also," she went on, gaining a little strength; "he is nice...
there are no difficulties in your way.... But Nicholas is my
cousin... one would have to... the Metropolitan himself... and
even then it can't be done. And besides, if she tells Mamma"
(Sonya looked upon the countess as her mother and called her
so) "that I am spoiling Nicholas' career and am heartless and
ungrateful, while truly... God is my witness," and she made
the sign of the cross, "I love her so much, and all of you, only
Vera... And what for? What have I done to her? I am so grate-
ful to you that I would willingly sacrifice everything, only I
have nothing...."
Sonya could not continue, and again hid her face in her
hands and in the feather bed. Natasha began consoling her,
but her face showed that she understood all the gravity of her
friend's trouble.
"Sonya," she suddenly exclaimed, as if she had guessed the
true reason of her friend's sorrow, "I'm sure Vera has said
something to you since dinner? Hasn't she?"
"Yes, these verses Nicholas wrote himself and I copied some
others, and she found them on my table and said she'd show
them to Mamma, and that I was ungrateful, and that Mamma
would never allow him to marry me, but that he'll marry
Julie. You see how he's been with her all day... Natasha, what
have I done to deserve it?..."
And again she began to sob, more bitterly than before.
Natasha lifted her up, hugged her, and, smiling through her
tears, began comforting her.
"Sonya, don't believe her, darling! Don't believe her! Do you
remember how we and Nicholas, all three of us, talked in the
sitting room after supper? Why, we settled how everything
was to be. I don't quite remember how, but don't you
remember that it could all be arranged and how nice it all
was? There's Uncle Shinshin's brother has married his first
cousin. And we are only second cousins, you know. And Boris
says it is quite possible. You know I have told him all about it.
And he is so clever and so good!" said Natasha. "Don't you cry,
Sonya, dear love, darling Sonya!" and she kissed her and
laughed. "Vera's spiteful; never mind her! And all will come
right and she won't say anything to Mamma. Nicholas will tell
her himself, and he doesn't care at all for Julie."
Natasha kissed her on the hair.
Sonya sat up. The little kitten brightened, its eyes shone,
and it seemed ready to lift its tail, jump down on its soft paws,
and begin playing with the ball of worsted as a kitten should.
"Do you think so?... Really? Truly?" she said, quickly
smoothing her frock and hair.
"Really, truly!" answered Natasha, pushing in a crisp lock
that had strayed from under her friend's plaits.
Both laughed.
"Well, let's go and sing 'The Brook.'"
"Come along!"
"Do you know, that fat Pierre who sat opposite me is so
funny!" said Natasha, stopping suddenly. "I feel so happy!"
And she set off at a run along the passage.
Sonya, shaking off some down which clung to her and tuck-
ing away the verses in the bosom of her dress close to her
bony little chest, ran after Natasha down the passage into the
sitting room with flushed face and light, joyous steps. At the
visitors' request the young people sang the quartette, "The
Brook," with which everyone was delighted. Then Nicholas
sang a song he had just learned:
At nighttime in the moon's fair glow
How sweet, as fancies wander free,
To feel that in this world there's one
Who still is thinking but of thee!
That while her fingers touch the harp
Wafting sweet music music the lea,
It is for thee thus swells her heart,
Sighing its message out to thee...
A day or two, then bliss unspoilt,
But oh! till then I cannot live!...
He had not finished the last verse before the young people
began to get ready to dance in the large hall, and the sound of
the feet and the coughing of the musicians were heard from
the gallery.
Pierre was sitting in the drawing-room where Shinshin had
engaged him, as a man recently returned from abroad, in a
political conversation in which several others joined but which
bored Pierre. When the music began Natasha came in and
walking straight up to Pierre said, laughing and blushing:
"Mamma told me to ask you to join the dancers."
"I am afraid of mixing the figures," Pierre replied; "but if
you will be my teacher..." And lowering his big arm he offered
it to the slender little girl.
While the couples were arranging themselves and the musi-
cians tuning up, Pierre sat down with his little partner. Nata-
sha was perfectly happy; she was dancing with a grown-up
man, who had been abroad. She was sitting in a conspicuous
place and talking to him like a grown-up lady. She had a fan
in her hand that one of the ladies had given her to hold. As-
suming quite the pose of a society woman (heaven knows
when and where she had learned it) she talked with her part-
ner, fanning herself and smiling over the fan.
"Dear, dear! Just look at her!" exclaimed the countess as
she crossed the ballroom, pointing to Natasha.
Natasha blushed and laughed.
"Well, really, Mamma! Why should you? What is there to be
surprised at?"
In the midst of the third ecossaise there was a clatter of
chairs being pushed back in the sitting room where the count
and Marya Dmitrievna had been playing cards with the ma-
jority of the more distinguished and older visitors. They now,
stretching themselves after sitting so long, and replacing their
purses and pocketbooks, entered the ballroom. First came
Marya Dmitrievna and the count, both with merry counten-
ances. The count, with playful ceremony somewhat in ballet
style, offered his bent arm to Marya Dmitrievna. He drew
himself up, a smile of debonair gallantry lit up his face and as
soon as the last figure of the ecossaise was ended, he clapped
his hands to the musicians and shouted up to their gallery,
addressing the first violin:
"Semen! Do you know the Daniel Cooper?"
This was the count's favorite dance, which he had danced in
his youth. (Strictly speaking, Daniel Cooper was one figure of
the anglaise.)
"Look at Papa!" shouted Natasha to the whole company,
and quite forgetting that she was dancing with a grown-up
partner she bent her curly head to her knees and made the
whole room ring with her laughter.
And indeed everybody in the room looked with a smile of
pleasure at the jovial old gentleman, who standing beside his
tall and stout partner, Marya Dmitrievna, curved his arms,
beat time, straightened his shoulders, turned out his toes,
tapped gently with his foot, and, by a smile that broadened
his round face more and more, prepared the onlookers for
what was to follow. As soon as the provocatively gay strains of
Daniel Cooper (somewhat resembling those of a merry peas-
ant dance) began to sound, all the doorways of the ballroom
were suddenly filled by the domestic serfs—the men on one
side and the women on the other—who with beaming faces
had come to see their master making merry.
"Just look at the master! A regular eagle he is!" loudly re-
marked the nurse, as she stood in one of the doorways.
The count danced well and knew it. But his partner could
not and did not want to dance well. Her enormous figure stood
erect, her powerful arms hanging down (she had handed her
reticule to the countess), and only her stern but handsome
face really joined in the dance. What was expressed by the
whole of the count's plump figure, in Marya Dmitrievna found
expression only in her more and more beaming face and quiv-
ering nose. But if the count, getting more and more into the
swing of it, charmed the spectators by the unexpectedness of
his adroit maneuvers and the agility with which he capered
about on his light feet, Marya Dmitrievna produced no less
impression by slight exertions—the least effort to move her
shoulders or bend her arms when turning, or stamp her
foot—which everyone appreciated in view of her size and ha-
bitual severity. The dance grew livelier and livelier. The other
couples could not attract a moment's attention to their own
evolutions and did not even try to do so. All were watching the
count and Marya Dmitrievna. Natasha kept pulling everyone
by sleeve or dress, urging them to "look at Papa!" though as it
was they never took their eyes off the couple. In the intervals
of the dance the count, breathing deeply, waved and shouted
to the musicians to play faster. Faster, faster, and faster;
lightly, more lightly, and yet more lightly whirled the count,
flying round Marya Dmitrievna, now on his toes, now on his
heels; until, turning his partner round to her seat, he ex-
ecuted the final pas, raising his soft foot backwards, bowing
his perspiring head, smiling and making a wide sweep with
his arm, amid a thunder of applause and laughter led by
Natasha. Both partners stood still, breathing heavily and wip-
ing their faces with their cambric handkerchiefs.
"That's how we used to dance in our time, ma chere," said
the count.
"That was a Daniel Cooper!" exclaimed Marya Dmitrievna,
tucking up her sleeves and puffing heavily.
Chapter 21
While in the Rostovs' ballroom the sixth anglaise was being
danced, to a tune in which the weary musicians blundered,
and while tired footmen and cooks were getting the supper,
Count Bezukhov had a sixth stroke. The doctors pronounced
recovery impossible. After a mute confession, communion was
administered to the dying man, preparations made for the
sacrament of unction, and in his house there was the bustle
and thrill of suspense usual at such moments. Outside the
house, beyond the gates, a group of undertakers, who hid
whenever a carriage drove up, waited in expectation of an im-
portant order for an expensive funeral. The Military Governor
of Moscow, who had been assiduous in sending aides-de-camp
to inquire after the count's health, came himself that evening
to bid a last farewell to the celebrated grandee of Catherine's
court, Count Bezukhov.
The magnificent reception room was crowded. Everyone
stood up respectfully when the Military Governor, having
stayed about half an hour alone with the dying man, passed
out, slightly acknowledging their bows and trying to escape as
quickly as from the glances fixed on him by the doctors,
clergy, and relatives of the family. Prince Vasili, who had
grown thinner and paler during the last few days, escorted
him to the door, repeating something to him several times in
low tones.
When the Military Governor had gone, Prince Vasili sat
down all alone on a chair in the ballroom, crossing one leg
high over the other, leaning his elbow on his knee and cover-
ing his face with his hand. After sitting so for a while he rose,
and, looking about him with frightened eyes, went with un-
usually hurried steps down the long corridor leading to the
back of the house, to the room of the eldest princess.
Those who were in the dimly lit reception room spoke in
nervous whispers, and, whenever anyone went into or came
from the dying man's room, grew silent and gazed with eyes
full of curiosity or expectancy at his door, which creaked
slightly when opened.
"The limits of human life... are fixed and may not be
o'erpassed," said an old priest to a lady who had taken a seat
beside him and was listening naively to his words.
"I wonder, is it not too late to administer unction?" asked
the lady, adding the priest's clerical title, as if she had no
opinion of her own on the subject.
"Ah, madam, it is a great sacrament," replied the priest,
passing his hand over the thin grizzled strands of hair combed
back across his bald head.
"Who was that? The Military Governor himself?" was being
asked at the other side of the room. "How young-looking he
is!"
 "Yes, and he is over sixty. I hear the count no longer recog-
nizes anyone. They wished to administer the sacrament of
unction."
"I knew someone who received that sacrament seven times."
The second princess had just come from the sickroom with
her eyes red from weeping and sat down beside Dr. Lorrain,
who was sitting in a graceful pose under a portrait of Cather-
ine, leaning his elbow on a table.
"Beautiful," said the doctor in answer to a remark about the
weather. "The weather is beautiful, Princess; and besides, in
Moscow one feels as if one were in the country."
"Yes, indeed," replied the princess with a sigh. "So he may
have something to drink?"
Lorrain considered.
"Has he taken his medicine?"
"Yes."
The doctor glanced at his watch.
"Take a glass of boiled water and put a pinch of cream of
tartar," and he indicated with his delicate fingers what he
meant by a pinch.
"Dere has neffer been a gase," a German doctor was saying
to an aide-de-camp, "dat one liffs after de sird stroke."
"And what a well-preserved man he was!" remarked the
aide-de-camp. "And who will inherit his wealth?" he added in
a whisper.
"It von't go begging," replied the German with a smile.
Everyone again looked toward the door, which creaked as
the second princess went in with the drink she had prepared
according to Lorrain's instructions. The German doctor went
up to Lorrain.
"Do you think he can last till morning?" asked the German,
addressing Lorrain in French which he pronounced badly.
Lorrain, pursing up his lips, waved a severely negative fin-
ger before his nose.
"Tonight, not later," said he in a low voice, and he moved
away with a decorous smile of self-satisfaction at being able
clearly to understand and state the patient's condition.
Meanwhile Prince Vasili had opened the door into the prin-
cess' room.
In this room it was almost dark; only two tiny lamps were
burning before the icons and there was a pleasant scent of
flowers and burnt pastilles. The room was crowded with small
pieces of furniture, whatnots, cupboards, and little tables. The
quilt of a high, white feather bed was just visible behind a
screen. A small dog began to bark.
"Ah, is it you, cousin?"
She rose and smoothed her hair, which was as usual so ex-
tremely smooth that it seemed to be made of one piece with
her head and covered with varnish.
"Has anything happened?" she asked. "I am so terrified."
"No, there is no change. I only came to have a talk about
business, Catiche," 12 muttered the prince, seating himself
wearily on the chair she had just vacated. "You have made the
place warm, I must say," he remarked. "Well, sit down: let's
have a talk."

12.Catherine.
 "I thought perhaps something had happened," she said with
her unchanging stonily severe expression; and, sitting down
opposite the prince, she prepared to listen.
"I wished to get a nap, mon cousin, but I can't."
"Well, my dear?" said Prince Vasili, taking her hand and
bending it downwards as was his habit.
It was plain that this "well?" referred to much that they
both understood without naming.
The princess, who had a straight, rigid body, abnormally
long for her legs, looked directly at Prince Vasili with no sign
of emotion in her prominent gray eyes. Then she shook her
head and glanced up at the icons with a sigh. This might have
been taken as an expression of sorrow and devotion, or of
weariness and hope of resting before long. Prince Vasili un-
derstood it as an expression of weariness.
"And I?" he said; "do you think it is easier for me? I am as
worn out as a post horse, but still I must have a talk with you,
Catiche, a very serious talk."
Prince Vasili said no more and his cheeks began to twitch
nervously, now on one side, now on the other, giving his face
an unpleasant expression which was never to be seen on it in
a drawing room. His eyes too seemed strange; at one moment
they looked impudently sly and at the next glanced round in
alarm.
The princess, holding her little dog on her lap with her thin
bony hands, looked attentively into Prince Vasili's eyes evid-
ently resolved not to be the first to break silence, if she had to
wait till morning.
 "Well, you see, my dear princess and cousin, Catherine Se-
menovna," continued Prince Vasili, returning to his theme,
apparently not without an inner struggle; "at such a moment
as this one must think of everything. One must think of the
future, of all of you... I love you all, like children of my own, as
you know."
The princess continued to look at him without moving, and
with the same dull expression.
"And then of course my family has also to be considered,"
Prince Vasili went on, testily pushing away a little table
without looking at her. "You know, Catiche, that we—you
three sisters, Mamontov, and my wife—are the count's only
direct heirs. I know, I know how hard it is for you to talk or
think of such matters. It is no easier for me; but, my dear, I
am getting on for sixty and must be prepared for anything. Do
you know I have sent for Pierre? The count," pointing to his
portrait, "definitely demanded that he should be called."
Prince Vasili looked questioningly at the princess, but could
not make out whether she was considering what he had just
said or whether she was simply looking at him.
"There is one thing I constantly pray God to grant, mon
cousin," she replied, "and it is that He would be merciful to
him and would allow his noble soul peacefully to leave this..."
"Yes, yes, of course," interrupted Prince Vasili impatiently,
rubbing his bald head and angrily pulling back toward him
the little table that he had pushed away. "But... in short, the
fact is... you know yourself that last winter the count made a
will by which he left all his property, not to us his direct heirs,
but to Pierre."
 "He has made wills enough!" quietly remarked the princess.
"But he cannot leave the estate to Pierre. Pierre is
illegitimate."
"But, my dear," said Prince Vasili suddenly, clutching the
little table and becoming more animated and talking more
rapidly: "what if a letter has been written to the Emperor in
which the count asks for Pierre's legitimation? Do you under-
stand that in consideration of the count's services, his request
would be granted?..."
The princess smiled as people do who think they know more
about the subject under discussion than those they are talking
with.
"I can tell you more," continued Prince Vasili, seizing her
hand, "that letter was written, though it was not sent, and the
Emperor knew of it. The only question is, has it been des-
troyed or not? If not, then as soon as all is over," and Prince
Vasili sighed to intimate what he meant by the words all is
over, "and the count's papers are opened, the will and letter
will be delivered to the Emperor, and the petition will cer-
tainly be granted. Pierre will get everything as the legitimate
son."
"And our share?" asked the princess smiling ironically, as if
anything might happen, only not that.
"But, my poor Catiche, it is as clear as daylight! He will
then be the legal heir to everything and you won't get any-
thing. You must know, my dear, whether the will and letter
were written, and whether they have been destroyed or not.
And if they have somehow been overlooked, you ought to
know where they are, and must find them, because..."
 "What next?" the princess interrupted, smiling sardonically
and not changing the expression of her eyes. "I am a woman,
and you think we are all stupid; but I know this: an illegitim-
ate son cannot inherit... un batard!" 13 she added, as if suppos-
ing that this translation of the word would effectively prove to
Prince Vasili the invalidity of his contention.
"Well, really, Catiche! Can't you understand! You are so in-
telligent, how is it you don't see that if the count has written a
letter to the Emperor begging him to recognize Pierre as legit-
imate, it follows that Pierre will not be Pierre but will become
Count Bezukhov, and will then inherit everything under the
will? And if the will and letter are not destroyed, then you will
have nothing but the consolation of having been dutiful et
tout ce qui s'ensuit! 14 That's certain."
"I know the will was made, but I also know that it is inval-
id; and you, mon cousin, seem to consider me a perfect fool,"
said the princess with the expression women assume when
they suppose they are saying something witty and stinging.
"My dear Princess Catherine Semenovna," began Prince Va-
sili impatiently, "I came here not to wrangle with you, but to
talk about your interests as with a kinswoman, a good, kind,
true relation. And I tell you for the tenth time that if the let-
ter to the Emperor and the will in Pierre's favor are among
the count's papers, then, my dear girl, you and your sisters
are not heiresses! If you don't believe me, then believe an ex-
pert. I have just been talking to Dmitri Onufrich" (the family
solicitor) "and he says the same."

13.A bastard.
14.And all that follows therefrom.
 At this a sudden change evidently took place in the prin-
cess' ideas; her thin lips grew white, though her eyes did not
change, and her voice when she began to speak passed
through such transitions as she herself evidently did not
expect.
"That would be a fine thing!" said she. "I never wanted any-
thing and I don't now."
She pushed the little dog off her lap and smoothed her
dress.
"And this is gratitude—this is recognition for those who
have sacrificed everything for his sake!" she cried. "It's splen-
did! Fine! I don't want anything, Prince."
"Yes, but you are not the only one. There are your sisters..."
replied Prince Vasili.
But the princess did not listen to him.
"Yes, I knew it long ago but had forgotten. I knew that I
could expect nothing but meanness, deceit, envy, intrigue, and
ingratitude—the blackest ingratitude—in this house..."
"Do you or do you not know where that will is?" insisted
Prince Vasili, his cheeks twitching more than ever.
"Yes, I was a fool! I still believed in people, loved them, and
sacrificed myself. But only the base, the vile succeed! I know
who has been intriguing!"
The princess wished to rise, but the prince held her by the
hand. She had the air of one who has suddenly lost faith in
the whole human race. She gave her companion an angry
glance.
"There is still time, my dear. You must remember, Catiche,
that it was all done casually in a moment of anger, of illness,
and was afterwards forgotten. Our duty, my dear, is to rectify
his mistake, to ease his last moments by not letting him com-
mit this injustice, and not to let him die feeling that he is ren-
dering unhappy those who..."
"Who sacrificed everything for him," chimed in the princess,
who would again have risen had not the prince still held her
fast, "though he never could appreciate it. No, mon cousin,"
she added with a sigh, "I shall always remember that in this
world one must expect no reward, that in this world there is
neither honor nor justice. In this world one has to be cunning
and cruel."
"Now come, come! Be reasonable. I know your excellent
heart."
"No, I have a wicked heart."
"I know your heart," repeated the prince. "I value your
friendship and wish you to have as good an opinion of me.
Don't upset yourself, and let us talk sensibly while there is
still time, be it a day or be it but an hour.... Tell me all you
know about the will, and above all where it is. You must
know. We will take it at once and show it to the count. He has,
no doubt, forgotten it and will wish to destroy it. You under-
stand that my sole desire is conscientiously to carry out his
wishes; that is my only reason for being here. I came simply to
help him and you."
"Now I see it all! I know who has been intriguing—I know!"
cried the princess.
"That's not the point, my dear."
 "It's that protege of yours, that sweet Princess Drubet-
skaya, that Anna Mikhaylovna whom I would not take for a
housemaid... the infamous, vile woman!"
"Do not let us lose any time..."
"Ah, don't talk to me! Last winter she wheedled herself in
here and told the count such vile, disgraceful things about us,
especially about Sophie—I can't repeat them—that it made
the count quite ill and he would not see us for a whole fort-
night. I know it was then he wrote this vile, infamous paper,
but I thought the thing was invalid."
"We've got to it at last—why did you not tell me about it
sooner?"
"It's in the inlaid portfolio that he keeps under his pillow,"
said the princess, ignoring his question. "Now I know! Yes; if I
have a sin, a great sin, it is hatred of that vile woman!" almost
shrieked the princess, now quite changed. "And what does she
come worming herself in here for? But I will give her a piece
of my mind. The time will come!"
Chapter 22
While these conversations were going on in the reception
room and the princess' room, a carriage containing Pierre
(who had been sent for) and Anna Mikhaylovna (who found it
necessary to accompany him) was driving into the court of
Count Bezukhov's house. As the wheels rolled softly over the
straw beneath the windows, Anna Mikhaylovna, having
turned with words of comfort to her companion, realized that
he was asleep in his corner and woke him up. Rousing him-
self, Pierre followed Anna Mikhaylovna out of the carriage,
and only then began to think of the interview with his dying
father which awaited him. He noticed that they had not come
to the front entrance but to the back door. While he was get-
ting down from the carriage steps two men, who looked like
tradespeople, ran hurriedly from the entrance and hid in the
shadow of the wall. Pausing for a moment, Pierre noticed sev-
eral other men of the same kind hiding in the shadow of the
house on both sides. But neither Anna Mikhaylovna nor the
footman nor the coachman, who could not help seeing these
people, took any notice of them. "It seems to be all right," Pi-
erre concluded, and followed Anna Mikhaylovna. She hur-
riedly ascended the narrow dimly lit stone staircase, calling to
Pierre, who was lagging behind, to follow. Though he did not
see why it was necessary for him to go to the count at all, still
less why he had to go by the back stairs, yet judging by Anna
Mikhaylovna's air of assurance and haste, Pierre concluded
that it was all absolutely necessary. Halfway up the stairs
they were almost knocked over by some men who, carrying
pails, came running downstairs, their boots clattering. These
men pressed close to the wall to let Pierre and Anna
Mikhaylovna pass and did not evince the least surprise at see-
ing them there.
"Is this the way to the princesses' apartments?" asked Anna
Mikhaylovna of one of them.
"Yes," replied a footman in a bold loud voice, as if anything
were now permissible; "the door to the left, ma'am."
"Perhaps the count did not ask for me," said Pierre when he
reached the landing. "I'd better go to my own room."
Anna Mikhaylovna paused and waited for him to come up.
"Ah, my friend!" she said, touching his arm as she had done
her son's when speaking to him that afternoon, "believe me I
suffer no less than you do, but be a man!"
"But really, hadn't I better go away?" he asked, looking
kindly at her over his spectacles.
"Ah, my dear friend! Forget the wrongs that may have been
done you. Think that he is your father... perhaps in the agony
of death." She sighed. "I have loved you like a son from the
first. Trust yourself to me, Pierre. I shall not forget your
interests."
 Pierre did not understand a word, but the conviction that
all this had to be grew stronger, and he meekly followed Anna
Mikhaylovna who was already opening a door.
This door led into a back anteroom. An old man, a servant
of the princesses, sat in a corner knitting a stocking. Pierre
had never been in this part of the house and did not even
know of the existence of these rooms. Anna Mikhaylovna, ad-
dressing a maid who was hurrying past with a decanter on a
tray as "my dear" and "my sweet," asked about the princess'
health and then led Pierre along a stone passage. The first
door on the left led into the princesses' apartments. The maid
with the decanter in her haste had not closed the door
(everything in the house was done in haste at that time), and
Pierre and Anna Mikhaylovna in passing instinctively glanced
into the room, where Prince Vasili and the eldest princess
were sitting close together talking. Seeing them pass, Prince
Vasili drew back with obvious impatience, while the princess
jumped up and with a gesture of desperation slammed the
door with all her might.
This action was so unlike her usual composure and the fear
depicted on Prince Vasili's face so out of keeping with his dig-
nity that Pierre stopped and glanced inquiringly over his
spectacles at his guide. Anna Mikhaylovna evinced no sur-
prise, she only smiled faintly and sighed, as if to say that this
was no more than she had expected.
"Be a man, my friend. I will look after your interests,"; said
she in reply to his look, and went still faster along the
passage.
 Pierre could not make out what it was all about, and still
less what "watching over his interests" meant, but he decided
that all these things had to be. From the passage they went
into a large, dimly lit room adjoining the count's reception
room. It was one of those sumptuous but cold apartments
known to Pierre only from the front approach, but even in this
room there now stood an empty bath, and water had been
spilled on the carpet. They were met by a deacon with a
censer and by a servant who passed out on tiptoe without
heeding them. They went into the reception room familiar to
Pierre, with two Italian windows opening into the conservat-
ory, with its large bust and full length portrait of Catherine
the Great. The same people were still sitting here in almost
the same positions as before, whispering to one another. All
became silent and turned to look at the pale tear-worn Anna
Mikhaylovna as she entered, and at the big stout figure of Pi-
erre who, hanging his head, meekly followed her.
Anna Mikhaylovna's face expressed a consciousness that
the decisive moment had arrived. With the air of a practical
Petersburg lady she now, keeping Pierre close beside her,
entered the room even more boldly than that afternoon. She
felt that as she brought with her the person the dying man
wished to see, her own admission was assured. Casting a rap-
id glance at all those in the room and noticing the count's con-
fessor there, she glided up to him with a sort of amble, not ex-
actly bowing yet seeming to grow suddenly smaller, and re-
spectfully received the blessing first of one and then of anoth-
er priest.
 "God be thanked that you are in time," said she to one of the
priests; "all we relatives have been in such anxiety. This
young man is the count's son," she added more softly. "What a
terrible moment!"
Having said this she went up to the doctor.
"Dear doctor," said she, "this young man is the count's son.
Is there any hope?"
The doctor cast a rapid glance upwards and silently
shrugged his shoulders. Anna Mikhaylovna with just the
same movement raised her shoulders and eyes, almost closing
the latter, sighed, and moved away from the doctor to Pierre.
To him, in a particularly respectful and tenderly sad voice,
she said:
"Trust in His mercy!" and pointing out a small sofa for him
to sit and wait for her, she went silently toward the door that
everyone was watching and it creaked very slightly as she dis-
appeared behind it.
Pierre, having made up his mind to obey his monitress im-
plicitly, moved toward the sofa she had indicated. As soon as
Anna Mikhaylovna had disappeared he noticed that the eyes
of all in the room turned to him with something more than
curiosity and sympathy. He noticed that they whispered to
one another, casting significant looks at him with a kind of
awe and even servility. A deference such as he had never be-
fore received was shown him. A strange lady, the one who had
been talking to the priests, rose and offered him her seat; an
aide-de-camp picked up and returned a glove Pierre had
dropped; the doctors became respectfully silent as he passed
by, and moved to make way for him. At first Pierre wished to
take another seat so as not to trouble the lady, and also to
pick up the glove himself and to pass round the doctors who
were not even in his way; but all at once he felt that this
would not do, and that tonight he was a person obliged to per-
form some sort of awful rite which everyone expected of him,
and that he was therefore bound to accept their services. He
took the glove in silence from the aide-de-camp, and sat down
in the lady's chair, placing his huge hands symmetrically on
his knees in the naive attitude of an Egyptian statue, and de-
cided in his own mind that all was as it should be, and that in
order not to lose his head and do foolish things he must not
act on his own ideas tonight, but must yield himself up en-
tirely to the will of those who were guiding him.
Not two minutes had passed before Prince Vasili with head
erect majestically entered the room. He was wearing his long
coat with three stars on his breast. He seemed to have grown
thinner since the morning; his eyes seemed larger than usual
when he glanced round and noticed Pierre. He went up to
him, took his hand (a thing he never used to do), and drew it
downwards as if wishing to ascertain whether it was firmly
fixed on.
"Courage, courage, my friend! He has asked to see you. That
is well!" and he turned to go.
But Pierre thought it necessary to ask: "How is..." and hes-
itated, not knowing whether it would be proper to call the dy-
ing man "the count," yet ashamed to call him "father."
"He had another stroke about half an hour ago. Courage,
my friend..."
 Pierre's mind was in such a confused state that the word
"stroke" suggested to him a blow from something. He looked
at Prince Vasili in perplexity, and only later grasped that a
stroke was an attack of illness. Prince Vasili said something
to Lorrain in passing and went through the door on tiptoe. He
could not walk well on tiptoe and his whole body jerked at
each step. The eldest princess followed him, and the priests
and deacons and some servants also went in at the door.
Through that door was heard a noise of things being moved
about, and at last Anna Mikhaylovna, still with the same ex-
pression, pale but resolute in the discharge of duty, ran out
and touching Pierre lightly on the arm said:
"The divine mercy is inexhaustible! Unction is about to be
administered. Come."
Pierre went in at the door, stepping on the soft carpet, and
noticed that the strange lady, the aide-de-camp, and some of
the servants, all followed him in, as if there were now no fur-
ther need for permission to enter that room.
Chapter 23
Pierre well knew this large room divided by columns and an
arch, its walls hung round with Persian carpets. The part of
the room behind the columns, with a high silk-curtained ma-
hogany bedstead on one side and on the other an immense
case containing icons, was brightly illuminated with red light
like a Russian church during evening service. Under the
gleaming icons stood a long invalid chair, and in that chair on
snowy-white smooth pillows, evidently freshly changed, Pierre
saw—covered to the waist by a bright green quilt—the famili-
ar, majestic figure of his father, Count Bezukhov, with that
gray mane of hair above his broad forehead which reminded
one of a lion, and the deep characteristically noble wrinkles of
his handsome, ruddy face. He lay just under the icons; his
large thick hands outside the quilt. Into the right hand, which
was lying palm downwards, a wax taper had been thrust
between forefinger and thumb, and an old servant, bending
over from behind the chair, held it in position. By the chair
stood the priests, their long hair falling over their magnificent
glittering vestments, with lighted tapers in their hands,
slowly and solemnly conducting the service. A little behind
them stood the two younger princesses holding handkerchiefs
to their eyes, and just in front of them their eldest sister,
Catiche, with a vicious and determined look steadily fixed on
the icons, as though declaring to all that she could not answer
for herself should she glance round. Anna Mikhaylovna, with
a meek, sorrowful, and all-forgiving expression on her face,
stood by the door near the strange lady. Prince Vasili in front
of the door, near the invalid chair, a wax taper in his left
hand, was leaning his left arm on the carved back of a velvet
chair he had turned round for the purpose, and was crossing
himself with his right hand, turning his eyes upward each
time he touched his forehead. His face wore a calm look of
piety and resignation to the will of God. "If you do not under-
stand these sentiments," he seemed to be saying, "so much the
worse for you!"
Behind him stood the aide-de-camp, the doctors, and the
menservants; the men and women had separated as in
church. All were silently crossing themselves, and the reading
of the church service, the subdued chanting of deep bass
voices, and in the intervals sighs and the shuffling of feet
were the only sounds that could be heard. Anna Mikhaylovna,
with an air of importance that showed that she felt she quite
knew what she was about, went across the room to where Pi-
erre was standing and gave him a taper. He lit it and, distrac-
ted by observing those around him, began crossing himself
with the hand that held the taper.
Sophie, the rosy, laughter-loving, youngest princess with
the mole, watched him. She smiled, hid her face in her
handkerchief, and remained with it hidden for awhile; then
looking up and seeing Pierre she again began to laugh. She
evidently felt unable to look at him without laughing, but
could not resist looking at him: so to be out of temptation she
slipped quietly behind one of the columns. In the midst of the
service the voices of the priests suddenly ceased, they
whispered to one another, and the old servant who was hold-
ing the count's hand got up and said something to the ladies.
Anna Mikhaylovna stepped forward and, stooping over the dy-
ing man, beckoned to Lorrain from behind her back. The
French doctor held no taper; he was leaning against one of the
columns in a respectful attitude implying that he, a foreigner,
in spite of all differences of faith, understood the full import-
ance of the rite now being performed and even approved of it.
He now approached the sick man with the noiseless step of
one in full vigor of life, with his delicate white fingers raised
from the green quilt the hand that was free, and turning side-
ways felt the pulse and reflected a moment. The sick man was
given something to drink, there was a stir around him, then
the people resumed their places and the service continued.
During this interval Pierre noticed that Prince Vasili left the
chair on which he had been leaning, and—with air which in-
timated that he knew what he was about and if others did not
understand him it was so much the worse for them—did not
go up to the dying man, but passed by him, joined the eldest
princess, and moved with her to the side of the room where
stood the high bedstead with its silken hangings. On leaving
the bed both Prince Vasili and the princess passed out by a
back door, but returned to their places one after the other be-
fore the service was concluded. Pierre paid no more attention
to this occurrence than to the rest of what went on, having
made up his mind once for all that what he saw happening
around him that evening was in some way essential.
The chanting of the service ceased, and the voice of the
priest was heard respectfully congratulating the dying man
on having received the sacrament. The dying man lay as life-
less and immovable as before. Around him everyone began to
stir: steps were audible and whispers, among which Anna
Mikhaylovna's was the most distinct.
Pierre heard her say:
"Certainly he must be moved onto the bed; here it will be
impossible..."
The sick man was so surrounded by doctors, princesses, and
servants that Pierre could no longer see the reddish-yellow
face with its gray mane—which, though he saw other faces as
well, he had not lost sight of for a single moment during the
whole service. He judged by the cautious movements of those
who crowded round the invalid chair that they had lifted the
dying man and were moving him.
"Catch hold of my arm or you'll drop him!" he heard one of
the servants say in a frightened whisper. "Catch hold from
underneath. Here!" exclaimed different voices; and the heavy
breathing of the
bearers and the shuffling of their feet grew more hurried, as
if the weight they were carrying were too much for them.
As the bearers, among whom was Anna Mikhaylovna,
passed the young man he caught a momentary glimpse
between their heads and backs of the dying man's high, stout,
uncovered chest and powerful shoulders, raised by those who
were holding him under the armpits, and of his gray, curly,
leonine head. This head, with its remarkably broad brow and
cheekbones, its handsome, sensual mouth, and its cold,
majestic expression, was not disfigured by the approach of
death. It was the same as Pierre remembered it three months
before, when the count had sent him to Petersburg. But now
this head was swaying helplessly with the uneven movements
of the bearers, and the cold listless gaze fixed itself upon
nothing.
After a few minutes' bustle beside the high bedstead, those
who had carried the sick man dispersed. Anna Mikhaylovna
touched Pierre's hand and said, "Come." Pierre went with her
to the bed on which the sick man had been laid in a stately
pose in keeping with the ceremony just completed. He lay
with his head propped high on the pillows. His hands were
symmetrically placed on the green silk quilt, the palms down-
ward. When Pierre came up the count was gazing straight at
him, but with a look the significance of which could not be un-
derstood by mortal man. Either this look meant nothing but
that as long as one has eyes they must look somewhere, or it
meant too much. Pierre hesitated, not knowing what to do,
and glanced inquiringly at his guide. Anna Mikhaylovna
made a hurried sign with her eyes, glancing at the sick man's
hand and moving her lips as if to send it a kiss. Pierre, care-
fully stretching his neck so as not to touch the quilt, followed
her suggestion and pressed his lips to the large boned, fleshy
hand. Neither the hand nor a single muscle of the count's face
stirred. Once more Pierre looked questioningly at Anna
Mikhaylovna to see what he was to do next. Anna
Mikhaylovna with her eyes indicated a chair that stood beside
the bed. Pierre obediently sat down, his eyes asking if he were
doing right. Anna Mikhaylovna nodded approvingly. Again Pi-
erre fell into the naively symmetrical pose of an Egyptian
statue, evidently distressed that his stout and clumsy body
took up so much room and doing his utmost to look as small
as possible. He looked at the count, who still gazed at the spot
where Pierre's face had been before he sat down. Anna
Mikhaylovna indicated by her attitude her consciousness of
the pathetic importance of these last moments of meeting
between the father and son. This lasted about two minutes,
which to Pierre seemed an hour. Suddenly the broad muscles
and lines of the count's face began to twitch. The twitching in-
creased, the handsome mouth was drawn to one side (only
now did Pierre realize how near death his father was), and
from that distorted mouth issued an indistinct, hoarse sound.
Anna Mikhaylovna looked attentively at the sick man's eyes,
trying to guess what he wanted; she pointed first to Pierre,
then to some drink, then named Prince Vasili in an inquiring
whisper, then pointed to the quilt. The eyes and face of the
sick man showed impatience. He made an effort to look at the
servant who stood constantly at the head of the bed.
"Wants to turn on the other side," whispered the servant,
and got up to turn the count's heavy body toward the wall.
Pierre rose to help him.
While the count was being turned over, one of his arms fell
back helplessly and he made a fruitless effort to pull it for-
ward. Whether he noticed the look of terror with which Pierre
regarded that lifeless arm, or whether some other thought flit-
ted across his dying brain, at any rate he glanced at the
refractory arm, at Pierre's terror-stricken face, and again at
the arm, and on his face a feeble, piteous smile appeared,
quite out of keeping with his features, that seemed to deride
his own helplessness. At sight of this smile Pierre felt an un-
expected quivering in his breast and a tickling in his nose,
and tears dimmed his eyes. The sick man was turned on to his
side with his face to the wall. He sighed.
"He is dozing," said Anna Mikhaylovna, observing that one
of the princesses was coming to take her turn at watching.
"Let us go."
Pierre went out.
Chapter 24
There was now no one in the reception room except Prince
Vasili and the eldest princess, who were sitting under the por-
trait of Catherine the Great and talking eagerly. As soon as
they saw Pierre and his companion they became silent, and
Pierre thought he saw the princess hide something as she
whispered:
"I can't bear the sight of that woman."
"Catiche has had tea served in the small drawing room,"
said Prince Vasili to Anna Mikhaylovna. "Go and take
something, my poor Anna Mikhaylovna, or you will not hold
out."
To Pierre he said nothing, merely giving his arm a sym-
pathetic squeeze below the shoulder. Pierre went with Anna
Mikhaylovna into the small drawing room.
"There is nothing so refreshing after a sleepless night as a
cup of this delicious Russian tea," Lorrain was saying with an
air of restrained animation as he stood sipping tea from a del-
icate Chinese handleless cup before a table on which tea and a
cold supper were laid in the small circular room. Around the
table all who were at Count Bezukhov's house that night had
gathered to fortify themselves. Pierre well remembered this
small circular drawing room with its mirrors and little tables.
During balls given at the house Pierre, who did not know how
to dance, had liked sitting in this room to watch the ladies
who, as they passed through in their ball dresses with dia-
monds and pearls on their bare shoulders, looked at them-
selves in the brilliantly lighted mirrors which repeated their
reflections several times. Now this same room was dimly
lighted by two candles. On one small table tea things and sup-
per dishes stood in disorder, and in the middle of the night a
motley throng of people sat there, not merrymaking, but
somberly whispering, and betraying by every word and move-
ment that they none of them forgot what was happening and
what was about to happen in the bedroom. Pierre did not eat
anything though he would very much have liked to. He looked
inquiringly at his monitress and saw that she was again going
on tiptoe to the reception room where they had left Prince Va-
sili and the eldest princess. Pierre concluded that this also
was essential, and after a short interval followed her. Anna
Mikhaylovna was standing beside the princess, and they were
both speaking in excited whispers.
"Permit me, Princess, to know what is necessary and what
is not necessary," said the younger of the two speakers, evid-
ently in the same state of excitement as when she had
slammed the door of her room.
"But, my dear princess," answered Anna Mikhaylovna
blandly but impressively, blocking the way to the bedroom
and preventing the other from passing, "won't this be too
much for poor Uncle at a moment when he needs repose?
Worldly conversation at a moment when his soul is already
prepared..."
Prince Vasili was seated in an easy chair in his familiar at-
titude, with one leg crossed high above the other. His cheeks,
which were so flabby that they looked heavier below, were
twitching violently; but he wore the air of a man little con-
cerned in what the two ladies were saying.
"Come, my dear Anna Mikhaylovna, let Catiche do as she
pleases. You know how fond the count is of her."
"I don't even know what is in this paper," said the younger
of the two ladies, addressing Prince Vasili and pointing to an
inlaid portfolio she held in her hand. "All I know is that his
real will is in his writing table, and this is a paper he has
forgotten...."
She tried to pass Anna Mikhaylovna, but the latter sprang
so as to bar her path.
"I know, my dear, kind princess," said Anna Mikhaylovna,
seizing the portfolio so firmly that it was plain she would not
let go easily. "Dear princess, I beg and implore you, have some
pity on him! Je vous en conjure..."
The princess did not reply. Their efforts in the struggle for
the portfolio were the only sounds audible, but it was evident
that if the princess did speak, her words would not be flatter-
ing to Anna Mikhaylovna. Though the latter held on tena-
ciously, her voice lost none of its honeyed firmness and
softness.
"Pierre, my dear, come here. I think he will not be out of
place in a family consultation; is it not so, Prince?"
 "Why don't you speak, cousin?" suddenly shrieked the prin-
cess so loud that those in the drawing room heard her and
were startled. "Why do you remain silent when heaven knows
who permits herself to interfere, making a scene on the very
threshold of a dying man's room? Intriguer!" she hissed vi-
ciously, and tugged with all her might at the portfolio.
But Anna Mikhaylovna went forward a step or two to keep
her hold on the portfolio, and changed her grip.
Prince Vasili rose. "Oh!" said he with reproach and surprise,
"this is absurd! Come, let go I tell you."
The princess let go.
"And you too!"
But Anna Mikhaylovna did not obey him.
"Let go, I tell you! I will take the responsibility. I myself
will go and ask him, I!... does that satisfy you?"
"But, Prince," said Anna Mikhaylovna, "after such a solemn
sacrament, allow him a moment's peace! Here, Pierre, tell
them your opinion," said she, turning to the young man who,
having come quite close, was gazing with astonishment at the
angry face of the princess which had lost all dignity, and at
the twitching cheeks of Prince Vasili.
"Remember that you will answer for the consequences," said
Prince Vasili severely. "You don't know what you are doing."
"Vile woman!" shouted the princess, darting unexpectedly
at Anna Mikhaylovna and snatching the portfolio from her.
Prince Vasili bent his head and spread out his hands.
At this moment that terrible door, which Pierre had
watched so long and which had always opened so quietly,
burst noisily open and banged against the wall, and the
second of the three sisters rushed out wringing her hands.
"What are you doing!" she cried vehemently. "He is dying
and you leave me alone with him!"
Her sister dropped the portfolio. Anna Mikhaylovna, stoop-
ing, quickly caught up the object of contention and ran into
the bedroom. The eldest princess and Prince Vasili, recovering
themselves, followed her. A few minutes later the eldest sister
came out with a pale hard face, again biting her underlip. At
sight of Pierre her expression showed an irrepressible hatred.
"Yes, now you may be glad!" said she; "this is what you have
been waiting for." And bursting into tears she hid her face in
her handkerchief and rushed from the room.
Prince Vasili came next. He staggered to the sofa on which
Pierre was sitting and dropped onto it, covering his face with
his hand. Pierre noticed that he was pale and that his jaw
quivered and shook as if in an ague.
"Ah, my friend!" said he, taking Pierre by the elbow; and
there was in his voice a sincerity and weakness Pierre had
never observed in it before. "How often we sin, how much we
deceive, and all for what? I am near sixty, dear friend... I too...
All will end in death, all! Death is awful..." and he burst into
tears.
Anna Mikhaylovna came out last. She approached Pierre
with slow, quiet steps.
"Pierre!" she said.
Pierre gave her an inquiring look. She kissed the young
man on his forehead, wetting him with her tears. Then after a
pause she said:
 "He is no more...."
Pierre looked at her over his spectacles.
"Come, I will go with you. Try to weep, nothing gives such
relief as tears."
She led him into the dark drawing room and Pierre was
glad no one could see his face. Anna Mikhaylovna left him,
and when she returned he was fast asleep with his head on
his arm.
In the morning Anna Mikhaylovna said to Pierre:
"Yes, my dear, this is a great loss for us all, not to speak of
you. But God will support you: you are young, and are now, I
hope, in command of an immense fortune. The will has not yet
been opened. I know you well enough to be sure that this will
not turn your head, but it imposes duties on you, and you
must be a man."
Pierre was silent.
"Perhaps later on I may tell you, my dear boy, that if I had
not been there, God only knows what would have happened!
You know, Uncle promised me only the day before yesterday
not to forget Boris. But he had no time. I hope, my dear
friend, you will carry out your father's wish?"
Pierre understood nothing of all this and coloring shyly
looked in silence at Princess Anna Mikhaylovna. After her
talk with Pierre, Anna Mikhaylovna returned to the Rostovs'
and went to bed. On waking in the morning she told the
Rostovs and all her acquaintances the details of Count
Bezukhov's death. She said the count had died as she would
herself wish to die, that his end was not only touching but edi-
fying. As to the last meeting between father and son, it was so
touching that she could not think of it without tears, and did
not know which had behaved better during those awful mo-
ments—the father who so remembered everything and every-
body at last and had spoken such pathetic words to the son, or
Pierre, whom it had been pitiful to see, so stricken was he
with grief, though he tried hard to hide it in order not to sad-
den his dying father. "It is painful, but it does one good. It up-
lifts the soul to see such men as the old count and his worthy
son," said she. Of the behavior of the eldest princess and
Prince Vasili she spoke disapprovingly, but in whispers and
as a great secret.
Chapter 25
At Bald Hills, Prince Nicholas Andreevich Bolkonski's es-
tate, the arrival of young Prince Andrew and his wife was
daily expected, but this expectation did not upset the regular
routine of life in the old prince's household. General in Chief
Prince Nicholas Andreevich (nicknamed in society, "the King
of Prussia") ever since the Emperor Paul had exiled him to his
country estate had lived there continuously with his daugh-
ter, Princess Mary, and her companion, Mademoiselle Bouri-
enne. Though in the new reign he was free to return to the
capitals, he still continued to live in the country, remarking
that anyone who wanted to see him could come the hundred
miles from Moscow to Bald Hills, while he himself needed no
one and nothing. He used to say that there are only two
sources of human vice—idleness and superstition, and only
two virtues—activity and intelligence. He himself undertook
his daughter's education, and to develop these two cardinal
virtues in her gave her lessons in algebra and geometry till
she was twenty, and arranged her life so that her whole time
was occupied. He was himself always occupied: writing his
memoirs, solving problems in higher mathematics, turning
snuffboxes on a lathe, working in the garden, or
superintending the building that was always going on at his
estate. As regularity is a prime condition facilitating activity,
regularity in his household was carried to the highest point of
exactitude. He always came to table under precisely the same
conditions, and not only at the same hour but at the same
minute. With those about him, from his daughter to his serfs,
the prince was sharp and invariably exacting, so that without
being a hardhearted man he inspired such fear and respect as
few hardhearted men would have aroused. Although he was
in retirement and had now no influence in political affairs,
every high official appointed to the province in which the
prince's estate lay considered it his duty to visit him and
waited in the lofty antechamber ante chamber just as the ar-
chitect, gardener, or Princess Mary did, till the prince ap-
peared punctually to the appointed hour. Everyone sitting in
this antechamber experienced the same feeling of respect and
even fear when the enormously high study door opened and
showed the figure of a rather small old man, with powdered
wig, small withered hands, and bushy gray eyebrows which,
when he frowned, sometimes hid the gleam of his shrewd,
youthfully glittering eyes.
On the morning of the day that the young couple were to ar-
rive, Princess Mary entered the antechamber as usual at the
time appointed for the morning greeting, crossing herself with
trepidation and repeating a silent prayer. Every morning she
came in like that, and every morning prayed that the daily in-
terview might pass off well.
An old powdered manservant who was sitting in the ante-
chamber rose quietly and said in a whisper: "Please walk in."
 Through the door came the regular hum of a lathe. The
princess timidly opened the door which moved noiselessly and
easily. She paused at the entrance. The prince was working at
the lathe and after glancing round continued his work.
The enormous study was full of things evidently in constant
use. The large table covered with books and plans, the tall
glass-fronted bookcases with keys in the locks, the high desk
for writing while standing up, on which lay an open exercise
book, and the lathe with tools laid ready to hand and shavings
scattered around—all indicated continuous, varied, and or-
derly activity. The motion of the small foot shod in a Tartar
boot embroidered with silver, and the firm pressure of the
lean sinewy hand, showed that the prince still possessed the
tenacious endurance and vigor of hardy old age. After a few
more turns of the lathe he removed his foot from the pedal,
wiped his chisel, dropped it into a leather pouch attached to
the lathe, and, approaching the table, summoned his daugh-
ter. He never gave his children a blessing, so he simply held
out his bristly cheek (as yet unshaven) and, regarding her
tenderly and attentively, said severely:
"Quite well? All right then, sit down." He took the exercise
book containing lessons in geometry written by himself and
drew up a chair with his foot.
"For tomorrow!" said he, quickly finding the page and mak-
ing a scratch from one paragraph to another with his hard
nail.
The princess bent over the exercise book on the table.
 "Wait a bit, here's a letter for you," said the old man sud-
denly, taking a letter addressed in a woman's hand from a bag
hanging above the table, onto which he threw it.
At the sight of the letter red patches showed themselves on
the princess' face. She took it quickly and bent her head over
it.
"From Heloise?" asked the prince with a cold smile that
showed his still sound, yellowish teeth.
"Yes, it's from Julie," replied the princess with a timid
glance and a timid smile.
"I'll let two more letters pass, but the third I'll read," said
the prince sternly; "I'm afraid you write much nonsense. I'll
read the third!"
"Read this if you like, Father," said the princess, blushing
still more and holding out the letter.
"The third, I said the third!" cried the prince abruptly,
pushing the letter away, and leaning his elbows on the table
he drew toward him the exercise book containing geometrical
figures.
"Well, madam," he began, stooping over the book close to his
daughter and placing an arm on the back of the chair on
which she sat, so that she felt herself surrounded on all sides
by the acrid scent of old age and tobacco, which she had
known so long. "Now, madam, these triangles are equal;
please note that the angle ABC..."
The princess looked in a scared way at her father's eyes glit-
tering close to her; the red patches on her face came and went,
and it was plain that she understood nothing and was so
frightened that her fear would prevent her understanding any
of her father's further explanations, however clear they might
be. Whether it was the teacher's fault or the pupil's, this same
thing happened every day: the princess' eyes grew dim, she
could not see and could not hear anything, but was only con-
scious of her stern father's withered face close to her, of his
breath and the smell of him, and could think only of how to
get away quickly to her own room to make out the problem in
peace. The old man was beside himself: moved the chair on
which he was sitting noisily backward and forward, made ef-
forts to control himself and not become vehement, but almost
always did become vehement, scolded, and sometimes flung
the exercise book away.
The princess gave a wrong answer.
"Well now, isn't she a fool!" shouted the prince, pushing the
book aside and turning sharply away; but rising immediately,
he paced up and down, lightly touched his daughter's hair and
sat down again.
He drew up his chair, and continued to explain.
"This won't do, Princess; it won't do," said he, when Prin-
cess Mary, having taken and closed the exercise book with the
next day's lesson, was about to leave: "Mathematics are most
important, madam! I don't want to have you like our silly
ladies. Get used to it and you'll like it," and he patted her
cheek. "It will drive all the nonsense out of your head."
She turned to go, but he stopped her with a gesture and
took an uncut book from the high desk.
"Here is some sort of Key to the Mysteries that your Heloise
has sent you. Religious! I don't interfere with anyone's belief...
I have looked at it. Take it. Well, now go. Go."
 He patted her on the shoulder and himself closed the door
after her.
Princess Mary went back to her room with the sad, scared
expression that rarely left her and which made her plain,
sickly face yet plainer. She sat down at her writing table, on
which stood miniature portraits and which was littered with
books and papers. The princess was as untidy as her father
was tidy. She put down the geometry book and eagerly broke
the seal of her letter. It was from her most intimate friend
from childhood; that same Julie Karagina who had been at
the Rostovs' name-day party.
Julie wrote in French:
Dear and precious Friend, How terrible and frightful a
thing is separation! Though I tell myself that half my life and
half my happiness are wrapped up in you, and that in spite of
the distance separating us our hearts are united by indissol-
uble bonds, my heart rebels against fate and in spite of the
pleasures and distractions around me I cannot overcome a
certain secret sorrow that has been in my heart ever since we
parted. Why are we not together as we were last summer, in
your big study, on the blue sofa, the confidential sofa? Why
cannot I now, as three months ago, draw fresh moral strength
from your look, so gentle, calm, and penetrating, a look I loved
so well and seem to see before me as I write?
Having read thus far, Princess Mary sighed and glanced in-
to the mirror which stood on her right. It reflected a weak, un-
graceful figure and thin face. Her eyes, always sad, now
looked with particular hopelessness at her reflection in the
glass. "She flatters me," thought the princess, turning away
and continuing to read. But Julie did not flatter her friend,
the princess' eyes—large, deep and luminous (it seemed as if
at times there radiated from them shafts of warm
light)—were so beautiful that very often in spite of the plain-
ness of her face they gave her an attraction more powerful
than that of beauty. But the princess never saw the beautiful
expression of her own eyes—the look they had when she was
not thinking of herself. As with everyone, her face assumed a
forced unnatural expression as soon as she looked in a glass.
She went on reading:
All Moscow talks of nothing but war. One of my two broth-
ers is already abroad, the other is with the Guards, who are
starting on their march to the frontier. Our dear Emperor has
left Petersburg and it is thought intends to expose his pre-
cious person to the chances of war. God grant that the Corsic-
an monster who is destroying the peace of Europe may be
overthrown by the angel whom it has pleased the Almighty, in
His goodness, to give us as sovereign! To say nothing of my
brothers, this war has deprived me of one of the associations
nearest my heart. I mean young Nicholas Rostov, who with
his enthusiasm could not bear to remain inactive and has left
the university to join the army. I will confess to you, dear
Mary, that in spite of his extreme youth his departure for the
army was a great grief to me. This young man, of whom I
spoke to you last summer, is so noble-minded and full of that
real youthfulness which one seldom finds nowadays among
our old men of twenty and, particularly, he is so frank and
has so much heart. He is so pure and poetic that my relations
with him, transient as they were, have been one of the
sweetest comforts to my poor heart, which has already
suffered so much. Someday I will tell you about our parting
and all that was said then. That is still too fresh. Ah, dear
friend, you are happy not to know these poignant joys and sor-
rows. You are fortunate, for the latter are generally the
stronger! I know very well that Count Nicholas is too young
ever to be more to me than a friend, but this sweet friendship,
this poetic and pure intimacy, were what my heart needed.
But enough of this! The chief news, about which all Moscow
gossips, is the death of old Count Bezukhov, and his inherit-
ance. Fancy! The three princesses have received very little,
Prince Vasili nothing, and it is Monsieur Pierre who has in-
herited all the property and has besides been recognized as le-
gitimate; so that he is now Count Bezukhov and possessor of
the finest fortune in Russia. It is rumored that Prince Vasili
played a very despicable part in this affair and that he re-
turned to Petersburg quite crestfallen.
I confess I understand very little about all these matters of
wills and inheritance; but I do know that since this young
man, whom we all used to know as plain Monsieur Pierre, has
become Count Bezukhov and the owner of one of the largest
fortunes in Russia, I am much amused to watch the change in
the tone and manners of the mammas burdened by marriage-
able daughters, and of the young ladies themselves, toward
him, though, between you and me, he always seemed to me a
poor sort of fellow. As for the past two years people have
amused themselves by finding husbands for me (most of
whom I don't even know), the matchmaking chronicles of Mo-
scow now speak of me as the future Countess Bezukhova. But
you will understand that I have no desire for the post. A pro-
pos of marriages: do you know that a while ago that universal
auntie Anna Mikhaylovna told me, under the seal of strict
secrecy, of a plan of marriage for you. It is neither more nor
less than with Prince Vasili's son Anatole, whom they wish to
reform by marrying him to someone rich and distinguee, and
it is on you that his relations' choice has fallen. I don't know
what you will think of it, but I consider it my duty to let you
know of it. He is said to be very handsome and a terrible
scapegrace. That is all I have been able to find out about him.
But enough of gossip. I am at the end of my second sheet of
paper, and Mamma has sent for me to go and dine at the
Apraksins'. Read the mystical book I am sending you; it has
an enormous success here. Though there are things in it diffi-
cult for the feeble human mind to grasp, it is an admirable
book which calms and elevates the soul. Adieu! Give my re-
spects to monsieur your father and my compliments to Ma-
demoiselle Bourienne. I embrace you as I love you.
JULIE
P.S. Let me have news of your brother and his charming
little wife.
The princess pondered awhile with a thoughtful smile and
her luminous eyes lit up so that her face was entirely trans-
formed. Then she suddenly rose and with her heavy tread
went up to the table. She took a sheet of paper and her hand
moved rapidly over it. This is the reply she wrote, also in
French:
Dear and precious Friend, Your letter of the 13th has given
me great delight. So you still love me, my romantic Julie?
Separation, of which you say so much that is bad, does not
seem to have had its usual effect on you. You complain of our
separation. What then should I say, if I dared complain, I who
am deprived of all who are dear to me? Ah, if we had not reli-
gion to console us life would be very sad. Why do you suppose
that I should look severely on your affection for that young
man? On such matters I am only severe with myself. I under-
stand such feelings in others, and if never having felt them I
cannot approve of them, neither do I condemn them. Only it
seems to me that Christian love, love of one's neighbor, love of
one's enemy, is worthier, sweeter, and better than the feelings
which the beautiful eyes of a young man can inspire in a ro-
mantic and loving young girl like yourself.
The news of Count Bezukhov's death reached us before your
letter and my father was much affected by it. He says the
count was the last representative but one of the great century,
and that it is his own turn now, but that he will do all he can
to let his turn come as late as possible. God preserve us from
that terrible misfortune!
I cannot agree with you about Pierre, whom I knew as a
child. He always seemed to me to have an excellent heart, and
that is the quality I value most in people. As to his inherit-
ance and the part played by Prince Vasili, it is very sad for
both. Ah, my dear friend, our divine Saviour's words, that it is
easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a
rich man to enter the Kingdom of God, are terribly true. I pity
Prince Vasili but am still more sorry for Pierre. So young, and
burdened with such riches—to what temptations he will be
exposed! If I were asked what I desire most on earth, it would
be to be poorer than the poorest beggar. A thousand thanks,
dear friend, for the volume you have sent me and which has
such success in Moscow. Yet since you tell me that among
some good things it contains others which our weak human
understanding cannot grasp, it seems to me rather useless to
spend time in reading what is unintelligible and can therefore
bear no fruit. I never could understand the fondness some
people have for confusing their minds by dwelling on mystical
books that merely awaken their doubts and excite their ima-
gination, giving them a bent for exaggeration quite contrary
to Christian simplicity. Let us rather read the Epistles and
Gospels. Let us not seek to penetrate what mysteries they
contain; for how can we, miserable sinners that we are, know
the terrible and holy secrets of Providence while we remain in
this flesh which forms an impenetrable veil between us and
the Eternal? Let us rather confine ourselves to studying those
sublime rules which our divine Saviour has left for our guid-
ance here below. Let us try to conform to them and follow
them, and let us be persuaded that the less we let our feeble
human minds roam, the better we shall please God, who re-
jects all knowledge that does not come from Him; and the less
we seek to fathom what He has been pleased to conceal from
us, the sooner will He vouchsafe its revelation to us through
His divine Spirit.
My father has not spoken to me of a suitor, but has only
told me that he has received a letter and is expecting a visit
from Prince Vasili. In regard to this project of marriage for
me, I will tell you, dear sweet friend, that I look on marriage
as a divine institution to which we must conform. However
painful it may be to me, should the Almighty lay the duties of
wife and mother upon me I shall try to perform them as faith-
fully as I can, without disquieting myself by examining my
feelings toward him whom He may give me for husband.
I have had a letter from my brother, who announces his
speedy arrival at Bald Hills with his wife. This pleasure will
be but a brief one, however, for he will leave, us again to take
part in this unhappy war into which we have been drawn,
God knows how or why. Not only where you are—at the heart
of affairs and of the world—is the talk all of war, even here
amid fieldwork and the calm of nature—which townsfolk con-
sider characteristic of the country—rumors of war are heard
and painfully felt. My father talks of nothing but marches and
countermarches, things of which I understand nothing; and
the day before yesterday during my daily walk through the
village I witnessed a heartrending scene.... It was a convoy of
conscripts enrolled from our people and starting to join the
army. You should have seen the state of the mothers, wives,
and children of the men who were going and should have
heard the sobs. It seems as though mankind has forgotten the
laws of its divine Saviour, Who preached love and forgiveness
of injuries—and that men attribute the greatest merit to skill
in killing one another.
Adieu, dear and kind friend; may our divine Saviour and
His most Holy Mother keep you in their holy and all-powerful
care!
MARY
"Ah, you are sending off a letter, Princess? I have already
dispatched mine. I have written to my poor mother," said the
smiling Mademoiselle Bourienne rapidly, in her pleasant mel-
low tones and with guttural r's. She brought into Princess
Mary's strenuous, mournful, and gloomy world a quite differ-
ent atmosphere, careless, lighthearted, and self-satisfied.
"Princess, I must warn you," she added, lowering her voice
and evidently listening to herself with pleasure, and speaking
with exaggerated grasseyement, "the prince has been scolding
Michael Ivanovich. He is in a very bad humor, very morose.
Be prepared."
"Ah, dear friend," replied Princess Mary, "I have asked you
never to warn me of the humor my father is in. I do not allow
myself to judge him and would not have others do so."
The princess glanced at her watch and, seeing that she was
five minutes late in starting her practice on the clavichord,
went into the sitting room with a look of alarm. Between
twelve and two o'clock, as the day was mapped out, the prince
rested and the princess played the clavichord.
Chapter 26
The gray-haired valet was sitting drowsily listening to the
snoring of the prince, who was in his large study. From the far
side of the house through the closed doors came the sound of
difficult passages—twenty times repeated—of a sonata by
Dussek.
Just then a closed carriage and another with a hood drove
up to the porch. Prince Andrew got out of the carriage, helped
his little wife to alight, and let her pass into the house before
him. Old Tikhon, wearing a wig, put his head out of the door
of the antechamber, reported in a whisper that the prince was
sleeping, and hastily closed the door. Tikhon knew that
neither the son's arrival nor any other unusual event must be
allowed to disturb the appointed order of the day. Prince
Andrew apparently knew this as well as Tikhon; he looked at
his watch as if to ascertain whether his father's habits had
changed since he was at home last, and, having assured him-
self that they had not, he turned to his wife.
"He will get up in twenty minutes. Let us go across to
Mary's room," he said.
 The little princess had grown stouter during this time, but
her eyes and her short, downy, smiling lip lifted when she
began to speak just as merrily and prettily as ever.
"Why, this is a palace!" she said to her husband, looking
around with the expression with which people compliment
their host at a ball. "Let's come, quick, quick!" And with a
glance round, she smiled at Tikhon, at her husband, and at
the footman who accompanied them.
"Is that Mary practicing? Let's go quietly and take her by
surprise."
Prince Andrew followed her with a courteous but sad
expression.
"You've grown older, Tikhon," he said in passing to the old
man, who kissed his hand.
Before they reached the room from which the sounds of the
clavichord came, the pretty, fair haired Frenchwoman, Ma-
demoiselle Bourienne, rushed out apparently beside herself
with delight.
"Ah! what joy for the princess!" exclaimed she: "At last! I
must let her know."
"No, no, please not... You are Mademoiselle Bourienne,"
said the little princess, kissing her. "I know you already
through my sister-in-law's friendship for you. She was not ex-
pecting us?"
They went up to the door of the sitting room from which
came the sound of the oft-repeated passage of the sonata.
Prince Andrew stopped and made a grimace, as if expecting
something unpleasant.
 The little princess entered the room. The passage broke off
in the middle, a cry was heard, then Princess Mary's heavy
tread and the sound of kissing. When Prince Andrew went in
the two princesses, who had only met once before for a short
time at his wedding, were in each other's arms warmly press-
ing their lips to whatever place they happened to touch. Ma-
demoiselle Bourienne stood near them pressing her hand to
her heart, with a beatific smile and obviously equally ready to
cry or to laugh. Prince Andrew shrugged his shoulders and
frowned, as lovers of music do when they hear a false note.
The two women let go of one another, and then, as if afraid of
being too late, seized each other's hands, kissing them and
pulling them away, and again began kissing each other on the
face, and then to Prince Andrew's surprise both began to cry
and kissed again. Mademoiselle Bourienne also began to cry.
Prince Andrew evidently felt ill at ease, but to the two women
it seemed quite natural that they should cry, and apparently
it never entered their heads that it could have been otherwise
at this meeting.
"Ah! my dear!... Ah! Mary!" they suddenly exclaimed, and
then laughed. "I dreamed last night..."—"You were not expect-
ing us?..."- "Ah! Mary, you have got thinner?..." "And you have
grown stouter!..."
"I knew the princess at once," put in Mademoiselle
Bourienne.
"And I had no idea!..." exclaimed Princess Mary. "Ah,
Andrew, I did not see you."
Prince Andrew and his sister, hand in hand, kissed one an-
other, and he told her she was still the same crybaby as ever.
Princess Mary had turned toward her brother, and through
her tears the loving, warm, gentle look of her large luminous
eyes, very beautiful at that moment, rested on Prince
Andrew's face.
The little princess talked incessantly, her short, downy up-
per lip continually and rapidly touching her rosy nether lip
when necessary and drawing up again next moment when her
face broke into a smile of glittering teeth and sparkling eyes.
She told of an accident they had had on the Spasski Hill
which might have been serious for her in her condition, and
immediately after that informed them that she had left all her
clothes in Petersburg and that heaven knew what she would
have to dress in here; and that Andrew had quite changed,
and that Kitty Odyntsova had married an old man, and that
there was a suitor for Mary, a real one, but that they would
talk of that later. Princess Mary was still looking silently at
her brother and her beautiful eyes were full of love and sad-
ness. It was plain that she was following a train of thought in-
dependent of her sister-in-law's words. In the midst of a de-
scription of the last Petersburg fete she addressed her
brother:
"So you are really going to the war, Andrew?" she said
sighing.
Lise sighed too.
"Yes, and even tomorrow," replied her brother.
"He is leaving me here, God knows why, when he might
have had promotion..."
 Princess Mary did not listen to the end, but continuing her
train of thought turned to her sister-in-law with a tender
glance at her figure.
"Is it certain?" she said.
The face of the little princess changed. She sighed and said:
"Yes, quite certain. Ah! it is very dreadful..."
Her lip descended. She brought her face close to her sister-
in-law's and unexpectedly again began to cry.
"She needs rest," said Prince Andrew with a frown. "Don't
you, Lise? Take her to your room and I'll go to Father. How is
he? Just the same?"
"Yes, just the same. Though I don't know what your opinion
will be," answered the princess joyfully.
"And are the hours the same? And the walks in the aven-
ues? And the lathe?" asked Prince Andrew with a scarcely
perceptible smile which showed that, in spite of all his love
and respect for his father, he was aware of his weaknesses.
"The hours are the same, and the lathe, and also the math-
ematics and my geometry lessons," said Princess Mary glee-
fully, as if her lessons in geometry were among the greatest
delights of her life.
When the twenty minutes had elapsed and the time had
come for the old prince to get up, Tikhon came to call the
young prince to his father. The old man made a departure
from his usual routine in honor of his son's arrival: he gave or-
ders to admit him to his apartments while he dressed for din-
ner. The old prince always dressed in old-fashioned style,
wearing an antique coat and powdered hair; and when Prince
Andrew entered his father's dressing room (not with the
contemptuous look and manner he wore in drawing rooms,
but with the animated face with which he talked to Pierre),
the old man was sitting on a large leather-covered chair,
wrapped in a powdering mantle, entrusting his head to
Tikhon.
"Ah! here's the warrior! Wants to vanquish Buonaparte?"
said the old man, shaking his powdered head as much as the
tail, which Tikhon was holding fast to plait, would allow.
"You at least must tackle him properly, or else if he goes on
like this he'll soon have us, too, for his subjects! How are you?"
And he held out his cheek.
The old man was in a good temper after his nap before din-
ner. (He used to say that a nap "after dinner was sil-
ver—before dinner, golden.") He cast happy, sidelong glances
at his son from under his thick, bushy eyebrows. Prince
Andrew went up and kissed his father on the spot indicated to
him. He made no reply on his father's favorite topic—making
fun of the military men of the day, and more particularly of
Bonaparte.
"Yes, Father, I have come come to you and brought my wife
who is pregnant," said Prince Andrew, following every move-
ment of his father's face with an eager and respectful look.
"How is your health?"
"Only fools and rakes fall ill, my boy. You know me: I am
busy from morning till night and abstemious, so of course I
am well."
"Thank God," said his son smiling.
 "God has nothing to do with it! Well, go on," he continued,
returning to his hobby; "tell me how the Germans have taught
you to fight Bonaparte by this new science you call 'strategy.'"
Prince Andrew smiled.
"Give me time to collect my wits, Father," said he, with a
smile that showed that his father's foibles did not prevent his
son from loving and honoring him. "Why, I have not yet had
time to settle down!"
"Nonsense, nonsense!" cried the old man, shaking his pig-
tail to see whether it was firmly plaited, and grasping his by
the hand. "The house for your wife is ready. Princess Mary
will take her there and show her over, and they'll talk nine-
teen to the dozen. That's their woman's way! I am glad to
have her. Sit down and talk. About Mikhelson's army I under-
stand—Tolstoy's too... a simultaneous expedition.... But
what's the southern army to do? Prussia is neutral... I know
that. What about Austria?" said he, rising from his chair and
pacing up and down the room followed by Tikhon, who ran
after him, handing him different articles of clothing. "What of
Sweden? How will they cross Pomerania?"
Prince Andrew, seeing that his father insisted, began—at
first reluctantly, but gradually with more and more anima-
tion, and from habit changing unconsciously from Russian to
French as he went on- to explain the plan of operation for the
coming campaign. He explained how an army, ninety thou-
sand strong, was to threaten Prussia so as to bring her out of
her neutrality and draw her into the war; how part of that
army was to join some Swedish forces at Stralsund; how two
hundred and twenty thousand Austrians, with a hundred
thousand Russians, were to operate in Italy and on the Rhine;
how fifty thousand Russians and as many English were to
land at Naples, and how a total force of five hundred thou-
sand men was to attack the French from different sides. The
old prince did not evince the least interest during this explan-
ation, but as if he were not listening to it continued to dress
while walking about, and three times unexpectedly interrup-
ted. Once he stopped it by shouting: "The white one, the white
one!"
This meant that Tikhon was not handing him the waistcoat
he wanted. Another time he interrupted, saying:
"And will she soon be confined?" and shaking his head re-
proachfully said: "That's bad! Go on, go on."
The third interruption came when Prince Andrew was fin-
ishing his description. The old man began to sing, in the
cracked voice of old age: "Malbrook s'en va-t-en guerre. Dieu
sait quand reviendra." 15
His son only smiled.
"I don't say it's a plan I approve of," said the son; "I am only
telling you what it is. Napoleon has also formed his plan by
now, not worse than this one."
"Well, you've told me nothing new," and the old man re-
peated, meditatively and rapidly:
"Dieu sait quand reviendra. Go to the dining room."

15."Marlborough is going to the wars; God knows when he'll return."

Chapter 27
At the appointed hour the prince, powdered and shaven,
entered the dining room where his daughter-in-law, Princess
Mary, and Mademoiselle Bourienne were already awaiting
him together with his architect, who by a strange caprice of
his employer's was admitted to table though the position of
that insignificant individual was such as could certainly not
have caused him to expect that honor. The prince, who gener-
ally kept very strictly to social distinctions and rarely admit-
ted even important government officials to his table, had un-
expectedly selected Michael Ivanovich (who always went into
a corner to blow his nose on his checked handkerchief) to il-
lustrate the theory that all men are equals, and had more
than once impressed on his daughter that Michael Ivanovich
was "not a whit worse than you or I." At dinner the prince
usually spoke to the taciturn Michael Ivanovich more often
than to anyone else.
In the dining room, which like all the rooms in the house
was exceedingly lofty, the members of the household and the
footmen—one behind each chair—stood waiting for the prince
to enter. The head butler, napkin on arm, was scanning the
setting of the table, making signs to the footmen, and
anxiously glancing from the clock to the door by which the
prince was to enter. Prince Andrew was looking at a large gilt
frame, new to him, containing the genealogical tree of the
Princes Bolkonski, opposite which hung another such frame
with a badly painted portrait (evidently by the hand of the
artist belonging to the estate) of a ruling prince, in a
crown—an alleged descendant of Rurik and ancestor of the
Bolkonskis. Prince Andrew, looking again at that genealogical
tree, shook his head, laughing as a man laughs who looks at a
portrait so characteristic of the original as to be amusing.
"How thoroughly like him that is!" he said to Princess Mary,
who had come up to him.
Princess Mary looked at her brother in surprise. She did not
understand what he was laughing at. Everything her father
did inspired her with reverence and was beyond question.
"Everyone has his Achilles' heel," continued Prince Andrew.
"Fancy, with his powerful mind, indulging in such nonsense!"
Princess Mary could not understand the boldness of her
brother's criticism and was about to reply, when the expected
footsteps were heard coming from the study. The prince
walked in quickly and jauntily as was his wont, as if inten-
tionally contrasting the briskness of his manners with the
strict formality of his house. At that moment the great clock
struck two and another with a shrill tone joined in from the
drawing room. The prince stood still; his lively glittering eyes
from under their thick, bushy eyebrows sternly scanned all
present and rested on the little princess. She felt, as courtiers
do when the Tsar enters, the sensation of fear and respect
which the old man inspired in all around him. He stroked her
hair and then patted her awkwardly on the back of her neck.
"I'm glad, glad, to see you," he said, looking attentively into
her eyes, and then quickly went to his place and sat down.
"Sit down, sit down! Sit down, Michael Ianovich!"
He indicated a place beside him to his daughter-in-law. A
footman moved the chair for her.
"Ho, ho!" said the old man, casting his eyes on her rounded
figure. "You've been in a hurry. That's bad!"
He laughed in his usual dry, cold, unpleasant way, with his
lips only and not with his eyes.
"You must walk, walk as much as possible, as much as pos-
sible," he said.
The little princess did not, or did not wish to, hear his
words. She was silent and seemed confused. The prince asked
her about her father, and she began to smile and talk. He
asked about mutual acquaintances, and she became still more
animated and chattered away giving him greetings from vari-
ous people and retailing the town gossip.
"Countess Apraksina, poor thing, has lost her husband and
she has cried her eyes out," she said, growing more and more
lively.
As she became animated the prince looked at her more and
more sternly, and suddenly, as if he had studied her suffi-
ciently and had formed a definite idea of her, he turned away
and addressed Michael Ivanovich.
"Well, Michael Ivanovich, our Bonaparte will be having a
bad time of it. Prince Andrew" (he always spoke thus of his
son) "has been telling me what forces are being collected
against him! While you and I never thought much of him."
Michael Ivanovich did not at all know when "you and I" had
said such things about Bonaparte, but understanding that he
was wanted as a peg on which to hang the prince's favorite
topic, he looked inquiringly at the young prince, wondering
what would follow.
"He is a great tactician!" said the prince to his son, pointing
to the architect.
And the conversation again turned on the war, on Bona-
parte, and the generals and statesmen of the day. The old
prince seemed convinced not only that all the men of the day
were mere babies who did not know the A B C of war or of
politics, and that Bonaparte was an insignificant little
Frenchy, successful only because there were no longer any
Potemkins or Suvorovs left to oppose him; but he was also
convinced that there were no political difficulties in Europe
and no real war, but only a sort of puppet show at which the
men of the day were playing, pretending to do something real.
Prince Andrew gaily bore with his father's ridicule of the new
men, and drew him on and listened to him with evident
pleasure.
"The past always seems good," said he, "but did not Suvorov
himself fall into a trap Moreau set him, and from which he did
not know how to escape?"
"Who told you that? Who?" cried the prince. "Suvorov!" And
he jerked away his plate, which Tikhon briskly caught.
"Suvorov!... Consider, Prince Andrew. Two... Frederick and
Suvorov; Moreau!... Moreau would have been a prisoner if
Suvorov had had a free hand; but he had the Hofs-kriegs-
wurst-schnapps-Rath on his hands. It would have puzzled the
devil himself! When you get there you'll find out what those
Hofs-kriegs-wurst-Raths are! Suvorov couldn't manage them
so what chance has Michael Kutuzov? No, my dear boy," he
continued, "you and your generals won't get on against
Buonaparte; you'll have to call in the French, so that birds of
a feather may fight together. The German, Pahlen, has been
sent to New York in America, to fetch the Frenchman, Mor-
eau," he said, alluding to the invitation made that year to
Moreau to enter the Russian service.... "Wonderful!... Were
the Potemkins, Suvorovs, and Orlovs Germans? No, lad,
either you fellows have all lost your wits, or I have outlived
mine. May God help you, but we'll see what will happen.
Buonaparte has become a great commander among them!
Hm!..."
"I don't at all say that all the plans are good," said Prince
Andrew, "I am only surprised at your opinion of Bonaparte.
You may laugh as much as you like, but all the same Bona-
parte is a great general!"
"Michael Ivanovich!" cried the old prince to the architect
who, busy with his roast meat, hoped he had been forgotten:
"Didn't I tell you Buonaparte was a great tactician? Here, he
says the same thing."
"To be sure, your excellency." replied the architect.
The prince again laughed his frigid laugh.
"Buonaparte was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He
has got splendid soldiers. Besides he began by attacking Ger-
mans. And only idlers have failed to beat the Germans. Since
the world began everybody has beaten the Germans. They
beat no one—except one another. He made his reputation
fighting them."
And the prince began explaining all the blunders which, ac-
cording to him, Bonaparte had made in his campaigns and
even in politics. His son made no rejoinder, but it was evident
that whatever arguments were presented he was as little able
as his father to change his opinion. He listened, refraining
from a reply, and involuntarily wondered how this old man,
living alone in the country for so many years, could know and
discuss so minutely and acutely all the recent European milit-
ary and political events.
"You think I'm an old man and don't understand the
present state of affairs?" concluded his father. "But it troubles
me. I don't sleep at night. Come now, where has this great
commander of yours shown his skill?" he concluded.
"That would take too long to tell," answered the son.
"Well, then go to your Buonaparte! Mademoiselle Bouri-
enne, here's another admirer of that powder-monkey emperor
of yours," he exclaimed in excellent French.
"You know, Prince, I am not a Bonapartist!"
"Dieu sait quand reviendra..." hummed the prince out of
tune and, with a laugh still more so, he quitted the table.
The little princess during the whole discussion and the rest
of the dinner sat silent, glancing with a frightened look now at
her father-in-law and now at Princess Mary. When they left
the table she took her sister-in-law's arm and drew her into
another room.
 "What a clever man your father is," said she; "perhaps that
is why I am afraid of him."
"Oh, he is so kind!" answered Princess Mary.
Chapter 28
Prince Andrew was to leave next evening. The old prince,
not altering his routine, retired as usual after dinner. The
little princess was in her sister-in-law's room. Prince Andrew
in a traveling coat without epaulettes had been packing with
his valet in the rooms assigned to him. After inspecting the
carriage himself and seeing the trunks put in, he ordered the
horses to be harnessed. Only those things he always kept with
him remained in his room; a small box, a large canteen fitted
with silver plate, two Turkish pistols and a saber—a present
from his father who had brought it from the siege of Ochakov.
All these traveling effects of Prince Andrew's were in very
good order: new, clean, and in cloth covers carefully tied with
tapes.
When starting on a journey or changing their mode of life,
men capable of reflection are generally in a serious frame of
mind. At such moments one reviews the past and plans for
the future. Prince Andrew's face looked very thoughtful and
tender. With his hands behind him he paced briskly from
corner to corner of the room, looking straight before him and
thoughtfully shaking his head. Did he fear going to the war,
or was he sad at leaving his wife?—perhaps both, but
evidently he did not wish to be seen in that mood, for hearing
footsteps in the passage he hurriedly unclasped his hands,
stopped at a table as if tying the cover of the small box, and
assumed his usual tranquil and impenetrable expression. It
was the heavy tread of Princess Mary that he heard.
"I hear you have given orders to harness," she cried, pant-
ing (she had apparently been running), "and I did so wish to
have another talk with you alone! God knows how long we
may again be parted. You are not angry with me for coming?
You have changed so, Andrusha," she added, as if to explain
such a question.
She smiled as she uttered his pet name, "Andrusha." It was
obviously strange to her to think that this stern handsome
man should be Andrusha—the slender mischievous boy who
had been her playfellow in childhood.
"And where is Lise?" he asked, answering her question only
by a smile.
"She was so tired that she has fallen asleep on the sofa in
my room. Oh, Andrew! What a treasure of a wife you have,"
said she, sitting down on the sofa, facing her brother. "She is
quite a child: such a dear, merry child. I have grown so fond of
her."
Prince Andrew was silent, but the princess noticed the iron-
ical and contemptuous look that showed itself on his face.
"One must be indulgent to little weaknesses; who is free
from them, Andrew? Don't forget that she has grown up and
been educated in society, and so her position now is not a rosy
one. We should enter into everyone's situation. Tout compren-
dre, c'est tout pardonner. 16 Think it must be for her, poor
thing, after what she has been used to, to be parted from her
husband and be left alone in the country, in her condition! It's
very hard."
Prince Andrew smiled as he looked at his sister, as we smile
at those we think we thoroughly understand.
"You live in the country and don't think the life terrible," he
replied.
"I... that's different. Why speak of me? I don't want any oth-
er life, and can't, for I know no other. But think, Andrew: for a
young society woman to be buried in the country during the
best years of her life, all alone—for Papa is always busy, and
I... well, you know what poor resources I have for entertaining
a woman used to the best society. There is only Mademoiselle
Bourienne...."
"I don't like your Mademoiselle Bourienne at all," said
Prince Andrew.
"No? She is very nice and kind and, above all, she's much to
be pitied. She has no one, no one. To tell the truth, I don't
need her, and she's even in my way. You know I always was a
savage, and now am even more so. I like being alone.... Father
likes her very much. She and Michael Ivanovich are the two
people to whom he is always gentle and kind, because he has
been a benefactor to them both. As Sterne says: 'We don't love
people so much for the good they have done us, as for the good
we have done them.' Father took her when she was homeless
after losing her own father. She is very good-natured, and my

16.To understand all is to forgive all.

father likes her way of reading. She reads to him in the even-
ings and reads splendidly."
"To be quite frank, Mary, I expect Father's character some-
times makes things trying for you, doesn't it?" Prince Andrew
asked suddenly.
Princess Mary was first surprised and then aghast at this
question.
"For me? For me?... Trying for me!..." said she.
"He always was rather harsh; and now I should think he's
getting very trying," said Prince Andrew, apparently speaking
lightly of their father in order to puzzle or test his sister.
"You are good in every way, Andrew, but you have a kind of
intellectual pride," said the princess, following the train of her
own thoughts rather than the trend of the conversation—"and
that's a great sin. How can one judge Father? But even if one
might, what feeling except veneration could such a man as my
father evoke? And I am so contented and happy with him. I
only wish you were all as happy as I am."
Her brother shook his head incredulously.
"The only thing that is hard for me... I will tell you the
truth, Andrew... is Father's way of treating religious subjects.
I don't understand how a man of his immense intellect can
fail to see what is as clear as day, and can go so far astray.
That is the only thing that makes me unhappy. But even in
this I can see lately a shade of improvement. His satire has
been less bitter of late, and there was a monk he received and
had a long talk with."
"Ah! my dear, I am afraid you and your monk are wasting
your powder," said Prince Andrew banteringly yet tenderly.
 "Ah! mon ami, I only pray, and hope that God will hear me.
Andrew..." she said timidly after a moment's silence, "I have a
great favor to ask of you."
"What is it, dear?"
"No—promise that you will not refuse! It will give you no
trouble and is nothing unworthy of you, but it will comfort me.
Promise, Andrusha!..." said she, putting her hand in her retic-
ule but not yet taking out what she was holding inside it, as if
what she held were the subject of her request and must not be
shown before the request was granted.
She looked timidly at her brother.
"Even if it were a great deal of trouble..." answered Prince
Andrew, as if guessing what it was about.
"Think what you please! I know you are just like Father.
Think as you please, but do this for my sake! Please do!
Father's father, our grandfather, wore it in all his wars." (She
still did not take out what she was holding in her reticule.)
"So you promise?"
"Of course. What is it?"
"Andrew, I bless you with this icon and you must promise
me you will never take it off. Do you promise?"
"If it does not weigh a hundredweight and won't break my
neck... To please you..." said Prince Andrew. But immediately,
noticing the pained expression his joke had brought to his
sister's face, he repented and added: "I am glad; really, dear, I
am very glad."
"Against your will He will save and have mercy on you and
bring you to Himself, for in Him alone is truth and peace,"
said she in a voice trembling with emotion, solemnly holding
up in both hands before her brother a small, oval, antique,
dark-faced icon of the Saviour in a gold setting, on a finely
wrought silver chain.
She crossed herself, kissed the icon, and handed it to
Andrew.
"Please, Andrew, for my sake!..."
Rays of gentle light shone from her large, timid eyes. Those
eyes lit up the whole of her thin, sickly face and made it beau-
tiful. Her brother would have taken the icon, but she stopped
him. Andrew understood, crossed himself and kissed the icon.
There was a look of tenderness, for he was touched, but also a
gleam of irony on his face.
"Thank you, my dear." She kissed him on the forehead and
sat down again on the sofa. They were silent for a while.
"As I was saying to you, Andrew, be kind and generous as
you always used to be. Don't judge Lise harshly," she began.
"She is so sweet, so good-natured, and her position now is a
very hard one."
"I do not think I have complained of my wife to you, Masha,
or blamed her. Why do you say all this to me?"
Red patches appeared on Princess Mary's face and she was
silent as if she felt guilty.
"I have said nothing to you, but you have already been
talked to. And I am sorry for that," he went on.
The patches grew deeper on her forehead, neck, and cheeks.
She tried to say something but could not. Her brother had
guessed right: the little princess had been crying after dinner
and had spoken of her forebodings about her confinement, and
how she dreaded it, and had complained of her fate, her
father-in-law, and her husband. After crying she had fallen
asleep. Prince Andrew felt sorry for his sister.
"Know this, Masha: I can't reproach, have not reproached,
and never shall reproach my wife with anything, and I cannot
reproach myself with anything in regard to her; and that al-
ways will be so in whatever circumstances I may be placed.
But if you want to know the truth... if you want to know
whether I am happy? No! Is she happy? No! But why this is so
I don't know..."
As he said this he rose, went to his sister, and, stooping,
kissed her forehead. His fine eyes lit up with a thoughtful,
kindly, and unaccustomed brightness, but he was looking not
at his sister but over her head toward the darkness of the
open doorway.
"Let us go to her, I must say good-by. Or—go and wake and
I'll come in a moment. Petrushka!" he called to his valet:
"Come here, take these away. Put this on the seat and this to
the right."
Princess Mary rose and moved to the door, then stopped
and said: "Andrew, if you had faith you would have turned to
God and asked Him to give you the love you do not feel, and
your prayer would have been answered."
"Well, may be!" said Prince Andrew. "Go, Masha; I'll come
immediately."
On the way to his sister's room, in the passage which con-
nected one wing with the other, Prince Andrew met Ma-
demoiselle Bourienne smiling sweetly. It was the third time
that day that, with an ecstatic and artless smile, she had met
him in secluded passages.
 "Oh! I thought you were in your room," she said, for some
reason blushing and dropping her eyes.
Prince Andrew looked sternly at her and an expression of
anger suddenly came over his face. He said nothing to her but
looked at her forehead and hair, without looking at her eyes,
with such contempt that the Frenchwoman blushed and went
away without a word. When he reached his sister's room his
wife was already awake and her merry voice, hurrying one
word after another, came through the open door. She was
speaking as usual in French, and as if after long self-restraint
she wished to make up for lost time.
"No, but imagine the old Countess Zubova, with false curls
and her mouth full of false teeth, as if she were trying to cheat
old age.... Ha, ha, ha! Mary!"
This very sentence about Countess Zubova and this same
laugh Prince Andrew had already heard from his wife in the
presence of others some five times. He entered the room
softly. The little princess, plump and rosy, was sitting in an
easy chair with her work in her hands, talking incessantly, re-
peating Petersburg reminiscences and even phrases. Prince
Andrew came up, stroked her hair, and asked if she felt rested
after their journey. She answered him and continued her
chatter.
The coach with six horses was waiting at the porch. It was
an autumn night, so dark that the coachman could not see the
carriage pole. Servants with lanterns were bustling about in
the porch. The immense house was brilliant with lights shin-
ing through its lofty windows. The domestic serfs were
crowding in the hall, waiting to bid good-by to the young
prince. The members of the household were all gathered in
the reception hall: Michael Ivanovich, Mademoiselle Bouri-
enne, Princess Mary, and the little princess. Prince Andrew
had been called to his father's study as the latter wished to
say good-by to him alone. All were waiting for them to come
out.
When Prince Andrew entered the study the old man in his
old-age spectacles and white dressing gown, in which he re-
ceived no one but his son, sat at the table writing. He glanced
round.
"Going?" And he went on writing.
"I've come to say good-by."
"Kiss me here," and he touched his cheek: "Thanks,
thanks!"
"What do you thank me for?"
"For not dilly-dallying and not hanging to a woman's apron
strings. The Service before everything. Thanks, thanks!" And
he went on writing, so that his quill spluttered and squeaked.
"If you have anything to say, say it. These two things can be
done together," he added.
"About my wife... I am ashamed as it is to leave her on your
hands..."
"Why talk nonsense? Say what you want."
"When her confinement is due, send to Moscow for an ac-
coucheur.... Let him be here...."
The old prince stopped writing and, as if not understanding,
fixed his stern eyes on his son.
"I know that no one can help if nature does not do her
work," said Prince Andrew, evidently confused. "I know that
out of a million cases only one goes wrong, but it is her fancy
and mine. They have been telling her things. She has had a
dream and is frightened."
"Hm... Hm..." muttered the old prince to himself, finishing
what he was writing. "I'll do it."
He signed with a flourish and suddenly turning to his son
began to laugh.
"It's a bad business, eh?"
"What is bad, Father?"
"The wife!" said the old prince, briefly and significantly.
"I don't understand!" said Prince Andrew.
"No, it can't be helped, lad," said the prince. "They're all like
that; one can't unmarry. Don't be afraid; I won't tell anyone,
but you know it yourself."
He seized his son by the hand with small bony fingers,
shook it, looked straight into his son's face with keen eyes
which seemed to see through him, and again laughed his fri-
gid laugh.
The son sighed, thus admitting that his father had under-
stood him. The old man continued to fold and seal his letter,
snatching up and throwing down the wax, the seal, and the
paper, with his accustomed rapidity.
"What's to be done? She's pretty! I will do everything. Make
your mind easy," said he in abrupt sentences while sealing his
letter.
Andrew did not speak; he was both pleased and displeased
that his father understood him. The old man got up and gave
the letter to his son.
 "Listen!" said he; "don't worry about your wife: what can be
done shall be. Now listen! Give this letter to Michael Ilari-
onovich. 17 I have written that he should make use of you in
proper places and not keep you long as an adjutant: a bad pos-
ition! Tell him I remember and like him. Write and tell me
how he receives you. If he is all right—serve him. Nicholas
Bolkonski's son need not serve under anyone if he is in disfa-
vor. Now come here."
He spoke so rapidly that he did not finish half his words,
but his son was accustomed to understand him. He led him to
the desk, raised the lid, drew out a drawer, and took out an
exercise book filled with his bold, tall, close handwriting.
"I shall probably die before you. So remember, these are my
memoirs; hand them to the Emperor after my death. Now
here is a Lombard bond and a letter; it is a premium for the
man who writes a history of Suvorov's wars. Send it to the
Academy. Here are some jottings for you to read when I am
gone. You will find them useful."
Andrew did not tell his father that he would no doubt live a
long time yet. He felt that he must not say it.
"I will do it all, Father," he said.
"Well, now, good-by!" He gave his son his hand to kiss, and
embraced him. "Remember this, Prince Andrew, if they kill
you it will hurt me, your old father..." he paused unexpec-
tedly, and then in a querulous voice suddenly shrieked: "but if
I hear that you have not behaved like a son of Nicholas
Bolkonski, I shall be ashamed!"

17.Kutuzov.
 "You need not have said that to me, Father," said the son
with a smile.
The old man was silent.
"I also wanted to ask you," continued Prince Andrew, "if I'm
killed and if I have a son, do not let him be taken away from
you- as I said yesterday... let him grow up with you.... Please."
"Not let the wife have him?" said the old man, and laughed.
They stood silent, facing one another. The old man's sharp
eyes were fixed straight on his son's. Something twitched in
the lower part of the old prince's face.
"We've said good-by. Go!" he suddenly shouted in a loud,
angry voice, opening his door.
"What is it? What?" asked both princesses when they saw
for a moment at the door Prince Andrew and the figure of the
old man in a white dressing gown, spectacled and wigless,
shouting in an angry voice.
Prince Andrew sighed and made no reply.
"Well!" he said, turning to his wife.
And this "Well!" sounded coldly ironic, as if he were saying,:
"Now go through your performance."
"Andrew, already!" said the little princess, turning pale and
looking with dismay at her husband.
He embraced her. She screamed and fell unconscious on his
shoulder.
He cautiously released the shoulder she leaned on, looked
into her face, and carefully placed her in an easy chair.
"Adieu, Mary," said he gently to his sister, taking her by the
hand and kissing her, and then he left the room with rapid
steps.
 The little princess lay in the armchair, Mademoiselle Bouri-
enne chafing her temples. Princess Mary, supporting her
sister-in-law, still looked with her beautiful eyes full of tears
at the door through which Prince Andrew had gone and made
the sign of the cross in his direction. From the study, like pis-
tol shots, came the frequent sound of the old man angrily
blowing his nose. Hardly had Prince Andrew gone when the
study door opened quickly and the stern figure of the old man
in the white dressing gown looked out.
"Gone? That's all right!" said he; and looking angrily at the
unconscious little princess, he shook his head reprovingly and
slammed the door.
Part 2
Chapter 1
In October, 1805, a Russian army was occupying the vil-
lages and towns of the Archduchy of Austria, and yet other re-
giments freshly arriving from Russia were settling near the
fortress of Braunau and burdening the inhabitants on whom
they were quartered. Braunau was the headquarters of the
commander-in-chief, Kutuzov.
On October 11, 1805, one of the infantry regiments that had
just reached Braunau had halted half a mile from the town,
waiting to be inspected by the commander in chief. Despite
the un-Russian appearance of the locality and surround-
ings—fruit gardens, stone fences, tiled roofs, and hills in the
distance—and despite the fact that the inhabitants (who
gazed with curiosity at the soldiers) were not Russians, the
regiment had just the appearance of any Russian regiment
preparing for an inspection anywhere in the heart of Russia.
On the evening of the last day's march an order had been
received that the commander in chief would inspect the regi-
ment on the march. Though the words of the order were not
clear to the regimental commander, and the question arose
whether the troops were to be in marching order or not, it was
decided at a consultation between the battalion commanders
to present the regiment in parade order, on the principle that
it is always better to "bow too low than not bow low enough."
So the soldiers, after a twenty-mile march, were kept mending
and cleaning all night long without closing their eyes, while
the adjutants and company commanders calculated and
reckoned, and by morning the regiment—instead of the strag-
gling, disorderly crowd it had been on its last march the day
before—presented a well-ordered array of two thousand men
each of whom knew his place and his duty, had every button
and every strap in place, and shone with cleanliness. And not
only externally was all in order, but had it pleased the com-
mander in chief to look under the uniforms he would have
found on every man a clean shirt, and in every knapsack the
appointed number of articles, "awl, soap, and all," as the sol-
diers say. There was only one circumstance concerning which
no one could be at ease. It was the state of the soldiers' boots.
More than half the men's boots were in holes. But this defect
was not due to any fault of the regimental commander, for in
spite of repeated demands boots had not been issued by the
Austrian commissariat, and the regiment had marched some
seven hundred miles.
The commander of the regiment was an elderly, choleric,
stout, and thick-set general with grizzled eyebrows and
whiskers, and wider from chest to back than across the
shoulders. He had on a brand-new uniform showing the
creases where it had been folded and thick gold epaulettes
which seemed to stand rather than lie down on his massive
shoulders. He had the air of a man happily performing one of
the most solemn duties of his life. He walked about in front of
the line and at every step pulled himself up, slightly arching
his back. It was plain that the commander admired his regi-
ment, rejoiced in it, and that his whole mind was engrossed by
it, yet his strut seemed to indicate that, besides military mat-
ters, social interests and the fair sex occupied no small part of
his thoughts.
"Well, Michael Mitrich, sir?" he said, addressing one of the
battalion commanders who smilingly pressed forward (it was
plain that they both felt happy). "We had our hands full last
night. However, I think the regiment is not a bad one, eh?"
The battalion commander perceived the jovial irony and
laughed.
"It would not be turned off the field even on the Tsaritsin
Meadow."
"What?" asked the commander.
At that moment, on the road from the town on which sig-
nalers had been posted, two men appeared on horse back.
They were an aide-de-camp followed by a Cossack.
The aide-de-camp was sent to confirm the order which had
not been clearly worded the day before, namely, that the com-
mander in chief wished to see the regiment just in the state in
which it had been on the march: in their greatcoats, and
packs, and without any preparation whatever.
A member of the Hofkriegsrath from Vienna had come to
Kutuzov the day before with proposals and demands for him
to join up with the army of the Archduke Ferdinand and
Mack, and Kutuzov, not considering this junction advisable,
meant, among other arguments in support of his view, to
show the Austrian general the wretched state in which the
troops arrived from Russia. With this object he intended to
meet the regiment; so the worse the condition it was in, the
better pleased the commander in chief would be. Though the
aide-de-camp did not know these circumstances, he neverthe-
less delivered the definite order that the men should be in
their greatcoats and in marching order, and that the com-
mander in chief would otherwise be dissatisfied. On hearing
this the regimental commander hung his head, silently
shrugged his shoulders, and spread out his arms with a
choleric gesture.
"A fine mess we've made of it!" he remarked.
"There now! Didn't I tell you, Michael Mitrich, that if it was
said 'on the march' it meant in greatcoats?" said he reproach-
fully to the battalion commander. "Oh, my God!" he added,
stepping resolutely forward. "Company commanders!" he
shouted in a voice accustomed to command. "Sergeants ma-
jor!... How soon will he be here?" he asked the aide-de-camp
with a respectful politeness evidently relating to the person-
age he was referring to.
"In an hour's time, I should say."
"Shall we have time to change clothes?"
"I don't know, General...."
The regimental commander, going up to the line himself,
ordered the soldiers to change into their greatcoats. The com-
pany commanders ran off to their companies, the sergeants
major began bustling (the greatcoats were not in very good
condition), and instantly the squares that had up to then been
in regular order and silent began to sway and stretch and
hum with voices. On all sides soldiers were running to and
fro, throwing up their knapsacks with a jerk of their
shoulders and pulling the straps over their heads, unstrap-
ping their overcoats and drawing the sleeves on with upraised
arms.
In half an hour all was again in order, only the squares had
become gray instead of black. The regimental commander
walked with his jerky steps to the front of the regiment and
examined it from a distance.
"Whatever is this? This!" he shouted and stood still.
"Commander of the third company!"
"Commander of the third company wanted by the general!...
commander to the general... third company to the command-
er." The words passed along the lines and an adjutant ran to
look for the missing officer.
When the eager but misrepeated words had reached their
destination in a cry of: "The general to the third company,"
the missing officer appeared from behind his company and,
though he was a middle-aged man and not in the habit of run-
ning, trotted awkwardly stumbling on his toes toward the
general. The captain's face showed the uneasiness of a school-
boy who is told to repeat a lesson he has not learned. Spots
appeared on his nose, the redness of which was evidently due
to intemperance, and his mouth twitched nervously. The gen-
eral looked the captain up and down as he came up panting,
slackening his pace as he approached.
"You will soon be dressing your men in petticoats! What is
this?" shouted the regimental commander, thrusting forward
his jaw and pointing at a soldier in the ranks of the third com-
pany in a greatcoat of bluish cloth, which contrasted with the
others. "What have you been after? The commander in chief is
expected and you leave your place? Eh? I'll teach you to dress
the men in fancy coats for a parade.... Eh...?"
The commander of the company, with his eyes fixed on his
superior, pressed two fingers more and more rigidly to his
cap, as if in this pressure lay his only hope of salvation.
"Well, why don't you speak? Whom have you got there
dressed up as a Hungarian?" said the commander with an
austere gibe.
"Your excellency..."
"Well, your excellency, what? Your excellency! But what
about your excellency?... nobody knows."
"Your excellency, it's the officer Dolokhov, who has been re-
duced to the ranks," said the captain softly.
"Well? Has he been degraded into a field marshal, or into a
soldier? If a soldier, he should be dressed in regulation uni-
form like the others."
"Your excellency, you gave him leave yourself, on the
march."
"Gave him leave? Leave? That's just like you young men,"
said the regimental commander cooling down a little. "Leave
indeed.... One says a word to you and you... What?" he added
with renewed irritation, "I beg you to dress your men
decently."
And the commander, turning to look at the adjutant, direc-
ted his jerky steps down the line. He was evidently pleased at
his own display of anger and walking up to the regiment
wished to find a further excuse for wrath. Having snapped at
an officer for an unpolished badge, at another because his line
was not straight, he reached the third company.
"H-o-o-w are you standing? Where's your leg? Your leg?"
shouted the commander with a tone of suffering in his voice,
while there were still five men between him and Dolokhov
with his bluish-gray uniform.
Dolokhov slowly straightened his bent knee, looking
straight with his clear, insolent eyes in the general's face.
"Why a blue coat? Off with it... Sergeant major! Change his
coat... the ras..." he did not finish.
"General, I must obey orders, but I am not bound to en-
dure..." Dolokhov hurriedly interrupted.
"No talking in the ranks!... No talking, no talking!"
"Not bound to endure insults," Dolokhov concluded in loud,
ringing tones.
The eyes of the general and the soldier met. The general be-
came silent, angrily pulling down his tight scarf.
"I request you to have the goodness to change your coat," he
said as he turned away.
Chapter 2
"He's coming!" shouted the signaler at that moment.
The regimental commander, flushing, ran to his horse,
seized the stirrup with trembling hands, threw his body
across the saddle, righted himself, drew his saber, and with a
happy and resolute countenance, opening his mouth awry,
prepared to shout. The regiment fluttered like a bird preening
its plumage and became motionless.
"Att-ention!" shouted the regimental commander in a soul-
shaking voice which expressed joy for himself, severity for the
regiment, and welcome for the approaching chief.
Along the broad country road, edged on both sides by trees,
came a high, light blue Viennese caleche, slightly creaking on
its springs and drawn by six horses at a smart trot. Behind
the caleche galloped the suite and a convoy of Croats. Beside
Kutuzov sat an Austrian general, in a white uniform that
looked strange among the Russian black ones. The caleche
stopped in front of the regiment. Kutuzov and the Austrian
general were talking in low voices and Kutuzov smiled
slightly as treading heavily he stepped down from the car-
riage just as if those two thousand men breathlessly gazing at
him and the regimental commander did not exist.
 The word of command rang out, and again the regiment
quivered, as with a jingling sound it presented arms. Then
amidst a dead silence the feeble voice of the commander in
chief was heard. The regiment roared, "Health to your ex...
len... len... lency!" and again all became silent. At first Ku-
tuzov stood still while the regiment moved; then he and the
general in white, accompanied by the suite, walked between
the ranks.
From the way the regimental commander saluted the com-
mander in chief and devoured him with his eyes, drawing
himself up obsequiously, and from the way he walked through
the ranks behind the generals, bending forward and hardly
able to restrain his jerky movements, and from the way he
darted forward at every word or gesture of the commander in
chief, it was evident that he performed his duty as a subordin-
ate with even greater zeal than his duty as a commander.
Thanks to the strictness and assiduity of its commander the
regiment, in comparison with others that had reached
Braunau at the same time, was in splendid condition. There
were only 217 sick and stragglers. Everything was in good or-
der except the boots.
Kutuzov walked through the ranks, sometimes stopping to
say a few friendly words to officers he had known in the Turk-
ish war, sometimes also to the soldiers. Looking at their boots
he several times shook his head sadly, pointing them out to
the Austrian general with an expression which seemed to say
that he was not blaming anyone, but could not help noticing
what a bad state of things it was. The regimental commander
ran forward on each such occasion, fearing to miss a single
word of the commander in chief's regarding the regiment. Be-
hind Kutuzov, at a distance that allowed every softly spoken
word to be heard, followed some twenty men of his suite.
These gentlemen talked among themselves and sometimes
laughed. Nearest of all to the commander in chief walked a
handsome adjutant. This was Prince Bolkonski. Beside him
was his comrade Nesvitski, a tall staff officer, extremely stout,
with a kindly, smiling, handsome face and moist eyes. Nesvit-
ski could hardly keep from laughter provoked by a swarthy
hussar officer who walked beside him. This hussar, with a
grave face and without a smile or a change in the expression
of his fixed eyes, watched the regimental commander's back
and mimicked his every movement. Each time the commander
started and bent forward, the hussar started and bent for-
ward in exactly the same manner. Nesvitski laughed and
nudged the others to make them look at the wag.
Kutuzov walked slowly and languidly past thousands of
eyes which were starting from their sockets to watch their
chief. On reaching the third company he suddenly stopped.
His suite, not having expected this, involuntarily came closer
to him.
"Ah, Timokhin!" said he, recognizing the red-nosed captain
who had been reprimanded on account of the blue greatcoat.
One would have thought it impossible for a man to stretch
himself more than Timokhin had done when he was reprim-
anded by the regimental commander, but now that the com-
mander in chief addressed him he drew himself up to such an
extent that it seemed he could not have sustained it had the
commander in chief continued to look at him, and so Kutuzov,
who evidently understood his case and wished him nothing
but good, quickly turned away, a scarcely perceptible smile
flitting over his scarred and puffy face.
"Another Ismail comrade," said he. "A brave officer! Are you
satisfied with him?" he asked the regimental commander.
And the latter—unconscious that he was being reflected in
the hussar officer as in a looking glass—started, moved for-
ward, and answered: "Highly satisfied, your excellency!"
"We all have our weaknesses," said Kutuzov smiling and
walking away from him. "He used to have a predilection for
Bacchus."
The regimental commander was afraid he might be blamed
for this and did not answer. The hussar at that moment no-
ticed the face of the red-nosed captain and his drawn-in stom-
ach, and mimicked his expression and pose with such ex-
actitude that Nesvitski could not help laughing. Kutuzov
turned round. The officer evidently had complete control of his
face, and while Kutuzov was turning managed to make a
grimace and then assume a most serious, deferential, and in-
nocent expression.
The third company was the last, and Kutuzov pondered, ap-
parently trying to recollect something. Prince Andrew stepped
forward from among the suite and said in French:
"You told me to remind you of the officer Dolokhov, reduced
to the ranks in this regiment."
"Where is Dolokhov?" asked Kutuzov.
Dolokhov, who had already changed into a soldier's gray
greatcoat, did not wait to be called. The shapely figure of the
fair-haired soldier, with his clear blue eyes, stepped forward
from the ranks, went up to the commander in chief, and
presented arms.
"Have you a complaint to make?" Kutuzov asked with a
slight frown.
"This is Dolokhov," said Prince Andrew.
"Ah!" said Kutuzov. "I hope this will be a lesson to you. Do
your duty. The Emperor is gracious, and I shan't forget you if
you deserve well."
The clear blue eyes looked at the commander in chief just as
boldly as they had looked at the regimental commander,
seeming by their expression to tear open the veil of convention
that separates a commander in chief so widely from a private.
"One thing I ask of your excellency," Dolokhov said in his
firm, ringing, deliberate voice. "I ask an opportunity to atone
for my fault and prove my devotion to His Majesty the Emper-
or and to Russia!"
Kutuzov turned away. The same smile of the eyes with
which he had turned from Captain Timokhin again flitted
over his face. He turned away with a grimace as if to say that
everything Dolokhov had said to him and everything he could
say had long been known to him, that he was weary of it and
it was not at all what he wanted. He turned away and went to
the carriage.
The regiment broke up into companies, which went to their
appointed quarters near Braunau, where they hoped to re-
ceive boots and clothes and to rest after their hard marches.
"You won't bear me a grudge, Prokhor Ignatych?" said the
regimental commander, overtaking the third company on its
way to its quarters and riding up to Captain Timokhin who
was walking in front. (The regimental commander's face now
that the inspection was happily over beamed with irrepress-
ible delight.) "It's in the Emperor's service... it can't be
helped... one is sometimes a bit hasty on parade... I am the
first to apologize, you know me!... He was very pleased!" And
he held out his hand to the captain.
"Don't mention it, General, as if I'd be so bold!" replied the
captain, his nose growing redder as he gave a smile which
showed where two front teeth were missing that had been
knocked out by the butt end of a gun at Ismail.
"And tell Mr. Dolokhov that I won't forget him—he may be
quite easy. And tell me, please—I've been meaning to
ask—how is to ask- how is he behaving himself, and in
general..."
"As far as the service goes he is quite punctilious, your ex-
cellency; but his character..." said Timokhin.
"And what about his character?" asked the regimental
commander.
"It's different on different days," answered the captain.
"One day he is sensible, well educated, and good-natured, and
the next he's a wild beast.... In Poland, if you please, he nearly
killed a Jew."
"Oh, well, well!" remarked the regimental commander.
"Still, one must have pity on a young man in misfortune. You
know he has important connections... Well, then, you just..."
"I will, your excellency," said Timokhin, showing by his
smile that he understood his commander's wish.
"Well, of course, of course!"
 The regimental commander sought out Dolokhov in the
ranks and, reining in his horse, said to him:
"After the next affair... epaulettes."
Dolokhov looked round but did not say anything, nor did
the mocking smile on his lips change.
"Well, that's all right," continued the regimental command-
er. "A cup of vodka for the men from me," he added so that the
soldiers could hear. "I thank you all! God be praised!" and he
rode past that company and overtook the next one.
"Well, he's really a good fellow, one can serve under him,"
said Timokhin to the subaltern beside him.
"In a word, a hearty one..." said the subaltern, laughing (the
regimental commander was nicknamed King of Hearts).
The cheerful mood of their officers after the inspection in-
fected the soldiers. The company marched on gaily. The sol-
diers' voices could be heard on every side.
"And they said Kutuzov was blind of one eye?"
"And so he is! Quite blind!"
"No, friend, he is sharper-eyed than you are. Boots and leg
bands... he noticed everything..."
"When he looked at my feet, friend... well, thinks I..."
"And that other one with him, the Austrian, looked as if he
were smeared with chalk—as white as flour! I suppose they
polish him up as they do the guns."
"I say, Fedeshon!... Did he say when the battles are to be-
gin? You were near him. Everybody said that Buonaparte
himself was at Braunau."
"Buonaparte himself!... Just listen to the fool, what he
doesn't know! The Prussians are up in arms now. The
Austrians, you see, are putting them down. When they've
been put down, the war with Buonaparte will begin. And he
says Buonaparte is in Braunau! Shows you're a fool. You'd
better listen more carefully!"
"What devils these quartermasters are! See, the fifth com-
pany is turning into the village already... they will have their
buckwheat cooked before we reach our quarters."
"Give me a biscuit, you devil!"
"And did you give me tobacco yesterday? That's just it,
friend! Ah, well, never mind, here you are."
"They might call a halt here or we'll have to do another four
miles without eating."
"Wasn't it fine when those Germans gave us lifts! You just
sit still and are drawn along."
"And here, friend, the people are quite beggarly. There they
all seemed to be Poles—all under the Russian crown—but
here they're all regular Germans."
"Singers to the front " came the captain's order.
And from the different ranks some twenty men ran to the
front. A drummer, their leader, turned round facing the sing-
ers, and flourishing his arm, began a long-drawn-out soldiers'
song, commencing with the words: "Morning dawned, the sun
was rising," and concluding: "On then, brothers, on to glory,
led by Father Kamenski." This song had been composed in the
Turkish campaign and now being sung in Austria, the only
change being that the words "Father Kamenski" were re-
placed by "Father Kutuzov."
Having jerked out these last words as soldiers do and
waved his arms as if flinging something to the ground, the
drummer—a lean, handsome soldier of forty—looked sternly
at the singers and screwed up his eyes. Then having satisfied
himself that all eyes were fixed on him, he raised both arms
as if carefully lifting some invisible but precious object above
his head and, holding it there for some seconds, suddenly
flung it down and began:
"Oh, my bower, oh, my bower...!"
"Oh, my bower new...!" chimed in twenty voices, and the
castanet player, in spite of the burden of his equipment,
rushed out to the front and, walking backwards before the
company, jerked his shoulders and flourished his castanets as
if threatening someone. The soldiers, swinging their arms and
keeping time spontaneously, marched with long steps. Behind
the company the sound of wheels, the creaking of springs, and
the tramp of horses' hoofs were heard. Kutuzov and his suite
were returning to the town. The commander in chief made a
sign that the men should continue to march at ease, and he
and all his suite showed pleasure at the sound of the singing
and the sight of the dancing soldier and the gay and smartly
marching men. In the second file from the right flank, beside
which the carriage passed the company, a blue-eyed soldier
involuntarily attracted notice. It was Dolokhov marching with
particular grace and boldness in time to the song and looking
at those driving past as if he pitied all who were not at that
moment marching with the company. The hussar cornet of
Kutuzov's suite who had mimicked the regimental command-
er, fell back from the carriage and rode up to Dolokhov.
Hussar cornet Zherkov had at one time, in Petersburg, be-
longed to the wild set led by Dolokhov. Zherkov had met
Dolokhov abroad as a private and had not seen fit to recognize
him. But now that Kutuzov had spoken to the gentleman
ranker, he addressed him with the cordiality of an old friend.
"My dear fellow, how are you?" said he through the singing,
making his horse keep pace with the company.
"How am I?" Dolokhov answered coldly. "I am as you see."
The lively song gave a special flavor to the tone of free and
easy gaiety with which Zherkov spoke, and to the intentional
coldness of Dolokhov's reply.
"And how do you get on with the officers?" inquired
Zherkov.
"All right. They are good fellows. And how have you
wriggled onto the staff?"
"I was attached; I'm on duty."
Both were silent.
"She let the hawk fly upward from her wide right sleeve,"
went the song, arousing an involuntary sensation of courage
and cheerfulness. Their conversation would probably have
been different but for the effect of that song.
"Is it true that Austrians have been beaten?" asked
Dolokhov.
"The devil only knows! They say so."
"I'm glad," answered Dolokhov briefly and clearly, as the
song demanded.
"I say, come round some evening and we'll have a game of
faro!" said Zherkov.
"Why, have you too much money?"
"Do come."
 "I can't. I've sworn not to. I won't drink and won't play till I
get reinstated."
"Well, that's only till the first engagement."
"We shall see."
They were again silent.
"Come if you need anything. One can at least be of use on
the staff..."
Dolokhov smiled. "Don't trouble. If I want anything, I won't
beg- I'll take it!"
"Well, never mind; I only..."
"And I only..."
"Good-by."
"Good health..."
"It's a long, long way.
To my native land..."
Zherkov touched his horse with the spurs; it pranced ex-
citedly from foot to foot uncertain with which to start, then
settled down, galloped past the company, and overtook the
carriage, still keeping time to the song.
Chapter 3
On returning from the review, Kutuzov took the Austrian
general into his private room and, calling his adjutant, asked
for some papers relating to the condition of the troops on their
arrival, and the letters that had come from the Archduke
Ferdinand, who was in command of the advanced army.
Prince Andrew Bolkonski came into the room with the re-
quired papers. Kutuzov and the Austrian member of the
Hofkriegsrath were sitting at the table on which a plan was
spread out.
"Ah!..." said Kutuzov glancing at Bolkonski as if by this ex-
clamation he was asking the adjutant to wait, and he went on
with the conversation in French.
"All I can say, General," said he with a pleasant elegance of
expression and intonation that obliged one to listen to each
deliberately spoken word. It was evident that Kutuzov himself
listened with pleasure to his own voice. "All I can say, Gener-
al, is that if the matter depended on my personal wishes, the
will of His Majesty the Emperor Francis would have been ful-
filled long ago. I should long ago have joined the archduke.
And believe me on my honour that to me personally it would
be a pleasure to hand over the supreme command of the army
into the hands of a better informed and more skillful gener-
al—of whom Austria has so many—and to lay down all this
heavy responsibility. But circumstances are sometimes too
strong for us, General."
And Kutuzov smiled in a way that seemed to say, "You are
quite at liberty not to believe me and I don't even care wheth-
er you do or not, but you have no grounds for telling me so.
And that is the whole point."
The Austrian general looked dissatisfied, but had no option
but to reply in the same tone.
"On the contrary," he said, in a querulous and angry tone
that contrasted with his flattering words, "on the contrary,
your excellency's participation in the common action is highly
valued by His Majesty; but we think the present delay is de-
priving the splendid Russian troops and their commander of
the laurels they have been accustomed to win in their
battles," he concluded his evidently prearranged sentence.
Kutuzov bowed with the same smile.
"But that is my conviction, and judging by the last letter
with which His Highness the Archduke Ferdinand has
honored me, I imagine that the Austrian troops, under the
direction of so skillful a leader as General Mack, have by now
already gained a decisive victory and no longer need our aid,"
said Kutuzov.
The general frowned. Though there was no definite news of
an Austrian defeat, there were many circumstances confirm-
ing the unfavorable rumors that were afloat, and so Kutuzov's
suggestion of an Austrian victory sounded much like irony.
But Kutuzov went on blandly smiling with the same
expression, which seemed to say that he had a right to sup-
pose so. And, in fact, the last letter he had received from
Mack's army informed him of a victory and stated strategic-
ally the position of the army was very favorable.
"Give me that letter," said Kutuzov turning to Prince
Andrew. "Please have a look at it"—and Kutuzov with an
ironical smile about the corners of his mouth read to the Aus-
trian general the following passage, in German, from the
Archduke Ferdinand's letter:
We have fully concentrated forces of nearly seventy thou-
sand men with which to attack and defeat the enemy should
he cross the Lech. Also, as we are masters of Ulm, we cannot
be deprived of the advantage of commanding both sides of the
Danube, so that should the enemy not cross the Lech, we can
cross the Danube, throw ourselves on his line of communica-
tions, recross the river lower down, and frustrate his intention
should he try to direct his whole force against our faithful
ally. We shall therefore confidently await the moment when
the Imperial Russian army will be fully equipped, and shall
then, in conjunction with it, easily find a way to prepare for
the enemy the fate he deserves.
Kutuzov sighed deeply on finishing this paragraph and
looked at the member of the Hofkriegsrath mildly and
attentively.
"But you know the wise maxim your excellency, advising
one to expect the worst," said the Austrian general, evidently
wishing to have done with jests and to come to business. He
involuntarily looked round at the aide-de-camp.
 "Excuse me, General," interrupted Kutuzov, also turning to
Prince Andrew. "Look here, my dear fellow, get from
Kozlovski all the reports from our scouts. Here are two letters
from Count Nostitz and here is one from His Highness the
Archduke Ferdinand and here are these," he said, handing
him several papers, "make a neat memorandum in French out
of all this, showing all the news we have had of the move-
ments of the Austrian army, and then give it to his
excellency."
Prince Andrew bowed his head in token of having under-
stood from the first not only what had been said but also what
Kutuzov would have liked to tell him. He gathered up the pa-
pers and with a bow to both, stepped softly over the carpet
and went out into the waiting room.
Though not much time had passed since Prince Andrew had
left Russia, he had changed greatly during that period. In the
expression of his face, in his movements, in his walk, scarcely
a trace was left of his former affected languor and indolence.
He now looked like a man who has time to think of the im-
pression he makes on others, but is occupied with agreeable
and interesting work. His face expressed more satisfaction
with himself and those around him, his smile and glance were
brighter and more attractive.
Kutuzov, whom he had overtaken in Poland, had received
him very kindly, promised not to forget him, distinguished
him above the other adjutants, and had taken him to Vienna
and given him the more serious commissions. From Vienna
Kutuzov wrote to his old comrade, Prince Andrew's father.
 Your son bids fair to become an officer distinguished by his
industry, firmness, and expedition. I consider myself fortu-
nate to have such a subordinate by me.
On Kutuzov's staff, among his fellow officers and in the
army generally, Prince Andrew had, as he had had in Peters-
burg society, two quite opposite reputations. Some, a minor-
ity, acknowledged him to be different from themselves and
from everyone else, expected great things of him, listened to
him, admired, and imitated him, and with them Prince
Andrew was natural and pleasant. Others, the majority, dis-
liked him and considered him conceited, cold, and disagree-
able. But among these people Prince Andrew knew how to
take his stand so that they respected and even feared him.
Coming out of Kutuzov's room into the waiting room with
the papers in his hand Prince Andrew came up to his com-
rade, the aide-de-camp on duty, Kozlovski, who was sitting at
the window with a book.
"Well, Prince?" asked Kozlovski.
"I am ordered to write a memorandum explaining why we
are not advancing."
"And why is it?"
Prince Andrew shrugged his shoulders.
"Any news from Mack?"
"No."
"If it were true that he has been beaten, news would have
come."
"Probably," said Prince Andrew moving toward the outer
door.
 But at that instant a tall Austrian general in a greatcoat,
with the order of Maria Theresa on his neck and a black band-
age round his head, who had evidently just arrived, entered
quickly, slamming the door. Prince Andrew stopped short.
"Commander in Chief Kutuzov?" said the newly arrived
general speaking quickly with a harsh German accent, look-
ing to both sides and advancing straight toward the inner
door.
"The commander in chief is engaged," said Kozlovski, going
hurriedly up to the unknown general and blocking his way to
the door. "Whom shall I announce?"
The unknown general looked disdainfully down at
Kozlovski, who was rather short, as if surprised that anyone
should not know him.
"The commander in chief is engaged," repeated Kozlovski
calmly.
The general's face clouded, his lips quivered and trembled.
He took out a notebook, hurriedly scribbled something in pen-
cil, tore out the leaf, gave it to Kozlovski, stepped quickly to
the window, and threw himself into a chair, gazing at those in
the room as if asking, "Why do they look at me?" Then he lif-
ted his head, stretched his neck as if he intended to say
something, but immediately, with affected indifference, began
to hum to himself, producing a queer sound which immedi-
ately broke off. The door of the private room opened and Ku-
tuzov appeared in the doorway. The general with the band-
aged head bent forward as though running away from some
danger, and, making long, quick strides with his thin legs,
went up to Kutuzov.
 "Vous voyez le malheureux Mack," he uttered in a broken
voice.
Kutuzov's face as he stood in the open doorway remained
perfectly immobile for a few moments. Then wrinkles ran over
his face like a wave and his forehead became smooth again, he
bowed his head respectfully, closed his eyes, silently let Mack
enter his room before him, and closed the door himself behind
him.
The report which had been circulated that the Austrians
had been beaten and that the whole army had surrendered at
Ulm proved to be correct. Within half an hour adjutants had
been sent in various directions with orders which showed that
the Russian troops, who had hitherto been inactive, would
also soon have to meet the enemy.
Prince Andrew was one of those rare staff officers whose
chief interest lay in the general progress of the war. When he
saw Mack and heard the details of his disaster he understood
that half the campaign was lost, understood all the difficulties
of the Russian army's position, and vividly imagined what
awaited it and the part he would have to play. Involuntarily
he felt a joyful agitation at the thought of the humiliation of
arrogant Austria and that in a week's time he might, perhaps,
see and take part in the first Russian encounter with the
French since Suvorov met them. He feared that Bonaparte's
genius might outweigh all the courage of the Russian troops,
and at the same time could not admit the idea of his hero be-
ing disgraced.
Excited and irritated by these thoughts Prince Andrew
went toward his room to write to his father, to whom he wrote
every day. In the corridor he met Nesvitski, with whom he
shared a room, and the wag Zherkov; they were as usual
laughing.
"Why are you so glum?" asked Nesvitski noticing Prince
Andrew's pale face and glittering eyes.
"There's nothing to be gay about," answered Bolkonski.
Just as Prince Andrew met Nesvitski and Zherkov, there
came toward them from the other end of the corridor, Strauch,
an Austrian general who on Kutuzov's staff in charge of the
provisioning of the Russian army, and the member of the
Hofkriegsrath who had arrived the previous evening. There
was room enough in the wide corridor for the generals to pass
the three officers quite easily, but Zherkov, pushing Nesvitski
aside with his arm, said in a breathless voice,
"They're coming!... they're coming!... Stand aside, make
way, please make way!"
The generals were passing by, looking as if they wished to
avoid embarrassing attentions. On the face of the wag
Zherkov there suddenly appeared a stupid smile of glee which
he seemed unable to suppress.
"Your excellency," said he in German, stepping forward and
addressing the Austrian general, "I have the honor to congrat-
ulate you."
He bowed his head and scraped first with one foot and then
with the other, awkwardly, like a child at a dancing lesson.
The member of the Hofkriegsrath looked at him severely
but, seeing the seriousness of his stupid smile, could not but
give him a moment's attention. He screwed up his eyes show-
ing that he was listening.
 "I have the honor to congratulate you. General Mack has ar-
rived, quite well, only a little bruised just here," he added,
pointing with a beaming smile to his head.
The general frowned, turned away, and went on.
"Gott, wie naiv!"* said he angrily, after he had gone a few
steps.
* "Good God, what simplicity!"
Nesvitski with a laugh threw his arms round Prince
Andrew, but Bolkonski, turning still paler, pushed him away
with an angry look and turned to Zherkov. The nervous irrita-
tion aroused by the appearance of Mack, the news of his de-
feat, and the thought of what lay before the Russian army
found vent in anger at Zherkov's untimely jest.
"If you, sir, choose to make a buffoon of yourself," he said
sharply, with a slight trembling of the lower jaw, "I can't pre-
vent your doing so; but I warn you that if you dare to play the
fool in my presence, I will teach you to behave yourself."
Nesvitski and Zherkov were so surprised by this outburst
that they gazed at Bolkonski silently with wide-open eyes.
"What's the matter? I only congratulated them," said
Zherkov.
"I am not jesting with you; please be silent!" cried Bolkon-
ski, and taking Nesvitski's arm he left Zherkov, who did not
know what to say.
"Come, what's the matter, old fellow?" said Nesvitski trying
to soothe him.
"What's the matter?" exclaimed Prince Andrew standing
still in his excitement. "Don't you understand that either we
are officers serving our Tsar and our country, rejoicing in the
successes and grieving at the misfortunes of our common
cause, or we are merely lackeys who care nothing for their
master's business. Quarante mille hommes massacres et
l'armee de nos allies detruite, et vous trouvez la le mot pour
rire," 18 he said, as if strengthening his views by this French
sentence. "C'est bien pour un garcon de rein comme cet indi-
vidu dont vous avez fait un ami, mais pas pour vous, pas pour
vous. 19 Only a hobbledehoy could amuse himself in this way,"
he added in Russian—but pronouncing the word with a
French accent- having noticed that Zherkov could still hear
him.
He waited a moment to see whether the cornet would an-
swer, but he turned and went out of the corridor.

18."Forty thousand men massacred and the army of our allies destroyed,
and you find that a cause for jesting!"
19."It is all very well for that good-for-nothing fellow of whom you have
made a friend, but not for you, not for you."
Chapter 4
The Pavlograd Hussars were stationed two miles from
Braunau. The squadron in which Nicholas Rostov served as a
cadet was quartered in the German village of Salzeneck. The
best quarters in the village were assigned to cavalry-captain
Denisov, the squadron commander, known throughout the
whole cavalry division as Vaska Denisov. Cadet Rostov, ever
since he had overtaken the regiment in Poland, had lived with
the squadron commander.
On October 11, the day when all was astir at headquarters
over the news of Mack's defeat, the camp life of the officers of
this squadron was proceeding as usual. Denisov, who had
been losing at cards all night, had not yet come home when
Rostov rode back early in the morning from a foraging expedi-
tion. Rostov in his cadet uniform, with a jerk to his horse,
rode up to the porch, swung his leg over the saddle with a
supple youthful movement, stood for a moment in the stirrup
as if loathe to part from his horse, and at last sprang down
and called to his orderly.
"Ah, Bondarenko, dear friend!" said he to the hussar who
rushed up headlong to the horse. "Walk him up and down, my
dear fellow," he continued, with that gay brotherly cordiality
which goodhearted young people show to everyone when they
are happy.
"Yes, your excellency," answered the Ukrainian gaily, toss-
ing his head.
"Mind, walk him up and down well!"
Another hussar also rushed toward the horse, but Bondar-
enko had already thrown the reins of the snaffle bridle over
the horse's head. It was evident that the cadet was liberal
with his tips and that it paid to serve him. Rostov patted the
horse's neck and then his flank, and lingered for a moment.
"Splendid! What a horse he will be!" he thought with a
smile, and holding up his saber, his spurs jingling, he ran up
the steps of the porch. His landlord, who in a waistcoat and a
pointed cap, pitchfork in hand, was clearing manure from the
cowhouse, looked out, and his face immediately brightened on
seeing Rostov. "Schon gut Morgen! Schon gut Morgen!" 20 he
said winking with a merry smile, evidently pleased to greet
the young man.
"Schon fleissig?" 21 said Rostov with the same gay brotherly
smile which did not leave his eager face. "Hoch Oestreicher!
Hoch Russen! Kaiser Alexander hoch!" 22 said he, quoting
words often repeated by the German landlord.
The German laughed, came out of the cowshed, pulled off
his cap, and waving it above his head cried:
"Und die ganze Welt hoch!" 23

20."A very good morning! A very good morning!"

21."Busy already?"
22.* "Hurrah for the Austrians! Hurrah for the Russians! Hurrah for Em-
peror Alexander!"
 Rostov waved his cap above his head like the German and
cried laughing, "Und vivat die ganze Welt!" Though neither
the German cleaning his cowshed nor Rostov back with his
platoon from foraging for hay had any reason for rejoicing,
they looked at each other with joyful delight and brotherly
love, wagged their heads in token of their mutual affection,
and parted smiling, the German returning to his cowshed and
Rostov going to the cottage he occupied with Denisov.
"What about your master?" he asked Lavrushka, Denisov's
orderly, whom all the regiment knew for a rogue.
"Hasn't been in since the evening. Must have been losing,"
answered Lavrushka. "I know by now, if he wins he comes
back early to brag about it, but if he stays out till morning it
means he's lost and will come back in a rage. Will you have
coffee?"
"Yes, bring some."
Ten minutes later Lavrushka brought the coffee. "He's com-
ing!" said he. "Now for trouble!" Rostov looked out of the win-
dow and saw Denisov coming home. Denisov was a small man
with a red face, sparkling black eyes, and black tousled mus-
tache and hair. He wore an unfastened cloak, wide breeches
hanging down in creases, and a crumpled shako on the back of
his head. He came up to the porch gloomily, hanging his head.
"Lavwuska!" he shouted loudly and angrily, "take it off,
blockhead!"
"Well, I am taking it off," replied Lavrushka's voice.
"Ah, you're up already," said Denisov, entering the room.

23."And hurrah for the whole world!"

 "Long ago," answered Rostov, "I have already been for the
hay, and have seen Fraulein Mathilde."
"Weally! And I've been losing, bwother. I lost yesterday like
a damned fool!" cried Denisov, not pronouncing his r's. "Such
ill luck! Such ill luck. As soon as you left, it began and went
on. Hullo there! Tea!"
Puckering up his face though smiling, and showing his
short strong teeth, he began with stubby fingers of both hands
to ruffle up his thick tangled black hair.
"And what devil made me go to that wat?" (an officer nick-
named "the rat") he said, rubbing his forehead and whole face
with both hands. "Just fancy, he didn't let me win a single
cahd, not one cahd."
He took the lighted pipe that was offered to him, gripped it
in his fist, and tapped it on the floor, making the sparks fly,
while he continued to shout.
"He lets one win the singles and collahs it as soon as one
doubles it; gives the singles and snatches the doubles!"
He scattered the burning tobacco, smashed the pipe, and
threw it away. Then he remained silent for a while, and all at
once looked cheerfully with his glittering, black eyes at
Rostov.
"If at least we had some women here; but there's nothing
foh one to do but dwink. If we could only get to fighting soon.
Hullo, who's there?" he said, turning to the door as he heard a
tread of heavy boots and the clinking of spurs that came to a
stop, and a respectful cough.
"The squadron quartermaster!" said Lavrushka.
Denisov's face puckered still more.
 "Wetched!" he muttered, throwing down a purse with some
gold in it. "Wostov, deah fellow, just see how much there is
left and shove the purse undah the pillow," he said, and went
out to the quartermaster.
Rostov took the money and, mechanically arranging the old
and new coins in separate piles, began counting them.
"Ah! Telyanin! How d'ye do? They plucked me last night,"
came Denisov's voice from the next room.
"Where? At Bykov's, at the rat's... I knew it," replied a pip-
ing voice, and Lieutenant Telyanin, a small officer of the same
squadron, entered the room.
Rostov thrust the purse under the pillow and shook the
damp little hand which was offered him. Telyanin for some
reason had been transferred from the Guards just before this
campaign. He behaved very well in the regiment but was not
liked; Rostov especially detested him and was unable to over-
come or conceal his groundless antipathy to the man.
"Well, young cavalryman, how is my Rook behaving?" he
asked. (Rook was a young horse Telyanin had sold to Rostov.)
The lieutenant never looked the man he was speaking to
straight in the face; his eyes continually wandered from one
object to another.
"I saw you riding this morning..." he added.
"Oh, he's all right, a good horse," answered Rostov, though
the horse for which he had paid seven hundred rubbles was
not worth half that sum. "He's begun to go a little lame on the
left foreleg," he added.
"The hoof's cracked! That's nothing. I'll teach you what to do
and show you what kind of rivet to use."
 "Yes, please do," said Rostov.
"I'll show you, I'll show you! It's not a secret. And it's a
horse you'll thank me for."
"Then I'll have it brought round," said Rostov wishing to
avoid Telyanin, and he went out to give the order.
In the passage Denisov, with a pipe, was squatting on the
threshold facing the quartermaster who was reporting to him.
On seeing Rostov, Denisov screwed up his face and pointing
over his shoulder with his thumb to the room where Telyanin
was sitting, he frowned and gave a shudder of disgust.
"Ugh! I don't like that fellow," he said, regardless of the
quartermaster's presence.
Rostov shrugged his shoulders as much as to say: "Nor do I,
but what's one to do?" and, having given his order, he re-
turned to Telyanin.
Telyanin was sitting in the same indolent pose in which
Rostov had left him, rubbing his small white hands.
"Well there certainly are disgusting people," thought Rostov
as he entered.
"Have you told them to bring the horse?" asked Telyanin,
getting up and looking carelessly about him.
"I have."
"Let us go ourselves. I only came round to ask Denisov
about yesterday's order. Have you got it, Denisov?"
"Not yet. But where are you off to?"
"I want to teach this young man how to shoe a horse," said
Telyanin.
 They went through the porch and into the stable. The lieu-
tenant explained how to rivet the hoof and went away to his
own quarters.
When Rostov went back there was a bottle of vodka and a
sausage on the table. Denisov was sitting there scratching
with his pen on a sheet of paper. He looked gloomily in
Rostov's face and said: "I am witing to her."
He leaned his elbows on the table with his pen in his hand
and, evidently glad of a chance to say quicker in words what
he wanted to write, told Rostov the contents of his letter.
"You see, my fwiend," he said, "we sleep when we don't love.
We are childwen of the dust... but one falls in love and one is a
God, one is pua' as on the first day of cweation... Who's that
now? Send him to the devil, I'm busy!" he shouted to
Lavrushka, who went up to him not in the least abashed.
"Who should it be? You yourself told him to come. It's the
quartermaster for the money."
Denisov frowned and was about to shout some reply but
stopped.
"Wetched business," he muttered to himself. "How much is
left in the puhse?" he asked, turning to Rostov.
"Seven new and three old imperials."
"Oh, it's wetched! Well, what are you standing there for,
you sca'cwow? Call the quahtehmasteh," he shouted to
Lavrushka.
"Please, Denisov, let me lend you some: I have some, you
know," said Rostov, blushing.
"Don't like bowwowing from my own fellows, I don't,"
growled Denisov.
 "But if you won't accept money from me like a comrade, you
will offend me. Really I have some," Rostov repeated.
"No, I tell you."
And Denisov went to the bed to get the purse from under
the pillow.
"Where have you put it, Wostov?"
"Under the lower pillow."
"It's not there."
Denisov threw both pillows on the floor. The purse was not
there.
"That's a miwacle."
"Wait, haven't you dropped it?" said Rostov, picking up the
pillows one at a time and shaking them.
He pulled off the quilt and shook it. The purse was not
there.
"Dear me, can I have forgotten? No, I remember thinking
that you kept it under your head like a treasure," said Rostov.
"I put it just here. Where is it?" he asked, turning to
Lavrushka.
"I haven't been in the room. It must be where you put it."
"But it isn't?..."
"You're always like that; you thwow a thing down anywhere
and forget it. Feel in your pockets."
"No, if I hadn't thought of it being a treasure," said Rostov,
"but I remember putting it there."
Lavrushka turned all the bedding over, looked under the
bed and under the table, searched everywhere, and stood still
in the middle of the room. Denisov silently watched
Lavrushka's movements, and when the latter threw up his
arms in surprise saying it was nowhere to be found Denisov
glanced at Rostov.
"Wostov, you've not been playing schoolboy twicks..."
Rostov felt Denisov's gaze fixed on him, raised his eyes, and
instantly dropped them again. All the blood which had
seemed congested somewhere below his throat rushed to his
face and eyes. He could not draw breath.
"And there hasn't been anyone in the room except the lieu-
tenant and yourselves. It must be here somewhere," said
Lavrushka.
"Now then, you devil's puppet, look alive and hunt for it!"
shouted Denisov, suddenly, turning purple and rushing at the
man with a threatening gesture. "If the purse isn't found I'll
flog you, I'll flog you all."
Rostov, his eyes avoiding Denisov, began buttoning his coat,
buckled on his saber, and put on his cap.
"I must have that purse, I tell you," shouted Denisov, shak-
ing his orderly by the shoulders and knocking him against the
wall.
"Denisov, let him alone, I know who has taken it," said
Rostov, going toward the door without raising his eyes. Den-
isov paused, thought a moment, and, evidently understanding
what Rostov hinted at, seized his arm.
"Nonsense!" he cried, and the veins on his forehead and
neck stood out like cords. "You are mad, I tell you. I won't al-
low it. The purse is here! I'll flay this scoundwel alive, and it
will be found."
"I know who has taken it," repeated Rostov in an unsteady
voice, and went to the door.
 "And I tell you, don't you dahe to do it!" shouted Denisov,
rushing at the cadet to restrain him.
But Rostov pulled away his arm and, with as much anger as
though Denisov were his worst enemy, firmly fixed his eyes
directly on his face.
"Do you understand what you're saying?" he said in a trem-
bling voice. "There was no one else in the room except myself.
So that if it is not so, then..."
He could not finish, and ran out of the room.
"Ah, may the devil take you and evewybody," were the last
words Rostov heard.
Rostov went to Telyanin's quarters.
"The master is not in, he's gone to headquarters," said
Telyanin's orderly. "Has something happened?" he added, sur-
prised at the cadet's troubled face.
"No, nothing."
"You've only just missed him," said the orderly.
The headquarters were situated two miles away from Salze-
neck, and Rostov, without returning home, took a horse and
rode there. There was an inn in the village which the officers
frequented. Rostov rode up to it and saw Telyanin's horse at
the porch.
In the second room of the inn the lieutenant was sitting
over a dish of sausages and a bottle of wine.
"Ah, you've come here too, young man!" he said, smiling and
raising his eyebrows.
"Yes," said Rostov as if it cost him a great deal to utter the
word; and he sat down at the nearest table.
 Both were silent. There were two Germans and a Russian
officer in the room. No one spoke and the only sounds heard
were the clatter of knives and the munching of the lieutenant.
When Telyanin had finished his lunch he took out of his
pocket a double purse and, drawing its rings aside with his
small, white, turned-up fingers, drew out a gold imperial, and
lifting his eyebrows gave it to the waiter.
"Please be quick," he said.
The coin was a new one. Rostov rose and went up to
Telyanin.
"Allow me to look at your purse," he said in a low, almost in-
audible, voice.
With shifting eyes but eyebrows still raised, Telyanin
handed him the purse.
"Yes, it's a nice purse. Yes, yes," he said, growing suddenly
pale, and added, "Look at it, young man."
Rostov took the purse in his hand, examined it and the
money in it, and looked at Telyanin. The lieutenant was look-
ing about in his usual way and suddenly seemed to grow very
merry.
"If we get to Vienna I'll get rid of it there but in these
wretched little towns there's nowhere to spend it," said he.
"Well, let me have it, young man, I'm going."
Rostov did not speak.
"And you? Are you going to have lunch too? They feed you
quite decently here," continued Telyanin. "Now then, let me
have it."
He stretched out his hand to take hold of the purse. Rostov
let go of it. Telyanin took the purse and began carelessly
slipping it into the pocket of his riding breeches, with his eye-
brows lifted and his mouth slightly open, as if to say, "Yes,
yes, I am putting my purse in my pocket and that's quite
simple and is no else's business."
"Well, young man?" he said with a sigh, and from under his
lifted brows he glanced into Rostov's eyes.
Some flash as of an electric spark shot from Telyanin's eyes
to Rostov's and back, and back again and again in an instant.
"Come here," said Rostov, catching hold of Telyanin's arm
and almost dragging him to the window. "That money is
Denisov's; you took it..." he whispered just above Telyanin's
ear.
"What? What? How dare you? What?" said Telyanin.
But these words came like a piteous, despairing cry and an
entreaty for pardon. As soon as Rostov heard them, an enorm-
ous load of doubt fell from him. He was glad, and at the same
instant began to pity the miserable man who stood before
him, but the task he had begun had to be completed.
"Heaven only knows what the people here may imagine,"
muttered Telyanin, taking up his cap and moving toward a
small empty room. "We must have an explanation..."
"I know it and shall prove it," said Rostov.
"I..."
Every muscle of Telyanin's pale, terrified face began to
quiver, his eyes still shifted from side to side but with a down-
ward look not rising to Rostov's face, and his sobs were
audible.
 "Count!... Don't ruin a young fellow... here is this wretched
money, take it..." He threw it on the table. "I have an old fath-
er and mother!..."
Rostov took the money, avoiding Telyanin's eyes, and went
out of the room without a word. But at the door he stopped
and then retraced his steps. "O God," he said with tears in his
eyes, "how could you do it?"
"Count..." said Telyanin drawing nearer to him.
"Don't touch me," said Rostov, drawing back. "If you need it,
take the money," and he threw the purse to him and ran out
of the inn.
Chapter 5
That same evening there was an animated discussion
among the squadron's officers in Denisov's quarters.
"And I tell you, Rostov, that you must apologize to the col-
onel!" said a tall, grizzly-haired staff captain, with enormous
mustaches and many wrinkles on his large features, to Rostov
who was crimson with excitement.
The staff captain, Kirsten, had twice been reduced to the
ranks for affairs of honor and had twice regained his
commission.
"I will allow no one to call me a liar!" cried Rostov. "He told
me I lied, and I told him he lied. And there it rests. He may
keep me on duty every day, or may place me under arrest, but
no one can make me apologize, because if he, as commander of
this regiment, thinks it beneath his dignity to give me satis-
faction, then..."
"You just wait a moment, my dear fellow, and listen," inter-
rupted the staff captain in his deep bass, calmly stroking his
long mustache. "You tell the colonel in the presence of other
officers that an officer has stolen..."
"I'm not to blame that the conversation began in the pres-
ence of other officers. Perhaps I ought not to have spoken
before them, but I am not a diplomatist. That's why I joined
the hussars, thinking that here one would not need finesse;
and he tells me that I am lying—so let him give me
satisfaction..."
"That's all right. No one thinks you a coward, but that's not
the point. Ask Denisov whether it is not out of the question for
a cadet to demand satisfaction of his regimental commander?"
Denisov sat gloomily biting his mustache and listening to
the conversation, evidently with no wish to take part in it. He
answered the staff captain's question by a disapproving shake
of his head.
"You speak to the colonel about this nasty business before
other officers," continued the staff captain, "and Bogdanich"
(the colonel was called Bogdanich) "shuts you up."
"He did not shut me up, he said I was telling an untruth."
"Well, have it so, and you talked a lot of nonsense to him
and must apologize."
"Not on any account!" exclaimed Rostov.
"I did not expect this of you," said the staff captain seriously
and severely. "You don't wish to apologize, but, man, it's not
only to him but to the whole regiment—all of us—you're to
blame all round. The case is this: you ought to have thought
the matter over and taken advice; but no, you go and blurt it
all straight out before the officers. Now what was the colonel
to do? Have the officer tried and disgrace the whole regiment?
Disgrace the whole regiment because of one scoundrel? Is that
how you look at it? We don't see it like that. And Bogdanich
was a brick: he told you you were saying what was not true.
It's not pleasant, but what's to be done, my dear fellow? You
landed yourself in it. And now, when one wants to smooth the
thing over, some conceit prevents your apologizing, and you
wish to make the whole affair public. You are offended at be-
ing put on duty a bit, but why not apologize to an old and hon-
orable officer? Whatever Bogdanich may be, anyway he is an
honorable and brave old colonel! You're quick at taking of-
fense, but you don't mind disgracing the whole regiment!" The
staff captain's voice began to tremble. "You have been in the
regiment next to no time, my lad, you're here today and to-
morrow you'll be appointed adjutant somewhere and can snap
your fingers when it is said 'There are thieves among the Pav-
lograd officers!' But it's not all the same to us! Am I not right,
Denisov? It's not the same!"
Denisov remained silent and did not move, but occasionally
looked with his glittering black eyes at Rostov.
"You value your own pride and don't wish to apologize," con-
tinued the staff captain, "but we old fellows, who have grown
up in and, God willing, are going to die in the regiment, we
prize the honor of the regiment, and Bogdanich knows it. Oh,
we do prize it, old fellow! And all this is not right, it's not
right! You may take offense or not but I always stick to moth-
er truth. It's not right!"
And the staff captain rose and turned away from Rostov.
"That's twue, devil take it!" shouted Denisov, jumping up.
"Now then, Wostov, now then!"
Rostov, growing red and pale alternately, looked first at one
officer and then at the other.
"No, gentlemen, no... you mustn't think... I quite under-
stand. You're wrong to think that of me... I... for me... for the
honor of the regiment I'd... Ah well, I'll show that in action,
and for me the honor of the flag... Well, never mind, it's true
I'm to blame, to blame all round. Well, what else do you
want?..."
"Come, that's right, Count!" cried the staff captain, turning
round and clapping Rostov on the shoulder with his big hand.
"I tell you," shouted Denisov, "he's a fine fellow."
"That's better, Count," said the staff captain, beginning to
address Rostov by his title, as if in recognition of his confes-
sion. "Go and apologize, your excellency. Yes, go!"
"Gentlemen, I'll do anything. No one shall hear a word from
me," said Rostov in an imploring voice, "but I can't apologize,
by God I can't, do what you will! How can I go and apologize
like a little boy asking forgiveness?"
Denisov began to laugh.
"It'll be worse for you. Bogdanich is vindictive and you'll pay
for your obstinacy," said Kirsten.
"No, on my word it's not obstinacy! I can't describe the feel-
ing. I can't..."
"Well, it's as you like," said the staff captain. "And what has
become of that scoundrel?" he asked Denisov.
"He has weported himself sick, he's to be stwuck off the list
tomowwow," muttered Denisov.
"It is an illness, there's no other way of explaining it," said
the staff captain.
"Illness or not, he'd better not cwoss my path. I'd kill him!"
shouted Denisov in a bloodthirsty tone.
Just then Zherkov entered the room.
 "What brings you here?" cried the officers turning to the
newcomer.
"We're to go into action, gentlemen! Mack has surrendered
with his whole army."
"It's not true!"
"I've seen him myself!"
"What? Saw the real Mack? With hands and feet?"
"Into action! Into action! Bring him a bottle for such news!
But how did you come here?"
"I've been sent back to the regiment all on account of that
devil, Mack. An Austrian general complained of me. I congrat-
ulated him on Mack's arrival... What's the matter, Rostov?
You look as if you'd just come out of a hot bath."
"Oh, my dear fellow, we're in such a stew here these last
two days."
The regimental adjutant came in and confirmed the news
brought by Zherkov. They were under orders to advance next
day.
"We're going into action, gentlemen!"
"Well, thank God! We've been sitting here too long!"
Chapter 6
Kutuzov fell back toward Vienna, destroying behind him
the bridges over the rivers Inn (at Braunau) and Traun (near
Linz). On October 23 the Russian troops were crossing the
river Enns. At midday the Russian baggage train, the artil-
lery, and columns of troops were defiling through the town of
Enns on both sides of the bridge.
It was a warm, rainy, autumnal day. The wide expanse that
opened out before the heights on which the Russian batteries
stood guarding the bridge was at times veiled by a diaphan-
ous curtain of slanting rain, and then, suddenly spread out in
the sunlight, far-distant objects could be clearly seen glitter-
ing as though freshly varnished. Down below, the little town
could be seen with its white, red-roofed houses, its cathedral,
and its bridge, on both sides of which streamed jostling
masses of Russian troops. At the bend of the Danube, vessels,
an island, and a castle with a park surrounded by the waters
of the confluence of the Enns and the Danube became visible,
and the rocky left bank of the Danube covered with pine
forests, with a mystic background of green treetops and bluish
gorges. The turrets of a convent stood out beyond a wild virgin
pine forest, and far away on the other side of the Enns the
enemy's horse patrols could be discerned.
Among the field guns on the brow of the hill the general in
command of the rearguard stood with a staff officer, scanning
the country through his fieldglass. A little behind them Nes-
vitski, who had been sent to the rearguard by the commander
in chief, was sitting on the trail of a gun carriage. A Cossack
who accompanied him had handed him a knapsack and a
flask, and Nesvitski was treating some officers to pies and
real doppelkummel. The officers gladly gathered round him,
some on their knees, some squatting Turkish fashion on the
wet grass.
"Yes, the Austrian prince who built that castle was no fool.
It's a fine place! Why are you not eating anything, gentle-
men?" Nesvitski was saying.
"Thank you very much, Prince," answered one of the of-
ficers, pleased to be talking to a staff officer of such import-
ance. "It's a lovely place! We passed close to the park and saw
two deer... and what a splendid house!"
"Look, Prince," said another, who would have dearly liked to
take another pie but felt shy, and therefore pretended to be
examining the countryside—"See, our infantrymen have
already got there. Look there in the meadow behind the vil-
lage, three of them are dragging something. They'll ransack
that castle," he remarked with evident approval.
"So they will," said Nesvitski. "No, but what I should like,"
added he, munching a pie in his moist-lipped handsome
mouth, "would be to slip in over there."
 He pointed with a smile to a turreted nunnery, and his eyes
narrowed and gleamed.
"That would be fine, gentlemen!"
The officers laughed.
"Just to flutter the nuns a bit. They say there are Italian
girls among them. On my word I'd give five years of my life for
it!"
"They must be feeling dull, too," said one of the bolder of-
ficers, laughing.
Meanwhile the staff officer standing in front pointed out
something to the general, who looked through his field glass.
"Yes, so it is, so it is," said the general angrily, lowering the
field glass and shrugging his shoulders, "so it is! They'll be
fired on at the crossing. And why are they dawdling there?"
On the opposite side the enemy could be seen by the naked
eye, and from their battery a milk-white cloud arose. Then
came the distant report of a shot, and our troops could be seen
hurrying to the crossing.
Nesvitski rose, puffing, and went up to the general, smiling.
"Would not your excellency like a little refreshment?" he
said.
"It's a bad business," said the general without answering
him, "our men have been wasting time."
"Hadn't I better ride over, your excellency?" asked
Nesvitski.
"Yes, please do," answered the general, and he repeated the
order that had already once been given in detail: "and tell the
hussars that they are to cross last and to fire the bridge as I
ordered; and the inflammable material on the bridge must be
reinspected."
"Very good," answered Nesvitski.
He called the Cossack with his horse, told him to put away
the knapsack and flask, and swung his heavy person easily in-
to the saddle.
"I'll really call in on the nuns," he said to the officers who
watched him smilingly, and he rode off by the winding path
down the hill.
"Now then, let's see how far it will carry, Captain. Just try!"
said the general, turning to an artillery officer. "Have a little
fun to pass the time."
"Crew, to your guns!" commanded the officer.
In a moment the men came running gaily from their camp-
fires and began loading.
"One!" came the command.
Number one jumped briskly aside. The gun rang out with a
deafening metallic roar, and a whistling grenade flew above
the heads of our troops below the hill and fell far short of the
enemy, a little smoke showing the spot where it burst.
The faces of officers and men brightened up at the sound.
Everyone got up and began watching the movements of our
troops below, as plainly visible as if but a stone's throw away,
and the movements of the approaching enemy farther off. At
the same instant the sun came fully out from behind the
clouds, and the clear sound of the solitary shot and the bril-
liance of the bright sunshine merged in a single joyous and
spirited impression.
Chapter 7
Two of the enemy's shots had already flown across the
bridge, where there was a crush. Halfway across stood Prince
Nesvitski, who had alighted from his horse and whose big
body was jammed against the railings. He looked back laugh-
ing to the Cossack who stood a few steps behind him holding
two horses by their bridles. Each time Prince Nesvitski tried
to move on, soldiers and carts pushed him back again and
pressed him against the railings, and all he could do was to
smile.
"What a fine fellow you are, friend!" said the Cossack to a
convoy soldier with a wagon, who was pressing onto the infan-
trymen who were crowded together close to his wheels and his
horses. "What a fellow! You can't wait a moment! Don't you
see the general wants to pass?"
But the convoyman took no notice of the word "general" and
shouted at the soldiers who were blocking his way. "Hi there,
boys! Keep to the left! Wait a bit." But the soldiers, crowded
together shoulder to shoulder, their bayonets interlocking,
moved over the bridge in a dense mass. Looking down over
the rails Prince Nesvitski saw the rapid, noisy little waves of
the Enns, which rippling and eddying round the piles of the
bridge chased each other along. Looking on the bridge he saw
equally uniform living waves of soldiers, shoulder straps,
covered shakos, knapsacks, bayonets, long muskets, and, un-
der the shakos, faces with broad cheekbones, sunken cheeks,
and listless tired expressions, and feet that moved through
the sticky mud that covered the planks of the bridge. Some-
times through the monotonous waves of men, like a fleck of
white foam on the waves of the Enns, an officer, in a cloak
and with a type of face different from that of the men,
squeezed his way along; sometimes like a chip of wood whirl-
ing in the river, an hussar on foot, an orderly, or a townsman
was carried through the waves of infantry; and sometimes
like a log floating down the river, an officers' or company's
baggage wagon, piled high, leather covered, and hemmed in
on all sides, moved across the bridge.
"It's as if a dam had burst," said the Cossack hopelessly.
"Are there many more of you to come?"
"A million all but one!" replied a waggish soldier in a torn
coat, with a wink, and passed on followed by another, an old
man.
"If he" (he meant the enemy) "begins popping at the bridge
now," said the old soldier dismally to a comrade, "you'll forget
to scratch yourself."
That soldier passed on, and after him came another sitting
on a cart.
"Where the devil have the leg bands been shoved to?" said
an orderly, running behind the cart and fumbling in the back
of it.
 And he also passed on with the wagon. Then came some
merry soldiers who had evidently been drinking.
"And then, old fellow, he gives him one in the teeth with the
butt end of his gun..." a soldier whose greatcoat was well
tucked up said gaily, with a wide swing of his arm.
"Yes, the ham was just delicious..." answered another with
a loud laugh. And they, too, passed on, so that Nesvitski did
not learn who had been struck on the teeth, or what the ham
had to do with it.
"Bah! How they scurry. He just sends a ball and they think
they'll all be killed," a sergeant was saying angrily and
reproachfully.
"As it flies past me, Daddy, the ball I mean," said a young
soldier with an enormous mouth, hardly refraining from
laughing, "I felt like dying of fright. I did, 'pon my word, I got
that frightened!" said he, as if bragging of having been
frightened.
That one also passed. Then followed a cart unlike any that
had gone before. It was a German cart with a pair of horses
led by a German, and seemed loaded with a whole houseful of
effects. A fine brindled cow with a large udder was attached to
the cart behind. A woman with an unweaned baby, an old wo-
man, and a healthy German girl with bright red cheeks were
sitting on some feather beds. Evidently these fugitives were
allowed to pass by special permission. The eyes of all the sol-
diers turned toward the women, and while the vehicle was
passing at foot pace all the soldiers' remarks related to the
two young ones. Every face bore almost the same smile, ex-
pressing unseemly thoughts about the women.
 "Just see, the German sausage is making tracks, too!"
"Sell me the missis," said another soldier, addressing the
German, who, angry and frightened, strode energetically
along with downcast eyes.
"See how smart she's made herself! Oh, the devils!"
"There, Fedotov, you should be quartered on them!"
"I have seen as much before now, mate!"
"Where are you going?" asked an infantry officer who was
eating an apple, also half smiling as he looked at the hand-
some girl.
The German closed his eyes, signifying that he did not
understand.
"Take it if you like," said the officer, giving the girl an
apple.
The girl smiled and took it. Nesvitski like the rest of the
men on the bridge did not take his eyes off the women till they
had passed. When they had gone by, the same stream of sol-
diers followed, with the same kind of talk, and at last all
stopped. As often happens, the horses of a convoy wagon be-
came restive at the end of the bridge, and the whole crowd
had to wait.
"And why are they stopping? There's no proper order!" said
the soldiers. "Where are you shoving to? Devil take you! Can't
you wait? It'll be worse if he fires the bridge. See, here's an of-
ficer jammed in too"—different voices were saying in the
crowd, as the men looked at one another, and all pressed to-
ward the exit from the bridge.
Looking down at the waters of the Enns under the bridge,
Nesvitski suddenly heard a sound new to him, of something
swiftly approaching... something big, that splashed into the
water.
"Just see where it carries to!" a soldier near by said sternly,
looking round at the sound.
"Encouraging us to get along quicker," said another
uneasily.
The crowd moved on again. Nesvitski realized that it was a
cannon ball.
"Hey, Cossack, my horse!" he said. "Now, then, you there!
get out of the way! Make way!"
With great difficulty he managed to get to his horse, and
shouting continually he moved on. The soldiers squeezed
themselves to make way for him, but again pressed on him so
that they jammed his leg, and those nearest him were not to
blame for they were themselves pressed still harder from
behind.
"Nesvitski, Nesvitski! you numskull!" came a hoarse voice
from behind him.
Nesvitski looked round and saw, some fifteen paces away
but separated by the living mass of moving infantry, Vaska
Denisov, red and shaggy, with his cap on the back of his black
head and a cloak hanging jauntily over his shoulder.
"Tell these devils, these fiends, to let me pass!" shouted
Denisov evidently in a fit of rage, his coal-black eyes with
their bloodshot whites glittering and rolling as he waved his
sheathed saber in a small bare hand as red as his face.
"Ah, Vaska!" joyfully replied Nesvitski. "What's up with
you?"
 "The squadwon can't pass," shouted Vaska Denisov, show-
ing his white teeth fiercely and spurring his black thorough-
bred Arab, which twitched its ears as the bayonets touched it,
and snorted, spurting white foam from his bit, tramping the
planks of the bridge with his hoofs, and apparently ready to
jump over the railings had his rider let him. "What is this?
They're like sheep! Just like sheep! Out of the way!... Let us
pass!... Stop there, you devil with the cart! I'll hack you with
my saber!" he shouted, actually drawing his saber from its
scabbard and flourishing it.
The soldiers crowded against one another with terrified
faces, and Denisov joined Nesvitski.
"How's it you're not drunk today?" said Nesvitski when the
other had ridden up to him.
"They don't even give one time to dwink!" answered Vaska
Denisov. "They keep dwagging the wegiment to and fwo all
day. If they mean to fight, let's fight. But the devil knows
what this is."
"What a dandy you are today!" said Nesvitski, looking at
Denisov's new cloak and saddlecloth.
Denisov smiled, took out of his sabretache a handkerchief
that diffused a smell of perfume, and put it to Nesvitski's
nose.
"Of course. I'm going into action! I've shaved, bwushed my
teeth, and scented myself."
The imposing figure of Nesvitski followed by his Cossack,
and the determination of Denisov who flourished his sword
and shouted frantically, had such an effect that they managed
to squeeze through to the farther side of the bridge and
stopped the infantry. Beside the bridge Nesvitski found the
colonel to whom he had to deliver the order, and having done
this he rode back.
Having cleared the way Denisov stopped at the end of the
bridge. Carelessly holding in his stallion that was neighing
and pawing the ground, eager to rejoin its fellows, he watched
his squadron draw nearer. Then the clang of hoofs, as of sev-
eral horses galloping, resounded on the planks of the bridge,
and the squadron, officers in front and men four abreast,
spread across the bridge and began to emerge on his side of it.
The infantry who had been stopped crowded near the bridge
in the trampled mud and gazed with that particular feeling of
ill-will, estrangement, and ridicule with which troops of differ-
ent arms usually encounter one another at the clean, smart
hussars who moved past them in regular order.
"Smart lads! Only fit for a fair!" said one.
"What good are they? They're led about just for show!" re-
marked another.
"Don't kick up the dust, you infantry!" jested an hussar
whose prancing horse had splashed mud over some foot
soldiers.
"I'd like to put you on a two days' march with a knapsack!
Your fine cords would soon get a bit rubbed," said an infantry-
man, wiping the mud off his face with his sleeve. "Perched up
there, you're more like a bird than a man."
"There now, Zikin, they ought to put you on a horse. You'd
look fine," said a corporal, chaffing a thin little soldier who
bent under the weight of his knapsack.
 "Take a stick between your legs, that'll suit you for a horse!"
the hussar shouted back.
Chapter 8
The last of the infantry hurriedly crossed the bridge,
squeezing together as they approached it as if passing
through a funnel. At last the baggage wagons had all crossed,
the crush was less, and the last battalion came onto the
bridge. Only Denisov's squadron of hussars remained on the
farther side of the bridge facing the enemy, who could be seen
from the hill on the opposite bank but was not yet visible from
the bridge, for the horizon as seen from the valley through
which the river flowed was formed by the rising ground only
half a mile away. At the foot of the hill lay wasteland over
which a few groups of our Cossack scouts were moving. Sud-
denly on the road at the top of the high ground, artillery and
troops in blue uniform were seen. These were the French. A
group of Cossack scouts retired down the hill at a trot. All the
officers and men of Denisov's squadron, though they tried to
talk of other things and to look in other directions, thought
only of what was there on the hilltop, and kept constantly
looking at the patches appearing on the skyline, which they
knew to be the enemy's troops. The weather had cleared again
since noon and the sun was descending brightly upon the
Danube and the dark hills around it. It was calm, and at
intervals the bugle calls and the shouts of the enemy could be
heard from the hill. There was no one now between the squad-
ron and the enemy except a few scattered skirmishers. An
empty space of some seven hundred yards was all that separ-
ated them. The enemy ceased firing, and that stern, threaten-
ing, inaccessible, and intangible line which separates two hos-
tile armies was all the more clearly felt.
"One step beyond that boundary line which resembles the
line dividing the living from the dead lies uncertainty, suffer-
ing, and death. And what is there? Who is there?—there bey-
ond that field, that tree, that roof lit up by the sun? No one
knows, but one wants to know. You fear and yet long to cross
that line, and know that sooner or later it must be crossed
and you will have to find out what is there, just as you will in-
evitably have to learn what lies the other side of death. But
you are strong, healthy, cheerful, and excited, and are sur-
rounded by other such excitedly animated and healthy men."
So thinks, or at any rate feels, anyone who comes in sight of
the enemy, and that feeling gives a particular glamour and
glad keenness of impression to everything that takes place at
such moments.
On the high ground where the enemy was, the smoke of a
cannon rose, and a ball flew whistling over the heads of the
hussar squadron. The officers who had been standing together
rode off to their places. The hussars began carefully aligning
their horses. Silence fell on the whole squadron. All were look-
ing at the enemy in front and at the squadron commander,
awaiting the word of command. A second and a third cannon
ball flew past. Evidently they were firing at the hussars, but
the balls with rapid rhythmic whistle flew over the heads of
the horsemen and fell somewhere beyond them. The hussars
did not look round, but at the sound of each shot, as at the
word of command, the whole squadron with its rows of faces
so alike yet so different, holding its breath while the ball flew
past, rose in the stirrups and sank back again. The soldiers
without turning their heads glanced at one another, curious to
see their comrades' impression. Every face, from Denisov's to
that of the bugler, showed one common expression of conflict,
irritation, and excitement, around chin and mouth. The
quartermaster frowned, looking at the soldiers as if threaten-
ing to punish them. Cadet Mironov ducked every time a ball
flew past. Rostov on the left flank, mounted on his Rook—a
handsome horse despite its game leg—had the happy air of a
schoolboy called up before a large audience for an examina-
tion in which he feels sure he will distinguish himself. He was
glancing at everyone with a clear, bright expression, as if ask-
ing them to notice how calmly he sat under fire. But despite
himself, on his face too that same indication of something new
and stern showed round the mouth.
"Who's that curtseying there? Cadet Miwonov! That's not
wight! Look at me," cried Denisov who, unable to keep still on
one spot, kept turning his horse in front of the squadron.
The black, hairy, snub-nosed face of Vaska Denisov, and his
whole short sturdy figure with the sinewy hairy hand and
stumpy fingers in which he held the hilt of his naked saber,
looked just as it usually did, especially toward evening when
he had emptied his second bottle; he was only redder than
usual. With his shaggy head thrown back like birds when
they drink, pressing his spurs mercilessly into the sides of his
good horse, Bedouin, and sitting as though falling backwards
in the saddle, he galloped to the other flank of the squadron
and shouted in a hoarse voice to the men to look to their pis-
tols. He rode up to Kirsten. The staff captain on his broad-
backed, steady mare came at a walk to meet him. His face
with its long mustache was serious as always, only his eyes
were brighter than usual.
"Well, what about it?" said he to Denisov. "It won't come to
a fight. You'll see—we shall retire."
"The devil only knows what they're about!" muttered Den-
isov. "Ah, Wostov," he cried noticing the cadet's bright face,
"you've got it at last."
And he smiled approvingly, evidently pleased with the ca-
det. Rostov felt perfectly happy. Just then the commander ap-
peared on the bridge. Denisov galloped up to him.
"Your excellency! Let us attack them! I'll dwive them off."
"Attack indeed!" said the colonel in a bored voice, puckering
up his face as if driving off a troublesome fly. "And why are
you stopping here? Don't you see the skirmishers are retreat-
ing? Lead the squadron back."
The squadron crossed the bridge and drew out of range of
fire without having lost a single man. The second squadron
that had been in the front line followed them across and the
last Cossacks quitted the farther side of the river.
The two Pavlograd squadrons, having crossed the bridge,
retired up the hill one after the other. Their colonel, Karl Bog-
danich Schubert, came up to Denisov's squadron and rode at a
footpace not far from Rostov, without taking any notice of him
although they were now meeting for the first time since their
encounter concerning Telyanin. Rostov, feeling that he was at
the front and in the power of a man toward whom he now ad-
mitted that he had been to blame, did not lift his eyes from
the colonel's athletic back, his nape covered with light hair,
and his red neck. It seemed to Rostov that Bogdanich was
only pretending not to notice him, and that his whole aim now
was to test the cadet's courage, so he drew himself up and
looked around him merrily; then it seemed to him that Bog-
danich rode so near in order to show him his courage. Next he
thought that his enemy would send the squadron on a desper-
ate attack just to punish him—Rostov. Then he imagined
how, after the attack, Bogdanich would come up to him as he
lay wounded and would magnanimously extend the hand of
reconciliation.
The high-shouldered figure of Zherkov, familiar to the Pav-
lograds as he had but recently left their regiment, rode up to
the colonel. After his dismissal from headquarters Zherkov
had not remained in the regiment, saying he was not such a
fool as to slave at the front when he could get more rewards
by doing nothing on the staff, and had succeeded in attaching
himself as an orderly officer to Prince Bagration. He now
came to his former chief with an order from the commander of
the rear guard.
"Colonel," he said, addressing Rostov's enemy with an air of
gloomy gravity and glancing round at his comrades, "there is
an order to stop and fire the bridge."
"An order to who?" asked the colonel morosely.
 "I don't myself know 'to who,'" replied the cornet in a seri-
ous tone, "but the prince told me to 'go and tell the colonel
that the hussars must return quickly and fire the bridge.'"
Zherkov was followed by an officer of the suite who rode up
to the colonel of hussars with the same order. After him the
stout Nesvitski came galloping up on a Cossack horse that
could scarcely carry his weight.
"How's this, Colonel?" he shouted as he approached. "I told
you to fire the bridge, and now someone has gone and
blundered; they are all beside themselves over there and one
can't make anything out."
The colonel deliberately stopped the regiment and turned to
Nesvitski.
"You spoke to me of inflammable material," said he, "but
you said nothing about firing it."
"But, my dear sir," said Nesvitski as he drew up, taking off
his cap and smoothing his hair wet with perspiration with his
plump hand, "wasn't I telling you to fire the bridge, when in-
flammable material had been put in position?"
"I am not your 'dear sir,' Mr. Staff Officer, and you did not
tell me to burn the bridge! I know the service, and it is my
habit orders strictly to obey. You said the bridge would be
burned, but who would it burn, I could not know by the holy
spirit!"
"Ah, that's always the way!" said Nesvitski with a wave of
the hand. "How did you get here?" said he, turning to
Zherkov.
"On the same business. But you are damp! Let me wring
you out!"
 "You were saying, Mr. Staff Officer..." continued the colonel
in an offended tone.
"Colonel," interrupted the officer of the suite, "You must be
quick or the enemy will bring up his guns to use grapeshot."
The colonel looked silently at the officer of the suite, at the
stout staff officer, and at Zherkov, and he frowned.
"I will the bridge fire," he said in a solemn tone as if to an-
nounce that in spite of all the unpleasantness he had to en-
dure he would still do the right thing.
Striking his horse with his long muscular legs as if it were
to blame for everything, the colonel moved forward and
ordered the second squadron, that in which Rostov was
serving under Denisov, to return to the bridge.
"There, it's just as I thought," said Rostov to himself. "He
wishes to test me!" His heart contracted and the blood rushed
to his face. "Let him see whether I am a coward!" he thought.
Again on all the bright faces of the squadron the serious ex-
pression appeared that they had worn when under fire.
Rostov watched his enemy, the colonel, closely—to find in his
face confirmation of his own conjecture, but the colonel did not
once glance at Rostov, and looked as he always did when at
the front, solemn and stern. Then came the word of command.
"Look sharp! Look sharp!" several voices repeated around
him.
Their sabers catching in the bridles and their spurs
jingling, the hussars hastily dismounted, not knowing what
they were to do. The men were crossing themselves. Rostov no
longer looked at the colonel, he had no time. He was afraid of
falling behind the hussars, so much afraid that his heart
stood still. His hand trembled as he gave his horse into an
orderly's charge, and he felt the blood rush to his heart with a
thud. Denisov rode past him, leaning back and shouting
something. Rostov saw nothing but the hussars running all
around him, their spurs catching and their sabers clattering.
"Stretchers!" shouted someone behind him.
Rostov did not think what this call for stretchers meant; he
ran on, trying only to be ahead of the others; but just at the
bridge, not looking at the ground, he came on some sticky,
trodden mud, stumbled, and fell on his hands. The others out-
stripped him.
"At boss zides, Captain," he hear